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“In case they turn out like you?” Leif asked.

“Yes.”

Leif turned to Reginald. “Do you have water down here?”

Reginald’s brows were nearly lost to his hairline, the humidity of the cellar flopping his curls over his forehead. “What?”

“Water. Is there any down here?” Leif asked, less than patiently.

“Yes.”

“Get him some.”

“Are you giving me orders?” Reginald asked, affronted.

Leif didn’t respond, though he heard Connor say something; his attention had gone across the room to where Amelia and Ragnar stood, side-by-side, a gap between them just large enough for Leif to slide between. Both wore comically similar expressions of blended curiosity and skepticism.

Leif bent to retrieve the flap of skin he’d cut free, and smoothed it carefully in his palm with a fingertip as he crossed the floor to join them.

Both immediately bent over his hand to peer at it: the ink was shaped in a capital letter R – the Sels shared their alphabet, though not their language – done with flourishes and sharp points.

Ragnar started to reach for it, then drew his hand back. Even cut free of its host, the thing was tingling unpleasantly in Leif’s palm.

“How did you know?” Amelia asked, voice touched with awe. “I saw it when we first brought him down here, but I thought it only a decoration.”

“It’s the wolf,” he explained. “I could feel it – smell it.”

“That was what you both smelled on the stairs?” she asked.

“Yeah. It stinks.” Ragnar turned away, wrinkling his nose. He glanced toward the Sel, who was being helped to a dipper of water by a sour-faced Reginald, as instructed. “Okay, so he was enchanted. That doesn’t mean you can believe anything he says just because you cut that off of him.”

Leif gave him a look. “There are those that would say that about you.”

He made a face. “Oh…that’s different.”

When Leif only stared, he said, “I’mme, for starters. You’ve known me your whole life, and I’m not someforeigner. I’m not theenemy.”

“Erik would debate you on that last point,” Leif said, and sighed. “But I take your meaning.”

“Obviously, we can’t trust him,” Amelia said. “But perhaps we can learn something useful. It’s worth a try at least.” The glance she tipped up to him was a question:Don’t you agree?

He nodded. “Aye. I say get some food in him, and see what he has to say.”

~*~

They allowed him to wash, under the gazes of four guards, in a tub hauled into one of the disused salons; brought him fresh clothes, and granted him the time to comb out his damp, now-clean hair so that it hung in two gleaming, silvery sheets on either side of his starkly pale face.

The sat him down in the library before the fire, a small table pulled in front of Amelia’s usual armchair and laid with a plate of cold mutton and mashed parsnips. He fell on the food with the zeal of a starving dog, and the delicate table manners of a lady of the high court.

Amelia had asked, while he was bathing, to lead the questioning, now that the situation had shifted; no one had argued. She settled now in the chair opposite him, and crossed her legs, watching him as he mopped the last bit of bloody juice from his plate with a heel of bread.

The gleaming, sinister golden armor had a way of making Sels seem larger than they were. Out of it, this one was tall, but not as tall, nor as broad, as Leif and Ragnar. Trim and fit, strong, doubtless, to lug all that armor about in the first place, with a hairless, lovely face and long-fingered, elegant hands. His coloring was jarring, in the way of all Sels, though the candle glow and flicker of firelight warmed it a fraction; painted golden arcs along each cheekbone and on the smooth, razor edge of his jaw.

She’d never stopped to consider the idea that not all Sel soldiers shared their leader’s cause, but now it seemed obvious. No army was unified in its purpose. Discipline and respect kept soldiers in line – fear, too, in healthy measure. But not every pair of boots was filled by a man of fervid loyalty to the cause.

She had to assume, though, that he might be acting.

When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with the scrap of towel they’d offered as a napkin, set his knife and fork neatly aside, and settled back in his chair, holding his cup of water lightly between both hands. He met her gaze, and he seemed eased, now, after eating his fill, and slaking his thirst. He looked tired, also, with deep shadows lurking beneath each eye. But not angry, nor as if he wished to challenge her. His demeanor was placid, if a little resigned.