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“Have you been injured often?” she asked, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.

Kel froze. He had almost mistaken himself, almost forgotten that she was not talking to Kel Saren—she was talking to Kel Anjuman. A lazy, minor noble of Marakand, who lived off the kindness of House Aurelian, and had no reason to bear a multitude of scars.

Years ago, Antonetta had told him to make more of himself. And he was more than she knew. He had resented her for her artifice, for showing a false face to the world. Yet he’d never acknowledged that he was doing the same thing. He had become so used to lying that it was not simply second nature; it was first. Everything he told her, even when it was the truth, had a lie at its heart.

Lady Alleyne had been right all those years ago, but not for thereasons she thought. There was no future for him with Antonetta. There was no future for him with anyone.

She seemed to see a change in his face. She looked away, biting her lip, her hands suddenly fluttering nervously. “We ought to go back,” she said. “Can you help me do up my dress?”

He did not want to do it. It was dangerous to be so close to Antonetta. Even now, the urge to take her in his arms was overpowering; she would be soft and hot to touch; he could take her by her silk-covered hips, lift her up against him. Stop the ache in his heart and his body with sensation so powerful it obliterated all thought.

No.He was not Charlon; he could control himself. Could behave as if nothing was troubling him, as if he had no weakness where she was concerned. He had acted more difficult parts.

He turned to the row of tiny buttons that required his attention, and focused on pushing them through their small silk loops, rather than focusing on Antonetta. She stood very still, bracing herself against the crates in front of her; as Kel glanced up, he saw the label on one of them flash white in the dimness.

Antonetta looked over her shoulder at him. “Is everything all right?”

“Just fine.” As he rose to his feet, he settled her tousled hair around her shoulders, his hand brushing the clasp of the gold chain at the back of her throat. “Do you think…”

“What?” She turned around, her face open, questioning. His stomach felt sick with wanting and guilt.

“I could speak to Conor,” he said. “Even Mayesh. See if there’s a way to protect your Charter so you could hold on to it, even if you don’t marry.”

She smiled at him, luminous in the dark. “That’s not necessary. I’m not entirely out of ideas yet.” She glanced around the room. “I’ve realized—I do know where we are. Come along.”

He followed her from the room. A series of twisting corridors brought them back to the party, where a peculiar sight met theireyes. The room, with its divans and flowing curtains, was mostly empty: The terrace doors had been thrown open and the guests were outside, crowded up against the stone railings.

“I must find Conor,” Kel said.

“Sardou can wait,” Antonetta agreed, and Kel slipped into the crowd. The night air was cool, the mingled scents of different perfumes—musk and flowers, the bite of juniper—clashing in an olfactory war. As he came close to the edge of the terrace, he realized why the guests were here. Down below, at the foot of the Hill, a crowd had gathered. Kel could see little of them in the torchlight, but recognized their makeshift banners, the lion of Castellane pouncing upon the eagle of Sarthe.

Their chanting rose up, faint at this distance but still audible, like thunder over the mountains. “Death to Sarthe! Better blood than alliance with Sarthe!”

But Kel could not concentrate on Sarthe, or questions of uneasy alliances between countries. In the room with Antonetta, he had seen the label on one of the Roverges’ boxes flash out at him.Singing Monkey Wine.He had not forgotten the odd name. The same brand of wine, the same sort of boxes, that Prosper Beck had had in his office.

Could the Roverges have some connection to Beck? Could Benedict be his patron? It was a thin connection, but enough to push Kel to do what he had done next.

Now he opened his left hand and glanced down at the gold locket in his palm. Antonetta had not even felt it as he slipped it off her neck. That same sickness of guilt came back as he stared down at it. This was what Beck had demanded of him, what he had sacrificed the little that was left of his sense of honor for. He felt suddenly sick at the idea of turning it over to Beck without knowing what was inside it. He knew what Beck had told him, but had no reason to trust it; what if it contained something that could truly damage Antonetta, or her reputation?

Without another conscious thought, he snapped it open. And stared. There was nothing inside, only an empty miniature frame where a small painting or illustration might be placed. Surely Beck had not charged him with this task only to have him retrieve an empty locket?

And yet. The locket was oddly light in his hand, for an object made of gold. He thought of the false bottom to Conor’s cabinet, where the poppy-drops were concealed, and pressed down hard with his thumb on the gold frame.

With a click, it slid to the side, revealing a small hollow space beneath. Inside it was a woven circlet of some kind of dark, rough twine, with fraying edges…

His heart seemed to stop in his chest. It was a ring. A ring made of grass, the long pale grass that grew in the Night Garden. It was the gift he’d given Antonetta so many years ago, before her mother had warned him away from her. Before she had changed.

He snapped the locket shut, his mind buzzing. Someone was coming up behind him; he turned, trying to school his expression from shock into a mild curiosity.

It was Polidor Sardou, wearing a brightly dyed doublet of rich brocade. “The protestors only say what everyone feels,” he said. He looked sallow, unwell, his eyes shadowed. “It is an insult, what Sarthe has done.” He glared past Kel, in the direction of the Sarthian Ambassadors, who stood with Mayesh. Senex Domizio seemed impassive, but Sena Anessa was clearly furious. “And House Aurelian tolerates it.”

“House Aurelian has no choice.” Kel saw Conor, then, emerge from the house. He was smiling, seemingly careless, and not alone. With him was Silla, her red hair bright as candle flame. “You wanted to talk to me?” Kel asked, tucking the locket carefully into his sleeve.

“Indeed. There are always choices,” said Sardou. “I hear you walked away from that farce of a welcoming ceremony in the square. You showed your loyalty then.”

Kel looked at Sardou in surprise.You showed your loyalty.Loyalty to whom? It had never occurred to him that his leaving the dais might be interpreted as anything other than what it was: a desire to go to Conor. But it was clear that some had seen it as an expression of indignation.

“If you ever wish to discuss,” Sardou began, “potentialoptions—pressure that could be brought to bear, perhaps, in certain places, where thismarriage”—he said the word with disgust—“might be discouraged…”