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“I don’t want to die like my father,” she murmured.

The water sloshed in the tub as Sorasa turned to face her, squaring her shoulders.

“No one wants to die, Corayne,” she said sharply. “But we all do it, when the time comes.” Some of the tension in her brow loosened, smoothing her forehead. “And then Lasreen will welcome us home.”

Home.

Corayne’s first thought was of the cottage, its small rooms and white walls, the flowers in the garden, her mother’s citrus tea boiling in the pot. She breathed in, trying to remember the ocean and the cypress groves, but all she smelled was woodsmoke and soap. Her heart faltered. Lemarta was where she had grown up, but it was never home, not truly. It was a place to grow, but not a place to belong.

“Maybe we belong to each other, we who belong nowhere,” Corayne murmured. They were Sorasa’s own words, spoken so long ago.

The assassin remembered. Slowly, she nodded her head.

A booming knock at the door startled Corayne from her thoughts. In the bath, Sorasa lay back against the side of the tub, the water sloshing around her exposed collarbone.

She growled to herself, annoyed. “Yes, what is it?”

The door swung open and the Elder entered, stooping to get through the doorway, his towering blond head nearly scraping the ceiling. He had fresh clothes too, a black tunic and leather pants with his sword belted at his waist. His ratty old cloak was finally abandoned for the night.

“I—” he sputtered, his white face turning blood red. His eyes flew from Corayne fully dressed to Sorasa stretching in the bathwater.

His gaze lingered for a moment, then shot to the ceiling, the floor, the hearth—anywhere but Sorasa’s bronze skin. “Excuse me—you saidyes?”

“I don’t see what the issue is.” Sorasa shrugged in the water. A tattooed horse undulated on her shoulder, galloping over her moving flesh. “Domacridhan, you are five hundred years old. Certainly you’ve seen a naked woman before, mortal or immortal. Or do immortals look different?”

Dom forgot himself for a moment, fixing her with his scowl. “No, we don’t lookdifferent—” he snarled before turning away. He raised a hand to shutter his eyes. “That is beside the point, Sorasa.”

Corayne had to cover her mouth to keep from howling with laughter. Dom looked like he wanted to jump off the roof, while Sorasa grinned lazily, a coy cat stretching in a sunbeam of her own making. She relished every second of his discomfort.

“Well, be quick about what you wanted to tell us, then,” the assassin said. “Or do you intend to stay?”

He hissed out a breath, calming himself. “The feast is being laid out below, and Oscovko is already drunk, if the shouting I heard is any indication.”

“We could have figured that out for ourselves, Dom,” Corayne teased.

Dom grimaced, looking to her with one hand still pressed to the side of his face, blocking Sorasa from view. “I only mean to say he and his men are poorly behaved. I will be outside the door until you’re both ready to join them in the great hall.”

Sorasa shifted, sitting up in the bath. “Exactly what gave you the indication I cannot protect myself or Corayne?” she asked, the water line falling a little lower.

Corayne feared for Dom’s heart.

Still refusing to look in her direction, he could only stumble over an explanation. It came out in fits and starts, broken words making little sense.

“Very well, I will go,” he finally managed, and left, spinning on his heel.

He wrenched the door open again, almost tearing it off his hinges. With one hand still raised to block his vision, he lunged out, his broad frame bumping against the doorway with a meaty thwack that shuddered the room. The sheer force of the slamming door stirred the air, and Corayne half expected the wood to splinter.

She gave Sorasa a mischievous grin. “I don’t think he’s ever seen a naked woman before.”

Water spattered over the hearthstones as Sorasa rose from the bath, a twisting smirk on her lips.

“No, he certainly has.”

Corayne’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “How can you tell?”

“He knew exactly where to look,” she answered calmly, drying herself off with a few quick swipes. Then she slipped into underclothes and wrung out her hair, glaring at her own dress laid out. Her smirk turned to scowl. “Treckish fashion is abysmal.”

Her gown was the color of charcoal, edged in black and gold thread forming a pattern of tiny flowers. It had long sleeves and lacing at the neck, which Sorasa tightened, better fitting the overlarge gown to her form. Like Corayne’s dress, the neckline dipped below her collarbone, showing more of her Amhara tattoos. If Sorasa minded showing black ink and bronze skin, she didn’t show it. With quick hands, she braided her wet hair back against her scalp, weaving it into a knot at the base of her neck. She donned her eye powder again, swiping sharp, fresh lines of black over her eyelids. It made her copper eyes stand out, brighter than any fire.