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I start forward, but Akilah grabs my arm and shakes her head. “Just leave it.”

But... but...

There’s something about him. That arrogance. That impossible mask. That voice.

It itches under my skin. Part curiosity—no one masks like that. That level of precision is definitely criminal. But mostly?

It’s the sheer rudeness.

Even after we’re back at the manor, I’m still fuming.

Idart my gaze left and right, then slip into an alleyway, narrow and hung with icicles. Down the slippery stairs I go, careful, breath fogging, until I reach the canal path.

In the distance, fires flicker beneath the bridge. The homeless and the sick huddle around fissures of warm air still venting from the last earthshake. Their coats are threadbare. Their fingers, blue. The cold will only deepen their ailments.

I quicken my step.

And promptly slip on the ice.

My heart leaps into my throat as the world tilts and I flail toward the freezing canal. For a suspended second, time stretches. Far too much time to imagine how utterly miserable the next few seconds will be—

It doesn’t happen.

I let out a long breath of relief, eyes still squeezed shut. Then I feel them. Fingers still wrapped around my arms. Strong. Steady.

I glance over my shoulder, and don’t need to hit the canal to shiver.

I blink, and then, despite everything, a laugh escapes. “Maskios!”

That beautiful, fake face pinches. “That’s not my name.”

“Who are you, then?”

“What are you doing down here?”

I yank free of his grip and face him fully. “Did you follow me?”

“You looked like you were up to something you shouldn’t be.”

“That’s not an answer.” I eye him. “So are you here to stop me? Or help?”

He glances past me, to the bridge and the sick beyond it. Hesitates. Then—

“Why not. I’m a criminal, after all.”

That surprises me. He was so rude last time I saw him.

I laugh again, soft, involuntary. Then I rise onto my toes and tug his hood up over his head. A small gesture. Unnecessary for a man already masked, but I’m... compelled to do it.

“Follow my instructions,” I murmur.

I take his hand and lead him beneath the bridge. I pass him three bottles of herbal teas and my apothecary pouch. “Do you know your herbs?”

“Better than most,” Maskios says, with just enough arrogance to make me snort.

There’s already a line. They greet me with kind smiles and offerings—prettily knotted thread, wildflowers. Whatever they have. I slip one posy of flowers behind the clasp on Maskios’s cloak and get to work.

“Why not use a medius spell rather than all these simplex ones?” Maskios asks, batting away a wildflower as it droops toward his mouth.