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“I need someone to make sure Ménard doesn’t execute any more voyants.”

“You got him to agree to that?” He chuckled. “Killing voyants is his favorite pastime. I wouldn’t like to see what happens when Ménard gets bored.”

“I won’t go into specifics,” I said, “but I could use a spy. You’re close to him, Cade. You can report on what he’s doing.”

“To you?”

“Or one of my associates. All you’d have to do is give us a report on where Ménard has been and who he’s been meeting so we can investigate. You’ll be compensated for the risk, of course.”

We started to walk again. Side by side, we stepped onto the Quai des Grands Augustins, which was closed to traffic for the night. Cade looked straight ahead and breathed out.

“Compensated how?” he finally said.

“Financially, of course,” I said. “But there are other ways. If the baby does turn out to be yours, and if that fact is very obvious, we can get you out of there. Give you somewhere to hide.”

Cade contemplated my face. Slowly, a smile turned the corners of his mouth.

“What?” I said.

“You’ve just . . . done so much. For voyants. And in such a short amount of time.” He rubbed his hands together and blew into them. “You know it’s been a year to the day since you were arrested for murdering two Underguards.”

“I didn’t, no. That’s—” I slowed. “How do you know when I was arrested?”

“Oh, you know. Records, conversations. You’re a person of interest to everyone, Paige.”

The stalls were all closed tonight. Seeing them, I suddenly realized where we were. I saw the crimson sign—the sign readingrue gît-le-cœur, a name that spoke of a heart at peace. The safe house. I stopped.

Memories were breaking through my armor. For the first time since that night, I saw the house where I had lived with the blood-consort for months, sat with him under the stars, slept at his side.

And I saw that the door had been smashed down. That was no surprise: Nashira hadn’t known he had been working for her. His mission had been known only to him.

The shattered window on the second floor was harder to explain. There had been a struggle in that building.

Why would he have struggled?

A chill seeped between my shoulders. Seeing me waver, Cade grasped my arm to steady me.

“Paige. You all right?”

“Yes.” I looked at him for what felt like the first time. “You don’t look well, though, Cade. Not sleeping?”

Our gazes met. “I’m fine, Paige.”

The æther quivered. It was trying, desperately, to tell me something. Towarnme. And I listened, because I was clairvoyant, and the æther was my guide.

So I looked at Cade again. I looked harder. This close, I could see the blue tinge to his mouth. The sight of that darkness made something coil like an adder inside me. He had kept a pair of gloves on as we danced, so I couldn’t tell whether he had the same discoloration in his fingers. My own lips were painted by the æther, a permanent mark of my gift.

Cade was an oracle. I knew that.

Cade Fitzours, whose name was linked to mine.

I thought of Arcturus that night. His cold stare. His cruelty. How flat the light in his eyes had been for most of our confrontation—exactly the way they had looked in the mirror when I had possessed him—and how, when he had raised a hand to me, his arm had seemed to resist a command it had been given. A command to strike a blow that could have killed me.

The scar on my hand was suddenly cold. I clenched my fingers over the three-letter word there.

It would take a dreamwalker incredible strength to turn an unwilling Rephaite into a marionette. It was impossible. And yet, I had done it myself. Not for long—not for anywhere near as long as Arcturus had taunted me—but for a few moments, I had known control over a god . . .

And how could I have sensed a dreamwalker, when all my life I had believed I was alone?