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He strode across the terrace and vanished down the winding staircase. All the night noises vaulted back to the surface—owls hooting, the fire cackling.

The terrace was a shambles. A ruin of abandoned cups, the rebel fire losing its luster, and the limp wool blanket on the ground next to my feather hat, which had toppled off during the chaos.

I slumped against the oak, gaping at the empty space. Aire had kissed me. His mouth had shot me into the sky. I’d be replaying the scene in my head until sunrise.

I put myself together, rearranging the typhoon we’d made of my clothes. The more seconds ticked by, the more ticked off I became, yanking on sleeves, clawing through my destroyed ponytail, jamming the hat on my head.

Just. No.

I grabbed my axe and went after him, my boots hammering into the planks. I swung my arms and my fucking hips, putting all my frustration into the movements.

Tracking the path Aire had taken, I spotted him on the other side of a short bridge near his bungalow. I pounded to a halt on the opposite end. “Hey,” I called, gripping the hatchet as he’d taught me and hurling the fucker. It rotated once and slammed into a pole on his end of the divide.

He turned in astonishment.

“Are you jesting?” I asked. “I’m sorry? That’s all you have to say to me?”

He stepped back toward the bridge, but then his finger traced the wedding ring, and it stopped him from whatever action he’d been about to take.

“Grant me until dawn,” he said.

“I’m holding you to that,” I said.

He nodded and then left, his cloak melting into a lace of fog and gnarled branches and drooping leaves. I couldn’t see him anymore, but I could see his treehouse in the distance.

I knew what sunrise would bring. Come morning, he’d better rip the bandage off quickly, or no one was safe from me tomorrow.

What else did I expect? Or deserve?

He likes me, but I’m not good enough.

He lusts after me, but he loves his wife.

He trusts me, but I’m lying to him.

From this vantage point, I also saw Lyrik. He stood outside a different bungalow, the one Nicu had relocated to, no longer needing to bunk with Aire because the colorful lantern paths gave Nicu another modicum of independence.

Why had the squatter created them?

Why was he stalking outside Nicu’s house?

With the dwelling perched in a separate cluster from Aire’s, the knight hadn’t noticed Lyrik. I traversed the bridge after all. The closer I got, the more I saw. The potioneer leaned against a railing, sucking on another of his reeds, a twine of smoke crawling along his jaw. He watched through the window, beyond the flitting candles, to where Nicu slept on a bed.

During our huddles, Nicu never mentioned him, but somehow, I heard the shape of Lyrik in most of his questions and comments. And earlier, I’d gotten a hint that he’d told Nicu things about his past.

Things he hadn’t told anyone else.

I halted behind Lyrik and snarled at his spine, “Come talk to me.”

The rogue dropped his smoke and ground his foot into it, not a bit startled to hear me, what with the racket I’d made. I’d given my joints regular maintenance since the castle break, so that wasn’t the issue. Stomping about simply made detection easier for anyone within punching distance.

Lyrik slithered around. He followed as I led him to a square pavilion where a transport tube dove from the platform and slid to the ground.

Reaching seclusion, I flipped toward him. “What’s your game with Nicu?”

“How dare you call me a cock-tease,” he said blandly.

“Answer the question.”