Page 10

I shut my eyes, soaking in the cruel reality, and almost lose the contents of my stomach when I open them and spot a wooden mask in the bottom of the boat.

No-no-no-no.

I gently turn his face and fight the urge to scramble back in panic.

Vitalian Dimos. Someone bashed the back of the man’s head and left him to die. I frantically search the boats and the shadows around me. Could the culprit be close? Watching?

Eyes stinging and fear in my stomach, I take off my cloak and rest it over Vitalian Dimos’s body. I wash the blood off my gloved hands in the canal and return to Quin’s dinghy. Hurriedly, wet fingers slippery on the oars, I row towards the constabulary. With clumsy feet I make my way to the road and hover in the shadows across from the gates. On a public noticeboard beside them is my picture, with a group of constables in thick conversation.

I swallow and spy to the left a familiar crest on the doors of a passing carriage. Prince Nicostratus. He’s been called in formally, for an apology and to remove his house arrest.

I race alongside the carriage as it pulls to a stop close to the gates. I open the doors and Nicostratus ducks out. “Thank—” He sees me lifting my mask and stops abruptly. First his face is awash with joy, but his eyes narrow onto the shoulder of my shirt and his expression quickly greys. He looks away.

“You’ve approached for a reason,” he says, dismissing the aklo who came to aid him.

My stomach sinks. “Please, I need you to get Quin.”

He hisses, and starts striding past me.

“There’s been another murder,” I say.

He hesitates but keeps walking.

“The sooner we solve this, the sooner this all ends.”

He pauses. “Tell me where. I’ll send him there myself.”

I give him all the details, where the body is and when I found him, and then I leave Nicostratus to sort it out with his brother. Better this way. What can I possibly do to help?

I stare at my hands and scrub them once more in the water. They still feel heavy with blood. I pick up pebbles and use them to scratch it all off but it only rips holes in my gloves.

Hot tears leak down my face. I can’t even use my hands to wipe them away.

I trudge back to the apothecary and try again to wash and mend my gloves.

Ruined.

I slip them back on anyway and let my chest sink every time I look down at them.

Cherry liquor is my only consolation. I find some in a dusty corner and imbibe on the floor of the sleeping nook. As the day wears into evening, I begin singing and laugh hollowly between songs. An emptied bottle spins in the dimming light of the room, and I stare at its dance while sipping from a larger bottle.

“Make me forget.”

The door creaks open further and a breeze rushes in. The curtain beside me flickers in front of my eyes and when it settles, there’s another presence in the room. The weight of him, leaning on his cane, is like a pressure on my chest.

I laugh through it and continue singing.

He witnesses this silently, and sinks into a sitting position against the opposite wall.

I choke on the final lyrics and end with, “I failed to save him.”

“You can’t save everyone.”

“Did you find who did it?”

“Not yet. They struck again.”

I frown.

“They bashed Eparch Valerius on the temple and left him for dead.”

“He died?”

“Nearly. Luckily, he’d invited so many vitalians to his home. And he was quickly found.”

I curl my useless fingers tightly.

“It’s not your fault, Cael.”

“I tried. I failed.”

“Not trying would be the bitterest failure.”

The clarity of his words, the sincerity . . .

I shut my eyes not to look at him. It’s not my fault. There’s simply no magic. And no reason for me to wait here until the mystery is solved. I should be putting distance between us. I should have packed my things and moved into an inn on the opposite side of the city. So why, then, have I stayed in the apothecary, drinking? Why, then, have I hoped he’d find me?

Say goodbye and go now. Get this... this tightness off me.

I open my eyes, my mouth. Quin has tipped his head back against the wall, his lashes softly kissing his skin. Tired, exhausted, he’s also grieving—the loss of his power, the distance from his son, the sufferings of his people. I press my lips shut again.

Goodbyes come in all forms. It doesn’t have to be rushed. I owe him too much for that. Spending a few last hours together is something I ought to do. In fact, bringing up goodbyes at all seems inconsiderate. Better I pretend this is like any other time. Like it might happen again. Tomorrow.

If he’s upset when he realises... well, at least our last moments will have been good ones, spent comforting one another. There’ll be others who waltz into his life. He’ll triumph over his uncle and he’ll find happiness.

I pick up my bottle and swig another sharp bite of cherry liquor. After I put it down, I catch my breath, and I crawl across the space to Quin and tuck myself into his side.

He stirs and stiffens, and I rest my head under the curve of his chin, shameless despite a distant voice warning me I shouldn’t. He’s warm beneath my cheek, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath as his arm curls around my back. His other hand brushes my hair behind my ear, the tender touch sparking something painful in my chest.

“You’ve gone soft,” I murmur into his shirt, my voice muffled.

His fingers pause mid-stroke, then resume, slower, deliberate. “Soft for you, only.”

His tone wraps itself around my thoughts, too heavy to untangle.

“Don’t say things like that,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

Because.

I don’t answer, and his hand continues its lazy path through my hair.

I murmur, “You’re not in uniform.”

“I went to the inn and bathed before coming here.”

I breathe in the scent on him. “You bathed in smoky water?”

“It’s from the crime scene. Lingers.”

“Smoke?” What’d happened?

I don’t ask the question, but my slight pause is enough for Quin to understand. He murmurs, “Valerius’s garden was also set alight. We saved most of it.”

“The killer went after both Vitalian Dimos and Eparch Valerius,” I murmur. “ They must have seen how close we are to finding an antidote. Too close for their plans.” This is meant to frighten the vitalians. It’s meant to distract them, to make them hesitant.

Which means . . . the murderer visited Thinking Hall.

Why didn’t they use poison?

I sigh into Quin’s shirt. Perhaps the poison wasn’t on them? Or if it was, couldn’t be easily adjusted to bring about an instant death? And they needed Dimos and Valerius to die quickly, before they solved the puzzle. “Did Eparch Valerius say anything that might help find the killer?”

“The knock to his head was heavy and blunt. His memory is affected. He vaguely recalls seeing a very long shadow stretching over his flowers.”

I shiver and shake it off. No use thinking about this. Nothing I can do. The fate of the refugees can only be in the hands—the magical hands—of others.

My nose pushes at the flutette under Quin’s shirt; I try to blow a sharp note through the thin material and it comes out like a sigh. “The last of my magic is in there.”

“Do you want it back?”

His voice is soft, and I curl my fingers around his to stop him taking it off.

“Your gloves,” he murmurs.

I hide my hand by sliding it around his waist.

“I’ll get you new ones.” His voice turns throaty. “When I saw your cloak over Dimos’s body...” His fingers draw down my hair to where I’d hastily pinned the clasp to my shirt. “I’m glad.”

I don’t remember doing it. I was too lost in all that was happening; I’d moved on instinct.

Like I’m doing now, sinking into the nooks of his body. I can hear his heart. It thumps as hard as mine.

We stay like this, holding one another, until the dimness of the room becomes darkness. My breath catches. There’s something about Quin’s protective embrace, the soft weight of his gaze, that leaves me feeling... understood.

“What do you think we’re doing?” he asks quietly.

My breathing becomes jerky and I fight through it and squeeze Quin tighter. “You promised as long as it’s my dream, you’ll support me. I had a hard day. Keep holding me.”

His fingers still against my hair for a second, then continue their lazy stroking.

“How full was that bottle?”

I shrug. “Both full.”

He sighs, his chest rising and falling, taking me along with it.

I’m rising again when Quin’s breath stops on a sudden groan. He drops the hand at my ear to his thigh. I draw my weight off him, and he hisses, his face contorting as he tries to withstand the pain.

“Cramp?”

“‘is fine,” he gasps. “Will pass soon.”

I press a palm above his knee and at his hip and help stretch the muscle. “Stand.” I support him up with an arm around his waist. “Put a little pressure on the leg, I’ve got you.”

He does and grunts again. I clutch him tighter as he bears through it and soon his face stops scrunching. “Better.”

Barely. I help him to the bed and he collapses onto it. “I’ll bring you something for the pain.”

Quin gestures to the bottle of liquor. “That’ll do.”

I grimace but comply. A few swigs has a numbing effect—too much has a tendency to impair memory, which for unbearable pain might be a good thing.

He takes a deep drink and I set the bottle on the floor. “How often has this been happening?”

“It’s always painful.”

“I mean like this, these cramps? The poison makes them excruciating. I know it does.”

Quin drops his head back against the pillow.

“You’ve been overdoing it,” I continue, “rushing around the city, solving mysteries. You need to sit more. You—”

“—have things to do. Places to be.”

“You’re not resting your leg enough.”

“I must keep using it, no matter how painful.”

His words slam into my chest and I stare at my hands, the frayed thread of my gloves. I understand. I’d also use any fraction of magic no matter how much pain I’d suffer.

I nod, and busy myself pulling off his boots. “When you’re done for the day, have a hot bath, stretch and massage.”

“Massage?”

I kneel on the bed beside him, peeling off the cloak that covers his thigh. The muscle is tight, taut beneath my touch, and he twitches involuntarily. His gaze snaps to me, and I can feel the weight of it, burning into my cheek.

I keep my head down, focused, methodical. I tell myself this is just another wound to treat, but the steady heat of his skin under my fingertips...

My hands slide shakily up his leg, working the muscle from the knee upward—

I freeze as my fingers brush the sensitive inner thigh. My pulse trips. Quin shifts, and when I look up, there’s something darkening in his eyes.

I swallow and quickly lift my fingers.

He’s still watching me.

I slap his good leg. “Stop it. I’m trying to help you.”

Quin’s laugh rumbles through his chest as he grabs my wrist and tugs, sending me tumbling beside him. I scowl, but my face is inches from his, and the smirk tugging at his lips roots me there.

He tilts his head. “I had a hard day.” His voice drops, low and coaxing. “Hold me?”

My breath hitches. For a moment, I consider snapping something witty, pushing him away—but I can’t. His words are soft, his expression rarely open. Vulnerable. I settle against him, my head resting on his shoulder.

“Don’t get used to this,” I warn.

He hums, the sound vibrating through me. “Too late.”

I slam my eyes shut.

He strokes a hand over the side of my head, cupping the chin I’ve dropped and lifting it again, urging me to look at him.

“What’s wrong?”

The softness of your touch. The look in your eye.

The butterflies in my chest.

I lurch over him and grab the bottle next to the bed. Half sprawled on his body, I take deep swigs. Quin laughs under me and I throw him a sharp look. “This is your fault.”

His hands slide up to my waist, pulling me squarely onto his chest. My balance falters, and I catch myself with a hand against his shoulder, but the way his eyes glint up at me steals my breath. He whispers, his voice low and daring. “What’s my fault?”