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“ W hite?” Quin’s gaze shifts from the dead body to Vitalian Dimos’s grimace, then to me. “What does that mean?”

“Eparchess Juliana. She always wears white lace and a mask. I’ve seen her at the outpost, the refugee camp, and speaking with Commander Thalassios at the dance house.”

Which, come to think of it, I haven’t divulged to Quin yet. The encounter got lost in the rush of what happened after, from exhuming a body, to working on an antidote, to interrogating our missing vitalian over a putrefying redcloak...

I steer Quin to the corner of the cabin and share what I overheard about the instability of the borders, and wrap up musing, “She’s awfully mysterious. How haven’t you seen her?”

Quin frowns. “I wonder... Or perhaps she’s avoiding constables.”

“She’s definitely hiding more than her face.” I tug his sleeve, but he doesn’t immediately react, watching me instead. “We need to talk to her. We also need to find our fourth redcloak. We need to return to the outpost.”

“Officially, we’ll have Commander Thalassios breathing down our necks,” Quin says. “But perhaps I won’t mind if you drag me along by the sleeve.”

My hand is already pulling again—too far to stop, and too hard. The fabric pulls and the collar gapes, revealing the flutette at his neck.

I fumble to push his shirt back in place, muttering, “Why is it so flimsy?”

“Feel free to take it off and cast it away.”

With flaming cheeks, I glare at him. “Keep your mind on what matters.”

“Then—”

At a flicker of arrogant mischief in his eyes, I cover his mouth quickly. “There’s a drakopagon game the day after tomorrow, at the outpost training field. Eparch Valerius asked Nicostratus to play.” I pause, dropping my hand from his smile with a tangential thought. “Why would he invite Nicostratus when he’s under house arrest?”

Quin scoffs. “He’s royalty, after all. No one would dare refuse to invite royalty to such an event.”

The world of the important. I suppose that does make sense. “Anyway, tomorrow the nannan should have started showing green veins. Let’s free your brother and get him to the game. While he’s playing, distracting the crowds and the commander, we’ll look around. Dress as if you’re there to watch the game.”

“You seem very keen on dressing me, would you like to do it yourself?”

I go to shove his chest—

And grab his belt instead.

Quin sucks in a breath, his smirk fading while I feel around the strap. “Where’s my soldad?” I ask, half expecting it to swing obnoxiously into view. “You’ve been dangling it in front of me since...” My voice falters. “It’s gone.”

Quin’s hand moves to his belt with uncharacteristic haste and a deepening frown.

“You had it in the coffin,” I say. “I felt the hard wood between us.”

Quin stills, gaze rooted on his belt.

I try to cast the worry out of my voice. I have no right to be upset. “Maybe it fell off? I knew I should have asked for it sooner.”

He meets my stare with amused calm. “I suppose you’d like me to dig it out for you?”

“Could you?”

His smile is slow and... frustrating. “If you come along again.”

That ‘again’ throws me right back into the coffin with Quin, that tight, tight space, his knowing look...

Over a lurch in my belly, I step back to Vitalian Dimos.

“Let’s rather focus on what has to be done.” I jerk a finger at Quin and try not to let my gaze fall miserably to his belt. “Get us back to town. And get your brother on board.”

Vitalian Dimos asks, “What about the body?”

While Dimos conducts a few tests on the body, I raid my grandfather’s bookshelves; then we bury the redcloak in the woods.

As I drop the last stone onto the churned soil, I glance at Quin. “How did you end up following him?”

Quin looks away, frowning at his cane. “The vitalians working on the antidote were struggling. They shooed me off. The moon was bright, so I took a walk and that’s when I saw him dragging the redcloak through the woods.”

Something niggles at me about this story, but for now my mind homes in on one particular part: “They’re struggling?” I swallow.

Vitalian Dimos is watching us, and I hook his gaze. “You’ll help me with the antidote.” His face pinches on the cusp of refusal, and I add, “Once we’ve got it, once everyone who’s been poisoned regains their health, you’ll naturally be acquitted—and admired.”

He grunts. “You’ll let me take the lead. Non-linea like you...”

The words cut deep. Non-linea. Not even par-linea anymore.

I swallow down a rising lump and nod, and once we’ve returned to the apothecary, I work under Vitalian Dimos’s orders.

Quin leaves to see his brother while I’m flipping through Grandfather’s books, searching for anything on venoms. I scroll every page carefully, not to overlook anything in the densely written pages. There’s plenty of information on all the variations of bees there are, where they’re found, and how venomous each is. But snakes... where were such indexes for them?

Maybe one of the other books?

Quin returns before I’ve finished the second tome, with no invitation to show. One look at his troubled frown has my stomach instantly knotting.

“We have to let that decoct,” Vitalian Dimos says, following up with a yawn. “Best use the time to sleep.” He stumbles into the adjacent room, finds the bed, and falls onto it.

Quin slouches in a corner armchair, his gaze lingering on the simmering potions and the book in my hands.

“He won’t see you?” I snap the book shut.

“He said constables should visit during working hours.”

My stomach twists guiltily, and I grab the cloak I’d flung over the armchair and whirl it on.

“Cael, leave it.”

“It was enough you stole me away from his manor. Stop making decisions for me. Nicostratus is important.”

He opens his mouth to speak and shuts it firmly. I’m already leaving as he nods.

Petros is awash with relief at his first sight of me. There’s something different about him tonight; it takes me a few moments to figure it out. “You’re not wearing your wyvern button.”

He looks down at his shoulder, where it should be pinned. “Ah... it must’ve fallen off. I’ll fix it later. More pressing is the prince.”

He leads me swiftly through the myriad torch-flickering hallways towards the prince’s chambers. Each door that creaks open gives way to more and more disorder. Knocked over chairs, strewn fabrics, abandoned goblets, emptied jugs of wine.

In the distance comes a hollow, drunken laugh against the sound of someone playing the flute. It doesn’t take a constable to know what’s been happening here.

I look pointedly at Petros, and he grimaces. “He’s been like this since you left.”

“Like this.”

“We do things we regret when we’re desperate.”

Heart jammed with heaviness, I dismiss Petros outside Nicostratus’s chambers, and wait for him to leave before I knock.

“Who is it?” comes a snarl.

I take a steading breath and open the heavy door. The room is lit with pockets of candles on shelves and on a corner desk, and a musician stands in the middle of the room playing sad melodies on the flute. Across from her, the prince is sprawled on a velveted chair, pouring crimson liquid from a jug into a silver goblet. His dark dishevelled hair momentarily curtains me from his view, but when he sets the jug down and casts his gaze my way, his body freezes.

Wine sloshes onto his white shirt as he pushes out of the chair. He dismisses the musician, who bows and rushes past me.

“You’ve come back .”

My chest plummets.

Nicostratus stares at me and falls back into the chair with a wretched expression. He laughs again, no humour in his eyes, and tips the rest of the wine down his throat in three gulps. He casts the goblet across the room and it rolls to my feet.

I pick it up and set it on the table beside him.

He’s shut his eyes. “You’re not back.”

My stomach lurches. “Let me read your pulse.”

He throws his wrist at me; with a swallow, I hold his arm gently. There are still fading bruises from all that he’s had to put up with. My voice rasps. “You’ve been like this for days? You need water. You need sleep. You need to stop drinking.”

His dark gaze hits mine and I let go of his arm to fill his goblet with water, from a pitcher that has barely been touched.

Nicostratus continues, words slurring, “I love him. But this... Has he told you what he did yet?” He shakes his head. “He hasn’t. He shouldn’t. He won’t. ”

I hand him the water. I want to ask what Quin hasn’t told me, but I think if I do, I’ll break Nicostratus. “Drink this.”

He takes it and frowns at the clear surface. “Why did you come tonight?”

“Drink and sleep first. I’ll ask for your help later.”

“Help?” He straightens, struggling to keep his gaze sharp, focused... His brow pinches with worry. “What’s the matter? What do you need?”

He is good. He is kind.

“Tell me,” he insists with a small hiccup.

I perch on the arm of his chair and, rubbing my temples, murmur, “We need your guest invitations to the drakopagon. Need you to play and distract the commander while Quin and I search the outpost.”

“Constantinos again.”

“He’ll have proved your innocence by tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I want most from him.” His words, though laden with alcohol, are weighted and his gaze bores into my profile.

“Let me get you into bed.”

“If only you meant that.” He turns my chin and makes me look at him. “You’re wavering. You were already wavering on that island. Isn’t that why you put distance between us?”

I swallow. Then, I’d been trying to protect them both.

No words pass my lips.

He lets me go and twists his violet oak armband, his eyes fixed on it. “You called him a lemon. Sour. He irritates you, makes you mad, makes you laugh, makes you afraid. And he makes you cry.” His gaze drops to my clasp. “I’m kind. Steady. But he makes you feel .”

His words drop through me, quick and sharp, and I’m left trembling in their wake. I lurch off the chair, move to his bed, and fight shaky hands as I peel open the blankets.

Nicostratus glares into the middle distance. “He makes me feel lots of things too.”

“Let’s talk when you’re not drunk.”

“I’d rather”—he stands and sways, and I lunge to catch him around the waist and steady him—“be drunk for this conversation.” He drops his head against mine. “Will you ever come back for me?”

His breathing shifts. I stir him and his head rolls forward. “Nicostratus? Nicostratus?”

He snores lightly. I steer him to the bed and buckle as I bend him into it. His shoes, I remove, but the rest... It’s too much. Too intimate.

I pull the covers to his chin and his arm dangles out the side. I take it and set it on the mattress. My fingers linger over his knuckles and I stare down at his beautiful face. My whisper comes out choked. “I’m sorry.”

I’m turning to leave when his fingers hook around one of mine. I stare across the room.

“Please don’t . . .”

I won’t go. I’ll stay and make sure he’s alright. Remind him, when he wakes, how he can help...

He lets go of my finger. “Please don’t come between me and my brother.”

I slump onto the armchair and watch him sleep. He was drunk; maybe most of this conversation will be forgotten when he wakes. I drop my head back and stare at the flickering candlelight against the ceiling.

I’m asleep when the candles burn out, and when I stir, it’s to a blueish dawn stretching through gridded windows. I rub my eyes, and the night before rushes back to me. I lurch to my feet. Nicostratus is sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees.

He looks over at me, and I look back.

“Nicostratus—”

“I remember everything,” he murmurs. “I meant everything.”

Please don’t come between me and my brother.

“I can’t go yet. There are so many poisoned, I—”

“I’ll help tomorrow at the drakopagon. I beg you, say your goodbyes. Go.”

His expression is heartbroken, pleading.

“This... envy. It’ll be the ruin of us. Please. I’ll take care of him. I’ll see he finds happiness.” His throat juts on a swallow. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

My stomach sinks, and my eyes sting. It takes all my effort to hold my head up. “Will you also find happiness?”

“If I promise to, will you go?”

I briefly shut my eyes. “I have to help the refugees.”

“It’s not as if you have magic anymore—”

I cry out, “I can help!”

He moves forward, reaching out a consoling hand, and drops it again. “When the poisoned are healthy, then...”

My throat is swollen. It hurts.

I take the golden feather from my belt and place it on the table beside us. Nicostratus stares at it, and I startle him by wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nicostratus.”

He stiffens.

I sigh into his garments. “Let me take away our good memories?”

A watery drop lands on the top of my head. When I step back, he hurriedly turns his face to the wall.

I make my way to the door slowly, wishing he’d stop me, tell me with time, it’ll all be alright.

He says nothing.

I traipse back through the city, hood shadowing my face, stomach roiling. Procrastinating, I take a detour through narrow, near-empty lanes, only to bang into Petros tucking a package of herbs under his arm.

He acknowledges me politely.

“Hangover remedy?” I murmur.

He shifts the package higher up and nods. “Better hurry back.”

He and his long legs stride off to help the prince, and I stare glumly after him.

I’m so busy staring after him, I almost don’t see her. Only a false step over cobblestone has me jerkily looking up in the other direction.

Eparchess Juliana and her mysterious silver mask glide across a dingy alley into one of the smaller apothecaries. I’d been there before, in my search for a cure. It doesn’t sell the usual herbs but rarer ones, ones that have traversed borders.

I follow and feign interest in some siren’s tear while the eparchess picks up a small box of seeds and takes it to the counter.

The vitalian recognises her at once and strikes up friendly conversation. “Here again so soon. You’re quickly becoming my favourite customer.”

Eparchess Juliana laughs, but the grind of her foot suggests she’s in a hurry.

The vitalian pours something into a pocket-sized pouch, and I try to get a better look. Difficult from this position...

“I heard you’ll be playing against the redcloaks tomorrow. I’ll put my money on you, of course.”

Eparchess Juliana takes the pouch with a polite, “See you there,” and strides out.

I drop the very pricey roots I’ve been ‘inspecting’, and start to follow—

“Anything I can help you with, there?” His smile is kind. I lift one of the roots and take it to the counter, bypassing the emptied box on my way... “What kinds of rare items do you stock?”

“Oh, some beauties.” The vitalian points to a dozen boxes, running off their impressive names and uses.

“The woman before me. She took a whole box of something. Was it particularly rare? Have I missed out?”

He laughs. “Semi-precious. Echowisp.”

My stomach twists.

Echowisp.

I hurriedly pay an outrageous sum for a root I don’t need and race out of the store, hopeful I might catch her to follow.

Nowhere in sight.

I sigh and slouch my way back to Vitalian Dimos and—I swallow—Quin. Each step has me feeling queasy and queasier, and I have to jostle myself on the stairs outside. Keep it together. Focus on the antidote.

Don’t let Quin know what his brother has asked.

I practice smiling a few times while bouncing on the balls of my feet, and when I think my act will pass, let myself inside.

I find them conversing over simmering potions. Dimos has consumed some of the elixir and is stacking a spell in his palm, a bright, swirling, misty magic. My heart aches to feel it.

“At first the victims will experience tummy aches,” Vitalian Dimos says. “That resolves itself after a day, leaving most to assume they’ve eaten bad food. But the poison is still there. It’s just biding its time until the gelidroot bubble thins. That’s when the poison leaks out, surges through the blood, and kills.”

“Caelus calculated four days for the soldiers.”

“Correct. How long it takes to work depends on the dosage of gelidroot in the poison.”

“Are you suggesting—” Quin begins.

I clear my throat, coming into the room. “The victims’ deaths can be timed.”

“Why give the redcloaks four days?”

“Presumably the killer needed them to finish a task first? Or have them die at a time that gives an airtight alibi?”

Or have them die after Prince Nicostratus arrived in town.

Quin’s lips are set in a grim line. “How long do the refugees have?”

I’m not sure what the reason is for timing the refugee’s poison, but I have a bad feeling about it. “The nannan should have started showing green veins. Get the coroner to investigate, announce the poison officially, then take all combined knowledge on it and the antidote to Thinking Hall.”

“Thinking Hall?” Vitalian Dimos muses.

“We’ve a ticking clock. We need all minds collaborating on this.” I gesture to the spell in his hands. “You’ve stacked most of the spell, but there’s still a key layer missing.”

“I have some theories . . .”

“Discuss it with others. Decide on the best choice. Do it now.”

“I can’t enter the hall. I’m wanted.”

So am I. But that seems unimportant in the scheme of things. Even if I get locked away, I have a moral responsibility to help the poisoned. In whatever way I can. Collective knowledge will be the fastest way.

I glance at Quin, unable to stop my lips from twitching.

His brow arches.

“Masks.” I tap his chest, right above where his heart should be. “Yours is practically welded on.”

His gaze locks onto mine in a way that has me shivering. “And what about yours?”

His words linger, cutting deeper than I want to admit. But there’s no time to dwell on that, not with lives on the line.

“Then let’s see how well we wear them,” I choke out, forcing my focus back to the task at hand. “We need to move.”