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“Tunnelsyouordered him into,” she guessed.

“Yes. Tunnels I ordered him into.”

She scowled. “And they collapsed? She blames you for that?”

“People have to blame someone.”

She went quiet and bit her lip, deep in thought. He could almost see the tangle beneath her brow being teased out piece by piece.

“Patty,” said a voice. Mrs. McCallister, the tea shop owner, was suddenly hovering over his shoulder. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

“With good reason,” he sighed.

“You certainly stir things up, eh?” she glanced at Nina, then did a double take. “Is that—”

“A good friend of mine,” he said curtly. Mrs. McCallister’s mouth closed, and she nodded once. “What can I get you?”

“Tea,” Patrick said. “And cake.”

Mrs. McCallister rolled her eyes. “Whatkind?”

Nina smiled at her. “I saw some lavender bread in the display,” she said. “It looks beautiful.”

Mrs. McCallister brightened immediately. “Oh, it ought to, love. Was me Ma’s recipe.”

Nina’s head tilted to the side. “How do you make it rise so perfectly? Mine always fall dead flat.”

“It’s in the yeast. Lager is better than stout.”

Nina’s eyebrows rose in fascination. “Really?”

The women chatted a minute longer, discussing the intricacies of lavender cake, and all the while, Patrick watched Nina. He watched her smile stretch and her cheeks rise. He saw the way she held her spine straight, her neck long, shoulders back. She had an elegance about her, one that didn’t match Kenton Hill. Too regal for pubs and tunnels. Artisan-hewn, so much so that the Scurry in her was barely recognizable.

But it was there. Patrick could see it.

Then again, he was looking for it. Probably closer than he ought to.

There were specks of pigment across her nose, beneath her eyes—faded but discernible. Every so often her Eastern tongue got the better of her, elongating her vowels. She looked people in the eye when she spoke, her chin level and not floating somewhere up with God. All of it reminded Patrick of that courtyard girl—the one whose hand he’d held in Belavere City. The one whose cheek he’d kissed.

The one he’d thought of every day since.

“Pat?” Mrs. McCallister was saying. She was waiting for the answer to a question he hadn’t heard. Nina stared back at him, amused. “I’ll have what the lady is having,” Patrick said.

Mrs. McCallister walked away with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

Lord, Patrick admonished himself.She’s just a woman, Patty. Like any other.But he shouldn’t look at her so closely, or she might recognize the wanting.

“So,” Nina said now. “You’ve started a revolution. You’re feeding the hungry. Protecting allied towns with your tunnels and bolstering ingenuity within your own walls.”

Patrick’s eyebrow rose. “Makes me sound like a bloody hero.”

“You’d have me believe you were, wouldn’t you?”

God help him, but Patrick enjoyed it. The challenge. The prickling aggression.

He leaned closer until she was the only one who could hear his reply. “I told you I would try to get you on our side,” he said. “But I won’t trick you. I’m no hero.”

“Then what are you? Why are these people so afraid of you?”