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“Kalcedon?” I asked in disbelief. I closed my journal quickly, and hugged it against my chest.

“She might be under a ‘chantment,” the brown skinned man across the table said. “We oughta get her to the Queen’s witch before he comes back…”

“You think—?” The urge to laugh warred against the urge to cry and hit something. I shook my head frantically. “I’m not under an obeisance. I doubt Kalcedon even knows how to cast one.”

“She must be under some sort of a spell,” the second woman offered, looking not at me but at her companions.

“Mistress,” the first said again. “It’s alright. Don’t cry. We’ll get you away…”

“Enough, all of you,” I said, with a sharp huff. “He’s a witch, not a faerie. I’m a witch. We both grew up on Nis-Illous, inside the Ward.”

“But…”

“But nothing,” I interrupted. I tried to push the bench back from the table, but the women’s weight made it hard to move. Instead I stood with some difficulty and picked my way over it, journal under one arm and bag on my shoulder. “As if Kalcedon could put an obeisance on me,” I muttered to myself. I snorted, grabbed my food, and headed to the stairs.

But Kalcedon probably could, if he wanted to, I admitted to myself. I’d never seen an obeisance, but the old faerie stories were littered with them. No doubt there was a spell somewhere in the tower’s library, and Kalcedon had the power, and no matter how sloppy his casting, if he wanted a puppet to control he could have had plenty of them to play with by now.

And yet I had no fear that he would. Because the only thing cruel about him were his words, the ones he always used to push people away. Oh, maybe he wasn’t quite like the villagers on Nis-Illous, but neither was I.

With the journal still tucked under my arm I walked down the hall. It wasn’t hard to find our room: I felt Kalcedon brooding behind the door, the swamp of his power. When he didn’t answer my knock, I opened it and walked into the heavy, miserable haze.

It was a nicer inn than the last we’d stayed at. Neatly appointed, minimal but tidy. A small table in front of the window held Kalcedon’s meal, still untouched. A breeze stirred through the opening, carrying the smell of salt and the sounds of bells and city life. The witch lay sprawled on the bed, on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes. Everything in the room seemed to lean in towards him, like the whole world was holding its breath. I set my food beside his, shrugged off my bag, and climbed onto the bed. Kalcedon stayed silent until I poked him.

“Leave me alone, Meda,” he muttered.

“But I want to apologize.”

Kalcedon seemed to consider this. He subtly lifted his arm to peek at me. A moment passed. I bit my tongue and waited.

“...if you must,” he wearily allowed.

“You say terrible things to people. Well, to me,” I clarified.

Kalcedon slowly uncovered his face and stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed.

“But I’ve never seen you actually hurt someone. And I know you could have. So there’s that.”

“This is an apology?” he muttered.

“I’ve never been a good judge of character. Like—my brother Dareios told me Calnas wasn’t very nice, but Calnas was nice to me, and nobody else wanted to court me, so I thought Dareios just didn’t know what he was talking about. But Calnas wasn’t nice, not at all. I just couldn’t tell.”

“Who in horns is ‘Calnas?’”

“The man I almost married.”

“God’s peace,” he muttered.

“Everyone said you were heartless. My family didn’t want me to go to the tower at all because of it, but I told them I didn’t care. And there have been a few times I wondered if they were wrong about you, but I didn’t want to be like those stupid humans in the old stories who forget everything their elders tell them and fall for some fae trick the first time it’s sprung on them. And even if faeries are heartless, you’re half human, so maybe you’re not.”

Kalcedon was still frowning up at the ceiling. Then he drew a deep breath, audibly ragged, and covered his face once more. I saw his throat bob; heard another heaving breath.

“Are you… alright?”

“I’m just tired.” His voice was thick, choked with emotion.

I frowned. The power in the room kept souring. Slowly I lay beside him, my body an inch from his, and watched him. Kalcedon didn’t move; didn’t pull his hands from his face or look my way. I could hear each deep, shuddering breath he drew.

Slowly, unsure how to help, I reached out and draped an arm over his chest. At the touch Kalcedon turned bodily away, but instead of pulling back I dared to tighten my grip. For once I didn’t feel pleasure. I felt only pain, and a need for him to be alright, and a vast, empty gulf between us that I wished did not exist.