A Sleuth & a Charlatan

Clare Sager

Contents

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Part I

1. A Discovery

2. Creative Accounting

3. No Regrets

4. Rumour & Romance

5. Rainfall

6. Deduction

7. The House of the Living & the Dead

8. To Win

9. Flirtation & Façades

10. Hungering

11. A Stolen Gift

12. An Approaching Storm

13. Burning Bright

14. Into the Storm

15. Portrait of a Lady

16. Avoidance

17. Islands

Part II

18. Yellow & Grey

19. Allegiance

20. No

21. Dolls

22. Autumn Fruit

23. Oleander Blooming

24. #113

25. The Grand Bazaar

26. Under the Dome

27. The Concubine & the Djinni

28. The Gaze Returned

29. To Try

30. Red

31. Apothecarial Assistance

32. Informant

33. Tuesday

34. The Sultan's Tears

35. Polite Society

36. A Lesson in Etiquette

37. Fear Alone

38. Exaplanation & Evasion

39. Catching Up

40. Unwelcome Invitation

41. The Plan

42. Bait

43. Hunting

44. Through the Mist

45. Labyrinth

46. Destroyer

47. Good News

48. A Most Scandalous Affair

49. Roses in the Garden

Part III

50. Aftermath

51. Small Kindnesses

52. Cloaked in Night

53. Forget Together

54. Detective

55. Fortune Told

56. City of Graves

57. The Truth

58. The Whole Truth

59. Nothing But the Truth

60. The First

61. Peppermint Tea

62. A Long Time Coming

63. Crossed Swords

64. The Options

65. Escape

66. An Education

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The Hidden Court

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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Get a glimpse of the start of Quin’s career in an exclusive prequel, Mudlark.

How does a girl from the Gutter Streets become a gentlewoman thief?

Meet Livia before her illness and Quin before she became the Counterfeit Contessa in this origin story.

Keep reading to the end to get the link to your free book (see Get Your Free Book in the contents page).

Part I

1

A Discovery

Quin had robbed from the rich, and now she’d given to the poor. All in all, a good day. She sauntered home through the Gutter Streets, coat billowing in the autumn breeze. The night was drawing in, clear sky deepening to violet. Glorious, but something was wrong. Instinct stopped her feet in their tracks before she understood why.

Janissaries ahead. Six.

She swallowed and ducked into a doorway as if looking through the shop’s bay window. Six was practically crawling with janissaries for the Gutter Streets. She’d never seen so many nappers in the district.

What had brought them here?

Please say it wasn’t her. She watched the reflection in the shop’s angled bay window, fingers drumming on her thighs, energy flaring in her muscles, throbbing in her ears.

Three green-jackets stood to attention, eyes alert. The others strode along the road, glancing at every face they passed.

Was it hers they looked for? After all, she’d stood in Kediler Square a week ago, admitting to breaking the law, even as she’d stopped a wrongful execution.

Movements slow, almost casual, she reached for her Cards, safely in their case at her belt. She flicked open the flap and fingered the edge of her Deck. As if in response to her caution, the magic hummed low and soft, vibrating against her gloved fingertips.

If she ran, that would only draw attention, even in the Gutter Streets.

Hundred damn it, she’d been too foolish, too bold, thinking herself safe here. She scowled and bit her lip – far too foolish. If she drew the Card, Lady Deception could help her pass by unseen, but which way to go? She pulled her tricorne hat low over her eyes and glanced up and down the lane.

Apart from the janissaries, the narrow road was busy, but rather than people hurrying home or out to work, small knots of Gutter folk stood stationary, heads bowed together, gazes flicking towards the janissaries. Women with dark rouge on their cheeks and lips and kohl around their eyes wore low-cut gowns that advertised their work: professionals. There were far fewer male professionals than female, but they were as easily identified with their tight clothes, shirts slit low to show their chests, and facial hair trimmed impeccably into thin moustaches, goatees, or sharp sideburns. Beside them, generally less bright in their clothes and makeup, various husbands, wives, and paramours.

Two men stood either side of a woman with red-rimmed eyes. They spoke in hushed tones, one with an arm around her shoulders, both wearing matching expressions of concern. Several more stood back in a tight huddle, arms folded.

Quin frowned. Maybe she didn’t need to run. Something else was going on here – these people seemed more worried than touting for business.

Even if the janissaries were here for her, what could she get in trouble for right now? She wore her sellsword coat, breeches, and shiny boots, with a rapier at her side – there was nothing illegal about that. True, it wasn’t an outfit Lady Sabia would wear. If the nappers recognised her and questioned the outfit, she could feasibly claim it was for protection on the Gutter Streets while she was here doing charitable works. No one messed with sellswords and, in a manner of speaking, the charitable works bit was true.

She wore soft leather gloves – more to cover the bandages on her left hand than because of the weather. If the nappers stopped her, her injury wouldn’t immediately give her away as the one who’d saved Atesh from hanging.

That just left stolen gear. Using only her right hand, she patted her pockets, even though she knew the contents – some coins, a handkerchief, and a set of keys, including one for the chest with her next change of clothes. Nothing incriminating.

She took a long breath and backed away from the shop window as if deciding whether to go in or go home. In doing so, she angled closer to the nearest gathering of professionals and half-drew The Seer Card, until it poked out the top of her Deck. She dipped into the murmuring stream of magic, focusing her ears towards that gathering, letting her gaze drift into the distance.

“… died right on the doorstep.”

“Terrible way to go.”

Someone dead. So the janissaries hadn’t come for her.

Smoothing her coat, she exhaled, long and low. The Seer had done her job. With a whispered thank you, she returned the Card and closed the case.

Now she took a calm moment, the collection of janissaries were centred on the opening to an alleyway. She strolled closer, gaze darting from beneath the shadow of her tricorne hat.

Her leg muscles bunched, ready to flee. Half a dozen routes opened from here – she could sprint and turn down twisting alleys, around sharp corners, and through dark gates to escape, if they sounded an alarm.

She needn’t have bothered trying to disguise her interest, though, because every person who passed the alleyway outright stared. Groups of professionals huddled close together and walked past slowly, eyes turning to each other and then to the alley. Some covered their mouths. Others frowned, lowered their gaze, and hurried on. A clutch of young men stood opposite, arms crossed, muttering amongst themselves.

Had some elderly vagrant died on someone’s doorstep? The nights had been cooling for the autumn, but surely they hadn’t grown that cold yet? And, no, the janissaries were never bothered about a homeless person dying.

Her pace lengthened as she approached the alley mouth. She gave up hiding her curiosity – no one else was.

A white sheet fluttered, one corner tucked into a window, another pegged to someone’s washing line, creating a make-shift screen. A janissary stood in front, glowering away anyone who approached. The shadow of another napper crouched behind the sheet.

Eight janissaries. In the Gutter Streets.

That was practically an army.

She frowned, but too soon she was past the alley opening. What had happened to bring so many here?

Once she was safely away from the glaring janissary, she sidled up to a woman over the road, whose shaved head lent her a warrior’s air.

“Here, what’s going on?” She nodded towards the alley with the sheet and the janissaries – not that she could have been mistaken with everyone’s attention on the place.

Warrior-Woman dragged her attention from the alley and eyed Quin from top to toe, head cocked. “Some girl killed.” A frown flickered on her brow. “Poor thing got done in a nasty way by the sound of it.”

Murder, then, not a natural death. Not old age or cold or the Gutter Street’s old friend – starvation. Not that murder was a stranger around here. Poor girl.

Crossing her arm against the chill threading through her, Quin shook her head. “You know her?”

“Nah. Well, I know of her, of course. We all know each other, don’t we?” She jerked her head towards a cluster of women who bowed in low conversation once they passed the alley.

Professionals, that’s what she meant by we. Most likely, the killer was a drunk husband, an angry pimp, or a customer who didn’t want to pay. Growing up, Quin had known girls who’d disappeared, while their minders or fathers (who were sometimes one and the same) strolled the streets with fresh scratch marks on their faces and hands. Sometimes the girls appeared in some quiet alleyway or mudlarks found them washed up on the mudflats. Sometimes they stayed disappeared.

At least anyone who cared for this girl would know what had happened to her.

She shivered. Although if it was as nasty as Warrior-Woman said, was it better not to know?

Poor girl.

Swallowing, she nodded to Warrior-Woman. “You heard –”

A crier from a nearby tower stopped her mid-sentence. Seven o’clock.

Buggeration. That late already? “Here,” she said, holding out a gold coin, “have this.”

The woman’s hand paused inches away. “Now, I’m not complaining at the amount, just, I don’t do women.” Her yearning gaze fixed on the zeri glinting in the late sun.

Quin snorted. “I’m not paying you to work. I’m paying you to stay off the streets tonight – get somewhere warm and dry and safe to sleep, get yourself a nice meal, maybe see if you can get out of the profession.”

Warrior-Woman’s dark brows lowered as she stared at Quin, her fingers a breath from the coin. “What’s the catch?”

Quin tipped up her hat – perhaps she’d recognise her. “No catch. You’ve heard of the woman who visits the Gutter Streets and leaves money in her wake, right?”

Warrior-Woman shrugged. “I’ve heard of some snobby cow, yes.”

Quin caught herself halfway through a laugh and shook her head.

And there it was.

She wasn’t one of them.

Suppressing a sigh, Quin shrugged. “Well, maybe I’m a non-snobby version of her. Consider it a gift, eh?” She tilted her hand, so the coin flashed golden and tempting in the light.

The woman exhaled and snatched the coin before slipping it into the top of her stays where they peeked over the top of her low bodice. “Very well, miss.” She turned and sidled away down the alley.

The darkening alley. Evening. Quin needed to get home, she had a ball to get ready for and –

“Hey,” the woman called back, pausing at a corner that led deeper into the Gutter Streets, “thanks.” Then she nodded and disappeared into the night.

Thanks. Quin smiled, nodding to herself. Maybe she wasn’t such an outcast.

Pulling her collar up, she hurried home, taking a more direct route than usual. She was running late, and if a woman had been murdered, she didn’t much fancy hanging around the Gutter Streets in the dark. She should have left sooner – it was important she looked her best for tonight.

Tonight. Her stomach fluttered. A ball, society, and a Pasha to face. She bit her lip. She hadn’t seen Atesh in five long days. The last time, things had got rather … well, inappropriate. Gloriously inappropriate. Wildly inappropriate. Deliciously … Knee-tremblingly … Scandalously … Indecently …

She swallowed and shook her head, but that did nothing to rid the tension from her thighs.

And since then, she’d been a coward and – no, not a coward.

Sensible.

Yes, sensible, that was right. And busy.

She wasn’t avoiding – well, what was Atesh to her?

The man whose life she’d saved from the gallows. Who knew far too much about her. Who, in the face of a death sentence, had changed his will, leaving his whole estate to the Gutter Streets, to be spent under her supervision.

The man who’d looked at her so intently that, although she’d only visited to check on his recovery, it had escalated.

Gloriously. Wildly. Indecently.

Afterwards, they’d dozed together in his bed. His arms around her, chest pressed against her back, the afternoon sunlight shafting through the window. She’d been warm and drowsy and had let her eyelids droop.

But that peace had been short-lived. Too quickly, Alora’s grinning face, bloodied and full of victory had swum into view.

It might have been a dream, but slow pain had still blossomed in Quin’s hand as Alora pressed her rapier against tender skin until at last it gave way and split apart, blood spilling, agony shooting through her palm, and no power to stop it.

She sliced slowly. Inch by inch across the base of each finger. Deeper. Deeper.

And all Quin could do was lie there, mouth open, unable to scream any more.

Then the steel had ground against the delicate bones of her fingers until she could move them no more.

But worse than the pain, and worse than the dream-knowledge that her hand was useless, was Alora’s pleasure at it all.

When she’d opened her eyes, none of that was real. At least not at that moment. She still lay in Atesh’s bed, his arm around her waist. Her heart hurt from pounding so hard against her ribs and sleep was far, far away. She could wriggle her bandaged hand, though the pain made her gasp. She could move it – the uselessness had been a trick of the dream.

She’d blinked it away and tried to creep from the bed without waking Atesh, but with a breath his green eyes had opened, fixing on her before he smiled and pulled her close.

They hadn’t spoken much as he’d helped her start to dress, holding out her chemise, lacing her stays.

Or at least he’d helped her halfway dressed before they’d both ended up naked again – this time not even on the bed, but against the wall.

Gloriously. Wildly. Indecently.

Eventually, she’d managed to leave, but only an improper amount of time after she’d first arrived.

That might have been days ago, but it still brought a smile to her face as she glanced up at the violet-blue sky. She ducked into a tack room where she’d hidden an outfit. A quick glance confirmed no one was around to spot her change amongst the harness and saddles and stow her sellsword gear in a basket. Minutes later, she emerged, striding back out onto the street as a lady of fashion.

A few more corners and she was home. Her mind, though, was still back in Atesh’s chambers.

Tonight would be her first time seeing him since then.

Fine, maybe she had been avoiding him. Maybe. But would things be strange between them? They hadn’t been awkward when she’d said farewell. Things had been good. Hadn’t they?

She’d stayed away because if she returned, the best-case scenario was losing herself in his arms for many more hours, even if she only intended a brief visit. And she had far too many responsibilities for that.

She strode up the steps to the front door of 7 Neorion Square and let herself in, still smiling. It was time to get ready to see Atesh. She sighed and leant back on the door, eyes closed for a moment.

“You look tired.”

Quin opened one eye. “Always so diplomatic, Derry.”

“Well, you do.” Derry cocked her head, a faint smile on her lips, turning apologetic as her face screwed up, shadowing her blue eyes. “Afraid I’ve got something to show you that won’t make you feel much better.”

2

Creative Accounting

“Really? Can’t it wait?” Quin pushed away from the door and sighed. “No, better to get it over with, whatever it is.”

Derry nodded and led the way up to the haven. Ariston was already there, greying hair glinting in the candlelight from the candelabra on the table. He bent over the hefty ledger that marked out their income and outgoings, albeit in coded terms – it wouldn’t do to have their thefts spelt out in a book, the perfect evidence of their crimes.

This required the pair of them. Must be bad.

“I do love a bit of accounting before a ball,” Quin said, raising an eyebrow at. “Though I prefer it before bed – it does help me sleep.”

“Well, it should be keeping you awake.” Derry scowled her way down the figures as if she could will them into compliance with her gaze. “You understand what this all means, don’t you?”

Lots of red numbers.

“That we’re in trouble?” Quin sighed. “I did have to keep this all straight without your help once you know?”

“Yes, but I saw your books back then, they were …” Derry glanced at Ariston, who shrugged one shoulder and studiously avoided Quin’s gaze.

Quin bristled. “They were what?”

Derry flicked back a couple of pages in the ledger. “Look, our problems start here.” She tapped a column of black figures and a column of red numbers. “Bits and pieces coming in, but money is going out as if we’d had a good haul.”

“And we’ve not had one of those in a year.” Ariston straightened his back and stretched his arms up to the ceiling with an audible pop. He half-groaned half-sighed.

“You’ve been at this a while, then?” Quin pursed her lips at the accusatory red numbers staring up from the ledger. “What about –”

“Pickpocketing doesn’t count,” Derry said.

“Housebreaking isn’t enough,” Ariston said at the same time.

Derry nodded. “They keep things ticking over, but –” she glanced at Quin and back to the ledger – “we can’t keep this place up and look after your mum and give all this money to the –”

“No.” Quin slapped the table, hands stinging on the smooth wood. Derry couldn’t be serious. “No, we’re not giving that up. All of this is for them.”

“Quin,” Derry said, voice firm and low, “as soon as the money comes in, we’re giving it away again.”

“They need it.” Quin pursed her lips. “Compared to them –”

“We have nothing to worry about” – Derry sighed – “I know, I know.”

“Well,” Ariston added, raising an eyebrow, “except that we could all be hanged for what we’re doing. Other than that small detail, we have nothing to worry about.”

“That and the bills,” Quin said. “But all this was bought on account weeks and weeks ago, months for some of it – it can wait until the morning.”

Derry winced, sharing a look with Ariston that said it couldn’t wait.

That wasn’t good. Swallowing, Quin looked from one to the other. “What?”

“The draper’s husband came to collect on their invoice today,” Ariston said. “I managed to defer them with a few zeri and the explanation that you were out – they’re coming back next week.”

A week. If the authorities got involved, other creditors would hear. It would trigger a chain reaction.

She frowned at the worrying amounts of red ink. So much bought on account. Usually, they’d be gone by the time the bills were due, just like when she’d ‘bought’ Derry in Venetia – they’d completed their con and skipped town before the slaver could collect payment. It served him right for dealing in human flesh.

But she didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

She sighed. “How much is left on the invoice?”

Derry tapped one of the rows with a red number beside it. “Five zeri on that one.”

But there were others. Lots of others.

Quin pursed her lips. “Our position is untenable.”

Derry tapped her fingernails on the book. “We need a new mark.”

Quin’s eyes jerked to Derry’s. “We have a mark.”

“No, we had one. Now you have a paramour, and we have no new project lined up.”

“I –” But she couldn’t say it. Her sole purpose in returning to Arianople had indeed been meeting, conning, and stealing from him. But now, to con Atesh? Her stomach knotted.

And a different mark? The knotting tightened, sending bile to the back of her throat.

No, even thinking of flirting or seducing her way to another man’s fortune was unbearable.

Ariston sighed. “The shop is a decent business, but it’s only just getting back up and running after Dethero. So we can’t rely on that.”

“And most will go towards paying Red and Ela.” Quin sighed and nodded.

Through an attorney, they’d discovered Dev had somehow thought it a great idea to leave her his half of the pawnbroker’s.

Bloody hells, what use did she have for a shop?

It was Ariston’s bright idea to ask Red and Ela to manage the place, and he’d persuaded Red to accept. Quin had kept away – charity was a sore subject for Red and taking a job from her would have made it charity in her book. That had left Ariston free to carry on with his regular work when he wasn’t showing the sisters the ropes of managing the place. Eventually, he’d return to being a silent partner as he had with Dev.

“Much as I hate to say it” – Ariston gave an awkward cough – “we rely on the long con – the many gentlemen you charm. But,” he went on, raising his hand at the objections before Quin gave them voice, “we always knew that couldn’t last forever. We just never got around to arranging an alternative. I suppose we always thought it would last longer than this.”

Until either they were caught or she grew too old to be a suitable lure. With the former, that would have been a permanent end, so there was no need for a further plan, and with the latter, they would have gathered a suitable retirement fund to keep them all for years to come. And it had all been ruined by … whatever it was she was doing with Atesh.

Derry nodded, then fixed her blue eyes on Quin. “So, what now?”

Ariston watched her too.

So, this was still her decision. Even though she’d destroyed their plan, they still wanted her to come up with the next one.

Such trust. Such responsibility. Such duty.

Squaring her shoulders, she stared at the ledger a long while. Black and red. Money in and money out. More than she’d ever dreamed of as a child.

Her mother had spent years preparing: planning, teaching, training her to become this thief. How on earth was she meant to come up with a new plan late on a Monday afternoon?

She glanced around at the broken jewellery cases, the snuff boxes, the painting of her mother on the wall as if the answer might be sat here waiting.

Perhaps it was – the haven housed the items they hadn’t been able to sell because they were too hot, too recognisable, too dangerous to attempt to fence, but they’d taken some of this stuff years ago. “There must be something up here we can sell by now – something people will have forgotten about.”

Derry opened her mouth, but Ariston clicked before she could speak, brows raising as he suddenly grinned. “The things you took from the Sultan’s dressing room.”

“Ah! Perfect!” She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s been a while, and with Erdem proven guilty, the city’s calmed down.”

“Exactly.” He nodded, fetching the pouch from the drawer she’d shoved it in after Dev had declined to buy it from her. “I’ll put the feelers out with my contacts, try for a quick sale. That’ll keep us going for a little while.”

“I know it’s only a temporary measure.” Quin sighed. “It’ll do for now – buy us time to give it some real thought.”

“Very well,” said Derry. She hefted the ledger shut with a satisfying thud. A temporary close on that problem, at least. “Anyway, why are you so late?”

“It’s a little bit of a story,” Quin said, turning for the door, “and I need to get ready for this ball. You can come, and we’ll talk while I get ready.” The three of them filed down to the first-floor dressing room where Quin disappeared behind the screen. As she undressed, she told them about the murder in the Gutter Streets.

With Derry’s help, she pulled on shoes and silk stockings, tying them at her thighs with gleaming silver-grey ribbon. Would Atesh be helping remove those later that night? Her belly fluttered and heat spread through her. With any luck, yes.

“So, another one then?” Ariston called from where he’d stationed himself in the doorway.

“Seems there have been a few recently,” Derry said. “I heard talk of one when I was going to Reyhan’s last month. Sounded bad – throat cut so deeply, it had almost severed her head.” She circled around Quin, straightening her chemise and stays before tugging the laces.

“Her? This was a woman, too – worked as a professional.” Quin chewed her lip. “Two dead women in the Gutter Streets. Is that a pattern, or –”

“Three,” Derry grunted, tying off the laces. “I heard there was another. So at least three.”

“Hmm.” Quin shifted in her stays, letting her body settle into them before helping Derry with hers. “A pattern or is it that everyone’s noticed now the Sultana’s murder has been resolved?” She cocked her head, the laces of Derry’s stays biting into her fingers as she tightened. Pausing, she checked in with Derry, who wriggled and then nodded.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Ariston said, “rumour, hearsay, even a spot of hysteria, all run rampant in the Gutter Streets – hells, in Arianople in general.”

Derry turned Quin round and helped her pull on the first layer of midnight blue petticoats. The silk whispered like a fourth voice in the conversation. “This city does love a rumour. But then again, doesn’t every city?”

Quin combed her fingers through her hair in preparation for Derry dressing it. “Three in a couple of months or so.” She screwed up her face in thought, an expression Lady Sabia would never wear. “It’s terrible, yes, but is someone stalking the Gutter Streets, targeting women or is it a coincidence? I’m not sure.”

“Either way,” Ariston said, “it’s a danger to the very people we’re trying to help.”

The Gutter folk. Her people, once upon a time. The people she’d pledged her life, herself, to helping. Typically through money, but maybe any problem for them was a problem for her. She nodded slowly, exhaling through her nose. “Very well, let’s all keep our ears open, ask around, start seeing if we can get a bit more information. Hopefully, then we’ll learn whether there’s something to this or just a couple more deaths than usual.”

Though one death – no, one murder, was one too many.

Gods, she was meant to be preparing for a ball. Facing society. Facing Atesh. Murder was not setting her up for witty banter and flirtation or even a spot of light pick-pocketing. She closed her eyes and scrubbed her hands over her face.

Tonight. That’s what she needed to focus on.

Running her fingers over the gown hanging up, she nodded to herself. Tonight.

She’d chosen the ensemble in midnight blue in reference to the drapes around his bed. Surely he’d understand what it meant. No regrets.

She’d already worn it to a party last month, but the brooches laid out on her dressing table, if artfully arranged, would help disguise the fact. Together with a swathe of sheer silver net draped and layered with skirts, no one would think back to the plain blue gown they’d seen her in before.

And tonight was important, not only because of her sparkling anxiety at seeing Atesh. It would be his first time back into society since being hanged for his cousin’s murder – that it was a wrongful hanging had made it all the more dramatic an event and had left tongues wagging even now, a week later. Tonight, all eyes would be on him. And by extension her.

She shifted in her stays as they warmed and moulded to her body. In turn, her body settled to the form of their restriction.

To be at his side invited and required the endurance of many pairs of eyes upon them. Hopefully, they’d find some time to themselves.

Sighing, she shook her head. “Murders and recycled ballgowns,” she murmured. How things had changed in a couple of months.

“What’s that?” Derry asked, holding out the upper part of her gown.

Quin slid her arm in, the silk smooth against her skin. “Oh, just a new set of concerns.” She gave a lopsided smile.

“Well, we are in new territory.” Derry lifted the other sleeve over Quin’s arm and turned her around, hands firm on her shoulders. Together, they pinned the front closed.

“Be careful if you do decide to lift any jewellery or pick any pockets,” Ariston called from the door, “after all we’re not about to stage a swift getaway. People will start noticing a pattern if we stay in town much longer: things going missing every party and ball you attend.”

If. If they were staying. Quin sighed yet again. He had a point. They usually didn’t have to worry so much about covering their tracks, as they always left after a few months. She smoothed her hand down her dress now it was pinned in place. “All the more reason for us to raid the haven and see if there’s anything else it’s now safe to sell.” But however much money they made, it would keep trickling away.

“Less of that sighing,” Derry said and smiled as she squeezed Quin’s shoulders. “Let’s finish getting ready for tonight. At least try to enjoy yourself.”

Enjoy herself. Quin snorted softly and helped Derry pull on and pin her gown in place.

“Lovely,” she said, fluffing up Derry’s petticoats. With that pale skin and red hair, Derry certainly looked different, but even without that exotic factor, she was beautiful. Now, as she flushed pink at the compliment, she was quite stunning.

Yet that paled in comparison to the beauty of the person beneath. Quin was lucky to have such a friend and ally. She kissed Derry on the cheek before sidling around the screen and sitting at the dressing table.

Derry dressed her hair, curling and rolling its length into place, then piling it on top of her head with artfully hidden pins. As Derry worked, Quin spread out the star-shaped brooches – all paste – she had collected. Some she’d pulled from the haven, others from recent hauls, a couple were borrowed from Yildrim. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she pinned them in place on her gown’s bodice, turning an old dress into something new.

To enjoy a ball for herself … that too would be something new.

3

No Regrets

Chandeliers glittered above the sweet spin of dancers, the smiles, the secret glances, all candlelit. Plates of puff pastries and spiced minced lamb tempted passers-by. The string quartet was intent on their work, so rhythmic they could have been made of clockwork. Chattering and peals of laughter accompanied their music.

In the middle of it all, fingers tapping on the crystal punch cup, Atesh sighed. It was getting late, and his head throbbed dully behind his eyes in time with the music, like a fifth musician.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he yanked his pocket watch out by its chain – it was past 9 o’clock already. Perhaps she’d already arrived, and he hadn’t spotted her.

He glanced at the tall clock at one end of the room – his watch was correct. As he looked back, a form strode purposefully in his direction. He winced – a middle-aged woman with her daughter, both incoming. He definitely had important business somewhere in the opposite direction. He drained the punch and strode away, slipping into the throng of people.

He’d had quite enough of that for tonight. Now he was no longer imprisoned for a crime he hadn’t committed, he was back in position as a prize catch for unmarried daughters. Especially those who wished to become pashas.

Perhaps it was his own fault. He hadn’t officially proposed to Quin, so what could they do but wonder at that and think it was little more than idle flirtation while he waited for a woman worthy of marriage. In which case, who better than their little girl?

He gave a deep sigh and refilled his glass, glancing towards the large double doors. They hadn’t opened to admit a new arrival for some time now. Where was she? He bit his lip.

That day in his chambers – gods, that glorious day – he’d been confident in her pleasure, in her regard, in her ease with the decision to lie together.

But she hadn’t returned, and now he had to wonder. She was no maiden, judging by her behaviour and he’d taken lovers in the past, so they were both far beyond that line of virginity, which sometimes people regretted crossing with the wrong person or before marriage.

More fool them – bodies were to be enjoyed, as evidenced by the dancers at the far end of the ballroom, their limbs and smiles loose.

He’d thought she felt the same. Surely she didn’t regret lying with him, even if, irritatingly, the risk to her reputation was greater than to his. A distasteful double standard. Yet she hadn’t visited or written. And now, she hadn’t appeared.

As he passed a man and woman standing inappropriately close together, albeit not touching, he caught their murmured conversation.

“… come tonight?” she asked from behind her glass, dark eyes turned away, but shoulders angled towards her partner.

The man glanced furtively around, and Atesh turned away at once. “Wait at the usual time.”

Lovers. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Quin thought or feared herself just another lover, a passing fling.

Gods, nothing – nothing could be further from the truth. But he hadn’t proposed, so what was she supposed to think? Yes, he’d hinted at marriage, but didn’t scoundrels often use that as a promise to dangle before hopeful ladies and persuade them into compromising positions?

Wincing, he clenched his hand, striding away from the paramours.

He’d never intended anything like that. His hints had been to test the waters, a prelude to a full proposal. But since Zeynab’s murder, it had become a matter of timing. He couldn’t very well have proposed from prison or the gallows.

Since he’d been freed, proven innocent, the matter had grown no easier. If he proposed so soon after his cousin’s death, while the Tulip Throne was still only newly occupied by five-year-old Safira, it would look like he was making a play for power himself. After all, he was next in line after that five-year-old, and if he married and started producing his own heirs, it would appear he was building a stable of his own lineage, ready to support his claim. It didn’t matter that he had no interest in taking the throne, that would be the perception.

He went to the tall windows at the back of the room, overlooking a lamp-lit garden. The shrubs and late roses whipped in the breeze. Clouds hung low, heavy with impending rain. Leaning on the window frame, he sighed.

Did Quin know the sensitivity of the timing? Did she have any idea that was all that was holding him back? He hadn’t told her.

Hundred, what must she think of him? After all, she hadn’t visited him, no, but neither had he visited her or even sent a letter. If she didn’t appear tonight, he would go to her. And whether it was here or at her house, he’d explain. He wanted her to understand, to feel secure. He wanted to marry her.

Gods, he really wanted to marry her. He wanted it for himself, was even excited at the prospect. Marriage had always been a thing to dread. A duty. Now he was within fingertip reach of marrying for – what? Love?

Marriage for love. To someone he respected and admired. Someone who was so much more than the tolerable bride he’d hoped for. If he’d read her right, she would surely say yes. And then he’d have something he hadn’t dared dream of.

In a week he’d gone from the gallows, moments from death to this. The wheel of fortune did indeed turn with dizzying speed.

All he needed to do was explain the matter of timing and the depth of his regard. Despite the knotting of his stomach, he smiled. A risky prospect, perhaps, but one with the potential for the greatest reward imaginable.

“Hurry up and get here, Quin,” he murmured as he turned to resume wandering the ballroom. Still no sign of her.

The men and women he passed looked upon him with curious gazes and often muttered to each other, but few had approached him yet for anything more than a greeting and enquiry as to his health.

He couldn’t blame them. After all, what did one say to a man who’d been publicly hanged last week? There were no recommendations for suitable topics of conversation in any etiquette books he’d read.

His hand went to his side, beneath his jacket, but the comfort of the Shahin blade wasn’t there. He grimaced and pulled out his pocket watch again to give his hand something to do. Cool, smooth, but not the same as the hilt he’d carried most of his life.

He’d opened the dagger’s box when he’d been getting ready this evening, but all he’d seen was blood. The lack of Zeynab, his cousin, his Sultana, his friend, it gnawed at his chest. And the weeks after her death, his time in the Fortress of the Seven Towers, they weren’t yet distant enough to feel like a nightmare. The bruises had mostly faded now, but he’d woken twice in the past week drenched in sweat, the fading image of Mert and Top and their janissary friends fresh in his mind.

And the green glint of the dagger’s hilt flashed all those images right back into his thoughts.

Much as he was used to the emerald dagger, much as its hilt and weight were reassuring in their familiarity, he wouldn’t wear it again. It hadn’t been the blade to take Zeynab’s life, but a forgery of it had, and that was enough to sully it forever.

Biting back a sigh, he paused at the door to the card room and peered in. No surprise at all – Malos was still busy losing at speculation.

Malos. His half-brother. Did he have any idea? Atesh entered, eyeing him.

He’d already played cards earlier, won a little, then grown bored of the game and excused himself. It was considerably less appealing without Quin at his side and their deliberate but apparently accidental brush of hands across the table. She had this knack of losing enough to give the other players hope, to become confident enough to bet a little more in, before she swept the table clean, utterly surprised at the pure luck of the draw.

Luck of the draw indeed.

He narrowed his eyes. It was certainly more than simple luck, but he wasn’t sure what.

If she’d only hurry up and get here, they could play together. He was only too happy to gamble for a while and lose it to her, just to enjoy the show, the times their hands touched and their shared secret smiles.

It felt almost scandalous – even that first time they’d met there had been a spark between them.

And now, well, they’d moved beyond almost scandalous …

He glanced at the gazes turning to him as he approached Malos. Who here knew how far the relationship had gone? That it was far more than flirting and dancing at balls? Had rumours started yet?

“Well at least someone here is happy,” Malos grumbled from his seat, scowling at his hand. “Bring that foolish grin over here and help me, will you?”

No, nothing in his behaviour that suggested he knew they shared a father. Gods, how was he going to tell him? And should he? How would he react? It would inevitably harm their family. Hundred only knew how it might affect Malos’s view of his father. Their father.

As he strolled over, his hand passed over his face in an attempt to hide the weariness.

This was his first time back in society and his first time seeing Quin – that was more than enough to worry about for tonight. The Malos question could wait. The secret had lasted 26 years, it could wait a while longer.

“I can only stop a minute,” he said, pausing at Malos’s shoulder. The other players watched him solemnly. The condemned man. They must be thinking it. “I have a prior engagement in the main ballroom, but I’d hate to see you forget how terrible you are at cards – let this be a useful lesson to you not to gamble so much.”

The spell of solemnity on the rest of the players broke into laughter, and Malos rolled his eyes. Perhaps that was enough reassurance: he was still the same Atesh who’d attended hundreds of balls with them.

Well, perhaps not entirely the same. After all, that man had had little direction other than attending balls and painting pictures.

This one, well, he would make a difference. He had far grander plans for his wealth than losing it in card games.

“Yes,” Malos said, “a prior engagement, eh? I suspect we can all guess what – or rather whom that is.” Throwing a card on the table, he waved Atesh away. “Go, leave me to my financial ruin, my so-called friend and cousin!” He flashed a grin to Atesh before waving him off as if full of rage.

Atesh bowed, smirking back, and turned away with a shake of his head. He would have felt sorry for Malos, if not for the fact he brought it all on himself.

Returning to the ballroom, Atesh completed the circuit he’d started earlier. Rain drummed on the windows, adding percussion to the string quartet. At least that explained this blasted headache – he always got them before heavy rain or a storm. Scowling, he wondered if perhaps Quin wouldn’t come, after all, to avoid the poor weather. Or to avoid him. Gods, he really did need to explain.

But she wasn’t the sort to let a little rain put her off. He’d seen her in a far worse state than rain-drenched.

That day he tried to avoid, swam back into view. He’d crawled from under the scaffold where Derry had checked him over. Slowly, he’d made his way to the stage and had seen her covered in blood, sticky and drying on her grey clothing. Men’s clothing. She’d stood up to the janissaries and the Sultan himself, proclaiming Atesh’s innocence, so sure of it and – most miraculous of all – with proof of it and of Erdem’s.

Rain flung against the window harder at that moment, rapping the glass like a stranger begging for entrance.

He shook his head, frowning out at the blurred dreamscape, the lamps outside little more than yellow spots, lonely in the dark, the pools of light not even touching one another.

That stage he’d stood upon, a rope around his neck, a hood lowering over his gaze, wiping out the last thing he thought he’d ever see. The sea of faces filling Kediler Square, waiting for, wanting his death. He ran his hands over his eyes. They were dry and gritty. However much sleep he tried to have, it wasn’t enough, and every day he awoke still tired.

The double doors at the end of the ballroom opened, footmen either side bowing. That had to be her arriving.

He swallowed, the excitement flipping in his stomach tinged with something closer to dread. This was it. He’d know from her expression if she regretted it. She could hide much, but not something like that – he’d be able to read her.

His face warmed and he took a long breath before side-stepping the crowd of people blocking his view. And there she was, resplendent in midnight blue. His hand went to the lapel of his jacket – the same colour. Silver stars clustered at the neckline of her gown and cascaded down the front, and as she turned her head, searching the crowd, other stars nestled in her hair flashed in the candlelight.

His breath caught as their eyes met and locked. A small smile curved the corner of her mouth, which he returned.

That smile. It was not reserved, but shy. A touch unsure. She’d been worried, too. If she was worried, it meant she cared. Perhaps – probably? – it meant she’d worried he regretted the whole thing or feared that she was the only one who’d felt the rightness of it.

Gods, that feeling had been intoxicating – surety that nothing else mattered at that moment because they were where they belonged: together.

What a fool he’d been – even if he’d not been able to leave the house yet, he should have written to her right away, explained. Well, he would amend his mistake as soon as he had her alone. And however tempting she was, he wouldn’t so much as kiss her until he’d made clear his intentions, assuaged any and all her fears.

The tension in his shoulders dropped, and he willed his feet towards her.

She glided through the crowd, never once taking her eyes from him. Derry walked at her elbow, and he gave her a smile and a faint nod.

He passed a footman with a tray of punch cups, two fewer left on the platter in his wake. As Quin arrived barely a step away from him, he held one cup to her and the other to Derry.

His arms ached to wrap around Quin’s waist and his nose tickled at the thought of burying his face in the blackness of her hair. His lips burned to kiss her again and again. From the way her gaze lingered on his mouth, her thoughts must have been in a similar vein. But he had to be satisfied with the press of her gloved hand as she took the offered drink. His other hand was empty, so Derry must have also taken hers, though his attention had been all upon Quin.

“My thanks, sir,” Quin said and took a sip.

“You are quite welcome, madam.” He gave a mock bow, then nodded to the couples lining up at the centre of the room. “I believe you promised me a dance or two tonight.”

“I have kept you waiting, haven’t I?”

“Much as I hate to reprimand you,” he replied solemnly, “I’m afraid you have.”

She shook her head. “What a beast I am.” She drained her cup. “We’d best get to it, then, hadn’t we?” She glanced to one side, but Derry had already disappeared into the crowd – discreet as always.

He offered his arm, and revelled in the warmth of her hand, before leading her to the dance floor. Gazes followed them, some tinged by frowns of envy. If there had been any doubt, this had to end it. The fact he hadn’t danced at all until her arrival signalled their pairing.

Sure enough, he caught whispers of speculation about the happy event and when it might be. A Shahin family wedding would be the event of the year, perhaps even the decade, second only to the wedding of the Sultana and she wouldn’t be old enough to marry for many years yet.

When they were a mere dozen paces from the dance floor, Quin shot him a look of regret, a low sound of frustration in her throat.

“Pasha,” said a woman’s voice, “Lady Sabia.”

Quin turned and bowed. “Nazli,” she said, smiling, “Danyal, Malos.”

The trio descended upon them and bowed.

Damn it. Intercepted before they could dance. He needed her to himself – he had explaining to do, promises to make.

But society had its demands.

With a smile more jovial than he felt, he bowed.

4

Rumour & Romance

Bloody hells would she never get him to herself?

Quin suppressed a sigh at the sight of Nazli, Danyal, and Malos. At least Malos had the good grace to offer them both a drink.

Despite the usual greetings and niceties, Nazli didn’t look directly at her. Her deep brown eyes went to Atesh, to Quin’s hand on his arm, to a spot somewhere over Quin’s shoulder, but no eye contact at all.

It had been weeks since she’d seen Nazli and she’d forgotten about the shift in behaviour since the elephant attack. She was still stuck on that, then?

Quin bit back a sigh and disguised the twist of her mouth by sipping her pomegranate punch. Was being capable of defending yourself and others in the face of potential death really such a terrible impropriety when that capable person was a woman? Atesh had fought that day and Malos and Danyal, too, and yet here was Nazli asking after Atesh’s health, smiling at him, warm as always.

“Indeed, sir,” Danyal said, “have you recovered your strength yet? I’m sure it’s been quite an ordeal for you.”

Quin managed not to scoff, but did murmur, “I can’t say I noticed any problem with his strength on Wednesday.”

Atesh looked to her so quickly he must’ve almost dislocated his own neck. “Pardon?”

She looked up at him from below lowered lashes, all innocence. “I was merely remarking that you seem in excellent health, considering.” She arched a brow.

“Indeed.” He looked at her a long while, as if unsure what to make of her soft remark, surely only loud enough for him to hear.

“So, some things never change,” Malos said. “Still only eyes for each other.” He rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Really, cousin,” Atesh said, “envy is so unseemly.”

Malos pursed his lips at Atesh and shrugged. “I’m not fool enough to miss the signs that I’ve lost.” He flashed Quin a grin. “I merely pity Lady Sabia, that she’s been taken in by your act and handsome face.”

Atesh laughed and clapped his cousin on the shoulder, and Quin shot Nazli a smile – woman to woman sharing in the joke. At least, that was her intention, but Nazli’s gaze slid over and past her. To her hands, her shoulder, even her hair and the glittering stars adorning it, but never landing on her face or eyes.

Hundred, if Nazli thought the elephant attack so bloody controversial, she’d surely faint if she ever discovered the truth. Aristos! Sometimes it was tempting to give them something to be truly shocked by.

“Yes, yes,” Danyal said, “the Pasha and the Contessa make a lovely couple, everyone knows that.” He gave his own exasperated sigh and lifted his glass as if to wave off such topics. “But I was asking after your health, dear fellow. Good thing that woman turned up and cut you down when she did.”

Not a moment too soon. That woman – did they have any inkling it was her? Her satin gloves hid her injured hand, and she’d had Derry replace the bandages with the thinnest gauze possible. The swelling had gone down considerably, and the pain was no longer unbearable when she moved her fingers. The apothecary Reyhan had told her the stitches could come out in another week, but there would still be a tell-tale scar. If anyone saw that while still fresh with the memory of that woman with a bloody hand, they’d put two and two together.

Atesh nodded and took a sip of his drink. Beneath her hand, his arm tensed and his bodyweight shifted from one foot to the other, the movement so slight as to be imperceptible to casual observation. “I am” – he cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink – “I am much recovered compared to how I was. As you can imagine … Well, jail isn’t known for its hospitality.”

Tension stiffened his jaw, and Quin gave his arm a squeeze. She laughed and patted his hand, which invited the others to follow with their own polite laughter. Was it any surprise he didn’t want to discuss this? There’d still been bruises shading from purple to blue to yellow on his body when they’d slept together. And what about the mental and emotional wounds? She’d had her own nightmares about the men she’d killed and Alora, often morphing into not reaching Atesh in time, finding him dead and –

She shuddered and shook her head. If she’d been so effected, was it any surprise Atesh bore more than visible injuries from his ordeal in the fortress and at the scaffold? Perhaps he would come to talk to her about it when they were alone, but she wouldn’t push him if he wasn’t ready. There were things in life that talking about could do no good. And other things in life that talking about helped, but only if that talking happened at the right time.

“Indeed, sir,” Nazli said, once the polite laughter had faded and the silence had grown uncomfortable. Her dark eyes stared up at Atesh, wide and soft as if he were a victim to be pitied. The sight made Quin’s stomach squirm and sent Atesh’s jaw knotted again. “What was it like in there?”

“What –” Atesh shook his head. He took a breath, opened his mouth, closed it again and then took another sip of his drink. “Well – I – it – it’s …” He frowned and drained his glass.

“I’m sure it was quite dull,” Quin said with a quick smile. She squeezed his arm again before going on, “Let’s not bore everybody with that, we’ve both been out of society much too long. You simply must tell us what has been happening, all the latest gossip and intrigues.”

Again Nazli didn’t look directly at her.

Atesh closed his eyes, gave a soft sigh, then glanced at Quin with a tight smile. His arm softened beneath her hand. “Indeed, I’m sure there’s much for me to catch up on and I’m sure Malos has all the latest tittle-tattle.”

Between Malos, Nazli, and Danyal they filled her and Atesh in on Malos’s forthcoming masquerade, set to be the most scandalous event of the year. When she’d first returned to Arianople, she’d heard rumours of orgies and wild debauchery at Malos’s annual masquerades – the prospect of attending one was most intriguing. How far were the stories from reality?

Then the conversation turned toward more general gossip: gambling debts, duels fought and lost, various affairs continued, gone sour, or newly begun. This gentlewoman pregnant by a man other than her husband. Some fellow caught dashing from his mistress’s bedroom as her husband arrived home, only to find his own wife waiting at home, arms folded. That person out-of-favour with some agha after uninviting him from their ball.

All kinds of gossip, all of it about court and aristocrats, and the city’s eastern districts, but not a word of murders in the Gutter Streets. Indeed, not a word of the Gutter Streets at all. As if the place didn’t even exist.

Quin bit the inside of her cheek. Did that mean there was no pattern to the murders? Or simply that these people didn’t know or care? She’d have to check with Derry later whether she’d found a similar lack of interest.

“Quin?” All eyes were upon her. Atesh had his head cocked, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, pardon?”

“I suggested that these three allow us to escape to the dancefloor, where we were originally heading if you recall?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

“I’m sure you’re keen to, er” – Malos arched an eyebrow wickedly at Atesh – “stretch your legs.” He cleared his throat theatrically.

“Malos!” Nazli swatted her fan at him. Her nose grew pink, and her eyes kept to the floor.

Malos and Danyal laughed, and Atesh shook his head, depositing his empty glass on a nearby table and doing the same with Quin’s. “Come along, madam,” he said, “let’s get away from such uncouth company.”

Quin laughed and walked away with him. Dancing was a bit closer to being alone. They sidled through the crowd arm in arm, with the usual nods from Atesh, although no one approached them, as though they were still unsure of his position or unwilling to engage him directly. At least it gave them the chance to walk unmolested, such a rarity with him.

“… I’m just saying I’m surprised she’s come back to pursuing him, is all.”

Quin faltered in her step. Could that be – no, surely not. Although, something about the tone, the slightly hushed way it was said …

Atesh paused, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow. Quin frowned before glancing around to find –

“Well, I thought his time in jail might have put her off. That mark around his neck is still visible, you know.”

Yes, definitely about her and Atesh. Quin stood stock-still, breath held, tongue clamped between her teeth.

“Well, his fortune hasn’t faded in the slightest, Meryem.” A second speaker. Two young women by the fireplace. One arched an eyebrow. “Besides, you seem to talk about him enough – if you weren’t put off by his hanging, why do you think she would be?”

Meryem huffed, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Well, she wasn’t even there to see it.” She placed her hand on her chest. “I was at the front, begging the Hundred to send someone to save him. Why, if that masked woman hadn’t appeared, I was about to –”

Her friend silenced her with a nudge, eyes wide upon Quin and Atesh.

Quin quickly turned, angling Atesh from them. She wouldn’t let them see they’d bothered her. “I thought they’d have found something new to occupy themselves with by now.”

She tried to lead him away, but he paused, body leaning towards the two women, lines between his brows, jaw knotted yet again. “Put off? It’s not as though she visited me in the fortress. The hypocrite.” He strained towards them. “I should go and –”

“And do nothing. Leave them be. Let them think me an empty-headed heiress who abandoned you at your greatest need. It’s safer for me.”

“I – I suppose not.” He sighed. “You know, if we were married, it would silence a lot of the gossips.” He looked at her sidelong.

Quin scoffed softly. “If you think they’re gossiping now…” Wait until they discover what I am. She shook her head. This was his first night back in society after the Fortress of the Seven Towers, the beatings, the trial, the attempted execution. She needed to be fun, light-hearted, not heavy. “Oh,” she said, tossing her head as if affronted, “so you want to marry me to silence the gossips? Be still my beating heart!”

The tease faded from his expression, even as she gave him a grin. His face dropped, stricken. “Oh, Hundred, no. That’s so far from what I meant.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you understand: I want to marry you, and in earnest, I’m saying it, because – well, isn’t it obvious?”

She froze, looking at him with mouth open. What was he about to –

“Quin,” he said, turning to stand directly before her with full, unbreaking eye-contact, “I love you.”

She breathed only very softly. Love. He loved her. That was meant to be – well, they wrote novels about this sort of thing. But she couldn’t – she didn’t – what was she supposed to say or do or –

Her breaths were quick and shallow in her throat as she pulled her hand from his arm. No, he couldn’t – he had no idea. He didn’t know her, didn’t know her past – he didn’t know anything. How could he say –

She shook her head and backed away.

“Quin?” He edged closer, but she shook her head again and turned, making for the nearest exit – a set of doors leading to the garden.

* * *

The slip of paper shook in Derry’s hand. No, it was her hand shaking, wasn’t it? She bit her lip and drew a long breath.

She’d been moving through the crowd, pausing to join in conversations here and there, but generally remaining untethered, listening for news of the Gutter Street murders.

There’d been plenty of news. An earthquake to the south-east in Angora – lives lost. Parthia’s king sending a new ambassador, perhaps in efforts to secure a betrothal to his eldest son – what would that mean? Two nations united? Or Parthia attempting to absorb Thanatolia or … something else?

But nothing about murders in the Gutter Streets. In fact, nothing about the Gutter Streets at all.

And then a young lady had pressed the note into her hand, smiled, and retreated into the crowd.

Derry unfolded the slip of paper again. The writing was a sleek cursive, without extra loops or twirls that many fashionable women used. Elegant, restrained.

I’m in the small parlour at the end of the hall. The door is shut.

I’m most keen to see you there. T

That T could only be Tacita.

It wasn’t as though a woman sending another woman a brief note was anything dangerous or scandalous. So, why had her fingers knotted into the piece of paper, crumpling it?

She swallowed, rooted to the spot near the door leading into the hall.

Tacita wasn’t even supposed to be in the city. She’d told Derry she’d be away on business for some weeks, perhaps even a month or two. And yet it wasn’t much more than a week since they’d last met.

She chewed her lip. Why was she frozen in place? Tacita was her friend. What possible reason could she have for not going? She was being bloody ridiculous.

Sighing, she shook out the stiffness from her hand and looked for Quin – returning to her would be a comfort. There, halfway down the room. She stood on Atesh’s arm, the pair of them speaking to Malos and his friends. She’d talked to Derry late last night about her fear of facing Atesh again. To see her now, it was hard to believe she feared anything.

That was it. Derry nodded.

It was like fear, the way it flickered in her belly, but it was closer to anxiety.

No, that still wasn’t quite right.

Quin said something to the group, a small smile on her mouth. Atesh’s eyes widened and the look they shared, private, conspiratorial, screaming how much they wanted to be alone, hit the pit of Derry’s stomach.

That was why.

She didn’t fear seeing Tacita alone, she wanted to. The woman was beautiful, charismatic, not a little mysterious, much like Quin. She was an unknown and perhaps all the more intriguing for it.

It wasn’t anxiety flipping in her belly, but excitement. The two could feel so alike – chills, a knotted stomach – no wonder she’d wanted to turn away.

She took a breath, slipped the note into her pocket, and strode into the hallway. A footman stood at the door, helping a middle-aged lady with her cloak. Perfect, he was distracted.

Derry stole down the hallway in the opposite direction. At the end, a tall mahogany door indeed stood shut. The dark wood gleamed in the candlelight from a candelabrum on a teak sideboard. The deep red-brown of the mahogany was a perfect match to Tacita’s hair. Derry’s step faltered, but she screwed her hands into tight fists and willed herself forward.

No need to be a coward about this. Excitement, not fear. Next to the candelabrum stood a large vase of chrysanthemums, the round white blooms bright in the dull decor of the hall. She paused and took a long breath, but they had no scent.

Pretty, complex, pure white, but they gave off no pleasant scent like roses or night-blooming jasmine.

“Have a good evening, madam,” the footman called out the front door, shaking rain off the umbrella. “Safe journey.”

He’d finished helping the guest to her carriage. Distraction over. She had to stop stalling. Derry swallowed and pushed the door open, slipping in and closing it behind her.

Only a handful of candles were dotted around the small room, leaving it almost gloomy, but there Tacita was.

Her red-brown hair shone in that scant candlelight as she looked up from the settee next to the fire. She wore a pleated-backed gown of scarlet silk, with bows tying it loosely closed in the front – more a garment for wearing at home, than in public. And Tacita was usually so immaculately tailored. Peculiar. And yet the cut suited her, and her assured smile was as charming as usual.

She rose from the settee, with a wince, her movements stiff, her usual elegance slowed, but she crossed the space towards Derry.

Back to the door, chest tight, Derry paused. This was someone’s private space, somewhere intimate. With the drapes drawn, warm embers in the fireplace, and those few candles, it was cosy and comforting, and the closest Thanatolian houses got to homely. And yet her heart fought to escape her chest.

“Ah, she found you,” Tacita said, holding her hand out. “Although you do rather stand out, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Derry scoffed. “I’m not sure anyone could miss this hair.”

“It’s not the hair that makes you stand out.” Tacita raised her eyebrows before glancing down at her hand still in midair.

Derry’s face grew warm – thank the gods for the break in eye contact, she must have been as red as Tacita’s outfit. Did she always have to make a fool of herself around this woman who was the height of elegance? Or at least she usually was. She took Tacita’s hand to shake, but Tacita gently turned her grip, making the breath catch in Derry’s throat.

With agonising slowness and a questioning raise of her eyebrows, as if asking permission, Tacita lifted Derry’s hand. For her part, Derry could only watch. Perhaps she should have stopped her, but her hand was soft and inviting and irresistible.

At last, the warmth of Tacita’s full lips brushed across her knuckles. Breathless, Derry leant close – she certainly hadn’t meant to – and as Tacita dropped her hand, she gave a little sigh, the velvet touch of her skin suddenly lost.

Tacita glanced up at her and away again. Was she anxious too? That would be a new one from this woman who seemed so confident at all times.

Derry smiled, but Tacita’s gaze remained lowered, and her thumb rubbed against the tips of her fingers. Yes, perhaps anxious. Wonders would never cease.

“It’s good to see you,” Derry said and at last Tacita’s gaze returned to hers.

She smiled, a little sigh, as if of relief coming from her lips. “Indeed! You are?” She nodded. “Then I’m glad to hear it.” She stepped away and lowered herself back onto the settee again, face screwing up for a moment. “Won’t you join me?” She gestured to the seats arranged around the low coffee table.

Derry looked from one armchair to the other and then to the remaining space on the settee. Excitement, not fear. She took a deep breath and sat next to Tacita.

Tacita’s gown rustled as she turned to Derry, a smile upon those full lips. “How the devil are you? It feels an age since I last saw you.”

Did that mean Tacita had missed her? It hadn’t been so long, and yet Derry’s thoughts had turned to Tacita in little moments of quiet – waiting for a retort to heat in Reyhan’s workshop, finding herself distracted from a book and staring out the window, even on the carriage ride here. Was it such a mad idea to hope Tacita had done the same?

Derry took a long breath and smiled. “Thank you, I am in excellent health, but I noticed you wincing as you sat. You’re hurt. What’s wrong?” She nodded to the perfectly tied bows running down Tacita’s front.

“Ah, so you spotted that, then?” Tacita pursed her lips. “As I was leaving the city on my way to do the business we spoke about last time we met, I was thrown from my sabrecat.” She sighed sharply. “I suppose it’s my own fault for riding rather than using a coach.”

“From your cat?” Derry’s hand twitched, for a second reaching as though to check a patient, but Tacita wasn’t a patient, and Derry wasn’t here as an apothecary.

“Much as I’m embarrassed to admit it. We weren’t too far from the city, thankfully, as I landed on an iron-shod wheel that had been abandoned on the side of the road. The cut was enough to turn me back. I sent some letters and an aide to see to the business I’d intended to do elsewhere. And so I’ve returned.” She gestured as if presenting herself.

“Have you – are you very injured?” Derry leant closer, hands straining in their wish to feel for breaks, stitch any cuts, smooth balm across her skin. Gods, this was not the time or place – Tacita was a lady and Derry was supposed to be here as a lady’s companion. That was all. Her cheeks burned, forcing her to look away.

Tacita shifted on the settee, rocking Derry’s end of the seat very slightly. “My apothecary and surgeon both had a look. Just some stitches and some bad bruising. I’d say my pride is injured worst of all, but I’m sure that will heal in time, and so too will my business. They’ve given me a poultice to draw out the bruise, and I’ve been instructed to take part in no strenuous activity nor wear tightly laced stays.” She sighed. “And so here I am tucked away, not able to dance at a ball. I didn’t want to turn down my friend’s invite, that’s the only reason I’m here at all. But as you see, I can’t even wear full dress, so I’ve hidden away in this dark little parlour all alone.”

“All alone?” Derry raised an eyebrow.

“Well, very thankfully, not so alone now. Will you stay and entertain me, if only for a little while?”

“I’m sure Lady Sabia won’t miss me if I’m not too long.” She had to get back out there and dig for more information on the Gutter Street murders – after all, this was work, not pleasure. More’s the pity.

Tacita’s teeth gleamed as she smiled. She leant close, her warmth reaching Derry’s bare forearms. Derry shifted in her seat, swallowing. Tacita’s dress wasn’t appropriate for a ball. If she wasn’t wearing stays, then beneath this gown, she wore nothing at all, perhaps only a chemise. Derry glanced away. Back home wearing so few layers and the lack of stays would be the norm and yet here, it was practically scandalous.

Gods, when had Thanatolia and its stiff customs become her new norm?

She mustn’t think of the soft skin beneath Tacita’s clothes and all their closeness on this settee.

After a long breath, she asked Tacita whether she’d returned to town in time for Atesh’s hanging. That was a safe topic of conversation.

Well, a less personal one at least.

Tacita had returned before the execution, though she’d been too injured to attend. She had, of course, heard of all the dramatic events upon the scaffold that day. “And what does the Pasha’s near-miss mean next?”

Good question. But she had to give the lady’s companion response, the response for a real contessa’s companion. “Well, of course, Lady Sabia is greatly relieved that the Pasha’s innocence has been proven beyond all doubt. She was quite beside herself while he was imprisoned.” What else was safe to say? “You might have noticed that she entirely withdrew from society. Lady Sabia holds justice in quite the highest esteem – she believes in fairness in all things. That’s why she freed me, you see. Indeed, she wants to see an end to that entire trade – I believe that’s why she likes Thanatolia so much, and –”

“Yes, yes,” Tacita said, a sigh blowing through her words, fingers rising in a dismissive wave.

Derry blinked, swallowing back the rest of her speech – had she not been convincing enough? What if Tacita suspected Quin’s involvement with saving Atesh?

Tacita shook her head. “Lady Sabia wants this, wants that, wants the Pasha. But I’m not speaking to Lady Sabia: from the way you’ve gone on, anyone would think I was. I’m speaking to you. What do you want, Miss Derry Bowyer?”

“What do I –” With an exhale, she nodded. She had just gone on about Quin and her feelings and plans and wants, hadn’t she?

But they had important work to do – not that she could tell Tacita about stealing from the rich to give to the Gutter Streets.

And she owed Quin her life. She hadn’t repaid that debt. Not yet.

More than all of that, though, Quin and Ariston were family. And Livia, too, despite her illness. Growing up, she’d been made to feel different, odd. She loved books and ideas and stories, and those things were not part of the Varangian way. It had never felt like home. With Quin, Ariston, and Livia, she belonged.

“Lady Sabia saved my life,” she said carefully, this was treacherous ground, a misstep could reveal far too much, “I owe her a great debt.”

“I’m glad she did, but that life is still your own. However, it seems to revolve around Lady Sabia. Perhaps you’ve dedicated too much of it to the Contessa – understandable, after all, she is such a … charismatic woman.” A frown flickered across her brow. Was Tacita jealous? Perhaps she thought Derry was more to Quin than merely a lady’s companion and friend. But then the expression was gone, replaced with a faint smile. “You give perhaps a little too much. And she gladly takes it. Wasn’t she meant to have freed you from slavery? It sounds as though she uses you as though you were her slave.”

Quin’s slave? “No, no.” They were friends, the closest of friends. But she couldn’t explain it all, could she? They were meant to be lady and lady’s companion, friendly, perhaps even confidants, but with Derry playing the companion, she was not an equal. From the outside and with a potential case of jealousy, was it any wonder Tacita thought that? “It’s not like that.”

“I’m sorry” – Tacita shut her eyes and shook her head – “that was insensitive of me. Of course you’d want to defend Lady Sabia – I’m sure she’s been very good to you, and I mean her no offence. It’s only that ladies like her – and perhaps like me – well, I am afraid we are wont to see our employees as tools at our disposal. I’m sure I’m guilty of it. My butler, poor Mr Karga, appears as soon as I ring a bell – he seems more djinni than man.”

Derry smiled. Joke aside, from that angle, Tacita’s words almost made sense, even in the unusual circumstances of the Sabia household. Perhaps Quin sometimes forgot that she was only playing the part of the lady of the house. And perhaps Derry did look to her for direction and fulfil her wishes more often than she did her own. She tugged her lip.

Tacita placed a hand on her own chest. “I have to remind myself that Mr Karga is a man with friends and family and a life of his own. I’m sure Lady Sabia realises you are, too. I certainly do. I’m sorry I’ve said it in such a clumsy way, but all I mean is that I would consider it a great favour if you were to consider yourself more often and give some thought to my question. Whatever answer you come up with, I’ll be only too glad to assist, if I can.”

What did she want? The excitement that had twisted in her belly at the prospect of seeing Tacita had faded. Beneath that, beneath her elegant gown, beneath everything else, an ever-present knot tightened. Just the thought of it conjured the foul smell of infected flesh, the dark of a ship’s hold, hot and stinking with too many bodies close together and bilge water below.

Her stomach roiled, and she closed her eyes. It was a long time ago, but she couldn’t escape that failure. If she could learn enough, do enough good, save enough lives, that would one day loosen the knot, maybe even unfasten it. Wouldn’t it?

“I hope I’ve not distressed you,” Tacita said, hand resting on Derry’s shoulder.

She swallowed the sick feeling in her belly and took a long breath. Smiling, she opened her eyes. “I was only thinking. Thank you for your concern for me and your offer of help.”

“Well, speaking of assistance, I’m sorry to so abruptly turn the subject, but I meant to speak to you about some disturbing news from the western part of the city.”

It might have been abrupt, but it was a welcome change of subject. The western part of the city – an aristo’s euphemism for the Gutter Streets. Could Tacita mean the murders? She’d heard no other mention at the ball so far. But how did that relate to assistance?

“I understand there have been” – Tacita cleared her throat delicately – “several distressing crimes in the Thirteenth District.”

That had to be the killings. Derry was meant to be out amongst the guests, mingling, casually enquiring about those murders, but hadn’t Tacita brought them up? Technically, staying here was following the only lead she’d heard at the ball. And, besides, wasn’t Quin out there enjoying herself with Atesh?

What do you want? Right now, it was to stay here with Tacita.

Tacita shifted and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook. “And although it’s a different district, I simply hate the thought of you making your way west to the Crossed Keys alone if you wish to contact me.” She drew a tiny pencil from its spine and quickly wrote a few lines on a page. She tore it out before folding it and handing it to Derry. “Here. My address.” She held Derry’s gaze, but her smile slowly faded. “In case you should ever wish to write to me. Or need my assistance.”

Damn it. She had to be thinking about the fact Derry had only gone to her at their last meeting because she wanted something. She’d tried to explain at the time, but now it felt woefully inadequate. Tacita’s gaze slid away from Derry’s to examine her nails.

“Yes, the last time we met.” Derry winced. What were the right words? “I – I owe you an apology for that evening.” She rubbed her fingertips over the knuckles where Tacita had kissed them in greeting. “I didn’t intend to only come to you because I needed something, but I was desperate and” – she chewed her lip – “although I needed your help, I also wanted to see you. For your own sake.” She chanced a look back at Tacita.

Her bearing was always aristocratically perfect, and yet somehow at this, her back seem to straighten all the more. A restrained smile curved the corner of her lips. She leant closer, only an inch or two, but at this distance, it was impossible to not be keenly aware of it, of her, of the scent of ginger and sandalwood.

“Derry, thank you,” Tacita said, “you have no idea how much that means to me. Perhaps I misjudged, and you are still capable of pursuing something you want.” Her teeth flashed in an amused grin, then she straightened her face and came closer still. “You know, there’s no shame in wanting to see me.” The intensity of her gaze now she’d dropped the grin was far too much, dark and burning.

Derry’s looked to her hands, pressed against her lap. She’d admitted wanting to see Tacita, and in the context of their odd relationship, it had to be clear that she didn’t only mean as a friend. After all, hadn’t Tacita mentioned having an interest in her?

Tacita’s fingertips brushed her chin, implacable but gentle as they lifted until Derry met her eyes.

“I don’t feel ashamed,” Derry said, voice coming out husky. “I just – I’m not used to it. At risk of mentioning L – her again, you know how I came here, how I came to be a lady’s companion. Being enslaved makes you somewhat …” How to explain it? She took a long breath that shook in her throat.

Tacita raised her eyebrows. “Closed?”

Derry released a breath and nodded. Perhaps Tacita understood. After all, didn’t she so often escape the crowds at parties and balls, hiding away on her own? She might have a different reason, but she seemed to hold herself apart from others, too. “No one comes close to me for my sake, only for her. Until now that’s been the way I’ve liked it.”

“Until now?” Tacita’s fingers lowered from her chin.

But Derry retained her gaze. Courage. They were so close, she could see each eyelash and the flecks in her eyes, so dark they were almost black. She could pull away now. Propriety dictated she should.

Tacita licked her lips. “Does that mean you’re perhaps ready to allow someone other than her closer to you?”

Derry’s chest drummed with her heavy heartbeat. Her fingers tingled. Part of her wanted to withdraw from Tacita’s warmth and the touch of her breath against her lips.

But she didn’t want that part to win. That part was a coward that had held her back, had left her with only Quin, Livia, Ariston, and Reyhan for friends. And now Quin had Atesh.

And all the gods damn it, she didn’t want to pull away. Not really.

“I think that I am,” she murmured and leant forward perhaps a quarter of an inch, but that quarter of an inch was an invitation.

Had she read the situation wrong? Had she read Tacita wrong? She held her breath, waiting for either confirmation or rejection. What if this wasn’t what she’d meant at all? Her cheeks burned, and her stomach tightened, turning the seconds into hours.

Tacita’s eyes glistened in the candlelight before she closed them, leant forward, and then their lips were pressed together. Gods, she was soft and firm and such a beautiful contradiction it made Derry gasp. Tacita pulled away, eyes wide. “Are you sure you –”

Smiling, Derry nodded and pushed a lock of silken hair from Tacita’s temple. This confident woman could feel fear and doubt, too – who’d have thought? She scoffed gently. “I am. Very.”

In case there was any doubt, she drew Tacita’s mouth back to hers.

5

Rainfall

“Quin?” Atesh called after her retreating form, but she strode onwards.

Damn that woman.

And to hells with politeness. He shouldered past a huddle of people, trying to keep sight of Quin. She disappeared behind a crowd of people, and a low cry came from behind them. He followed the sound. A footman held his tray of glasses high, tilting it expertly to keep the drinks in place. Past that tray, blue night and silver stars disappeared through a door leading to the gardens.

Atesh covered the space in a dozen paces and nodded to the footman. “Good work,” he said, then dodged out the door.

The cold of the courtyard was a splash in the face. He paused in the darkness – the lights must have blown out, and the servants hadn’t relit them. After all, what reason would anyone have to come outside in this weather? The rain had eased off, but the air wasn’t clear and refreshed. It still held the promise of a good drenching.

He squinted, and grey shapes resolved themselves. Just ahead, a deeper darkness beneath an archway. He hurried to her, the wind rushing through the trees and late roses.

“Quin, please don’t run.”

Her shoulders sagged, but she stayed in place. Here they were inches apart, finally alone, and that was all he’d wanted since seeing her arrive. Yet touching her seemed suddenly out of the question. She’d run away from him, as if scared.

Hells, she wasn’t the only one.

“Quin.” His throat was tight on her name, still raspy from the noose. “You have to understand” – his heart pounded so hard it throbbed in every fibre of his body – “I’m terrified.” Her head tilted, but she still didn’t face him. “Here’s this woman who erupted into my life and turned it upside down, pulling my heart from my chest and stealing it for herself. And yet I feel as though all I know of her is a handful of puzzle pieces. I’m not even sure some of them are from the same set.”

She sighed, arms crossing as she curled in upon herself.

“I thought I had my life under control,” he went on into the silence she left, “home and estates in order. In the next year or two, I’d find a tolerable wife who’d leave me free to paint, and we’d have heirs. If I were lucky, we’d find companionship with each other over the years. And if not, then never mind, because I’d never expected anything more. I would grow older, watch Safira and my own children grow up in the world.” He reached for Quin’s shoulder but stopped short of touching her, the distance still too far to cross. His hand balled into a loose fist. “All that’s shattered now. I don’t have any of it under control and never did. It was an illusion. That tolerable life was an illusion. You’ve made me think, perhaps I could have something more. You’ve given me hope for a happy life.”

She flinched.

Flinching? Why on earth would she flinch at such a statement?

Gods, did he have it all wrong? He loved her, thought her saving him and then appearing at his home and their afternoon together in his bed had been a sign that her feelings ran in that direction …

Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

He frowned and inspected the floor, toes scuffing the stone slabs. Perhaps Ferros had been right after all – there was no such thing as love, at least not for the likes of him and that was almost the same thing.

“Why did you save me? Why risk so much?” He swallowed – he hadn’t meant to ask those questions. This was part of what confounded him about the situation. He had friends, family, people who cared for him and had done so for many years, but he’d never expected any of them to risk their lives for him. After little more than a month of knowing him, Quin had done precisely that. But now here she was flinching away from his declaration of love.

He ran a hand over his face, suddenly weary.

“Because,” she said at last – he held his breath as her words cut through his thoughts, “I realised that” – she turned to face him, features shadowed, the barest light glinting in her eyes – “because despite myself, I care for you.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” He bit his lip. Why had he said that? Did he really want to know what she had to say in return, why she might regret it?

“It is,” she said, tilting her head, face catching the dim light from the windows. Her cheeks were pink, not from rouge, but from the cold or her near run out here or perhaps from force of feeling. Her hands shook. “It shames me that I have given myself to you.”

Shamed her? Of all the things she could have said …

When she’d arrived in that outfit, he’d thought it had meant no regrets, but clearly, he’d been an optimistic fool.

He must have looked as stricken as he felt because she gasped and raised her hands. “I’m not ashamed of you. Oh, gods, I’m explaining this badly. It’s just … lying with you is the furthest thing from who I am, what I do. The opposite of my plans and now …”

Hundred, this woman spoke in riddles. What plans? And what did she do that could be so far from their afternoon in his chambers? He swallowed. Perhaps he should have turned away instead of asking.

She shook her head, running shaking hands over her eyes. “I’ll be honest with you right here, right now, but there are some things I cannot say, I cannot tell anyone, even you.” Her chest heaved long and deep as if she fought down panic.

At last, some honesty. And willingly given, not clues he had to pick apart from gestures and slip-ups and the gaps between her words. Leaning closer, he held his breath, intent on what crumbs of truth she might offer. Best to remain quiet and still, lest any movement frighten her away again.

“The things I can tell you … I saved you because I couldn’t bear the thought of you dying.” Her voice broke, and her chin trembled for a moment, but no tears came. “Especially when I had evidence, but I’d missed the trial, and they had Derry …”

What? Did that mean someone had kidnapped Derry to keep her quiet? He frowned, attempting to make sense of her truncated narrative.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t risk her – I … But I also couldn’t risk you, so I decided not to choose. I told myself I could save you both – I had to. I got Derry, but when we returned, Kediler Square was already full.”

He swallowed at the mention of that place, throat tight. He wasn’t there. He was here, his body safe, although perhaps his heart wasn’t. He dipped his chin, willing her on.

“You were already” – she looked away, and her voice grew so quiet he strained to hear it over the dull roar of the windswept leaves – “up there… I thought I’d be sick. I thought I’d failed. I was too late.”

She held her chest, left hand gently curved – she’d been ginger with it all evening. How much did it still hurt? Chin lifting, she returned her gaze to him. “You’re right – what you said in my drawing room the day after the elephant – I have a different set of skills from the usual gentlewoman. But then the usual gentlewoman wouldn’t have laid you when she only meant to visit, either, and I did that because I’m a weak, weak person who can’t keep away from you.”

Her throat bobbed in a swallow. “And while I’m being honest: that was one of the most glorious moments in my entire life.”

The way she looked at him, eyes wide, unblinking.

This was no lie.

His chest thrummed with the force of his heartbeat. The truth from her lips, hard-earned as it was, tasted far sweeter than any other words he’d heard, except perhaps when Ilyas had told him of Safira’s birth.

He clenched his hands to avoid reaching for Quin – their conversation wasn’t over, he couldn’t simply erase all the questions by touching her, however tempting that was.

She shrugged, swaying closer. “So, you see, it’s me who’s terrified, because of the things you make me do, because of what I’ve already risked for you and the things I would risk again.” She closed her eyes and her head lowered, turning back in on herself.

His own throat closed, and when he spoke, it came out thick and low. “Such as the truth?”

She backed away, arms folding.

He couldn’t resist, but when he reached for her, his hand met cold air. Nothing. The same as every time he reached for her secrets. And yet he kept trying. Indeed, he was a glutton for punishment.

She finally looked back at him. “That’s all I can tell you.” Her voice rose over the wind. “Please accept it.”

He sighed. “You really mean it, don’t you?” Although there were things she didn’t say – or couldn’t – what she had said was true. The way she shivered, the way she leaned towards him then backed away, as if warring with herself, that was all honest. “About being terrified – you mean it, don’t you?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Please, Atesh” – her voice cracked on his name, making his brows rise – “accept you’re safe and I did what I could to make that happen and” – she had to pause and swallow, as her voice broke again – “and I was nearly too late.” Her gaze lowered, and she hugged herself. “Perhaps it’s best if you don’t accept it – go back inside and find yourself a tolerable wife, as you put it. This … Whatever this is between us. It isn’t real. You say you love me, but you only love what you know. Gods, there is so much more. And some of it means I might have to leave Arianople one day. Maybe in a month, maybe in a year, if I’m lucky, longer. But this … it isn’t real, and it isn’t permanent. However much I might want it to be.”

Leave? Not real?

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Whatever she was keeping secret, it couldn’t be so huge that she’d have to leave. Surely. There had to be another way. But … He opened his eyes and frowned at her. But she didn’t believe there was. She believed she had no choice.

She had to be wrong, but he couldn’t tell her that – telling the truth did nothing to break a belief. But showing her – that was a different matter. If he could show her she could stay, prove it was an option, then perhaps she would choose it.

As for not real …

He sighed and shook his head. “Do you think anyone knows every single thing about a person?”

Her eyebrows collided, and her gaze fell away, mouth parting slightly. “No.”

He reached one of the arch’s timber uprights, leaning against it. “So, following the line of your argument, that would make love impossible. And I know you don’t believe that – at the picnic, you were shocked to find I didn’t believe in love, because you do, yes?”

Her shoulders slanted, almost a shrug. “I – I suppose.”

“Sounds like a flaw in your argument. But let’s follow the line of my argument … I know the most important thing about you – the core of who you are. I saw it when you apologised to a damn elephant before you killed it. I saw it when you stood in court and told a room full of people who wanted me dead that I was innocent. And I saw it when you stood on the scaffold and risked your life to save mine. That is who you are.”

She stared at him. One hand rested over her heart, slowly rising and falling.

His hand had occupied that spot only days ago, and now his fingers squeezed the timber pillar. It was that or reaching for her to remind himself of the throb of her heartbeat, the swell of her breasts, the way her breaths heaved above her stays.

He swallowed. “I could spend a lifetime speaking to you and learning more about you, and I still wouldn’t know every single inch of your history, your life, your mind, your soul. While I would dearly love to do that – and I hope I get the chance to – I don’t need to know all those things to know how deeply and ardently I love you. So please stop telling me that because I don’t know what you did on your eighth birthday or about that time you hid a friend’s favourite scarf because she’d annoyed you, that I don’t know you and therefore cannot love you. Those things are paint and plaster and decorative moulding merely resting on the foundation that is your core. I don’t need to see every facet of every brick to know this is the place I want to call my home.”

Her eyes gleamed, and she shut them, head tilting back. “I – I suppose I shouldn’t try to tell you your feelings.” She gave a shaky laugh and looked at him, pressing the pad of her thumb to her lower lip. “Aren’t you going to try to tell me not to leave?”

He scoffed. “I wouldn’t try and tell you to do anything. I don’t want you to leave, no, but I’m hoping that given enough time and opportunity, you’ll see why you should stay and you’ll choose to do so.”

Her hand dropped, and she grinned, raising an eyebrow at him. “And you’re confident of that, are you?”

He shrugged, tilting his head, fighting a grin. “As confident as I can be of anything where you’re concerned.”

She huffed. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you’re a wilful woman.” He held his hands up defensively. “Not that I’m complaining – I enjoy that you can surprise me.”

Her tongue rested on the tip of one canine, and she shook her head with an amused exhalation. “I should be offended … but I suppose you’re right.”

They stood that way a long while, watching each other, the wind streaking strands of hair across her face. Slowly, all amusement faded from her expression, replaced with an intense look, but still, she hugged herself, holding back, shivering in the wind.

She was afraid. Perhaps of her secret or perhaps of him turning his back on her. He bit his lip. “And you truly are being as honest as you can be.” It wasn’t a question. Every movement, the desperation in her voice, the grains of truth that had trickled through her words – they said it was so.

“Everything I’ve told you out here has been the truth.” Her chin rose, showing a vein in her neck, throbbing hard and fast.

Here she was, laying bare her throat with what honesty she could, waiting to see if he would rip it out.

It would be easy to turn away. Easy and yet impossible.

A tolerable wife would be easier. But, gods, who was he fooling? He couldn’t turn away from her. He hadn’t intended to declare his love tonight. He’d only meant to explain that he wished to marry her, but that timing was a factor in any official engagement.

And yet the words had come out, and he’d meant them. So, no, he couldn’t turn away from her, however complicated or difficult being with her might be.

Nothing worth having comes easy.

And yet, parts of being with her were easy. Conversation, flirtation, companionship, loving her, laying her. Time together vanished in a moment.

Whatever her secrets were, they were the only sticking point in their relationship. Granted, in time they might discover more, but for now, that was the one problem.

Being with her was a chance at something he’d never dared think possible – something more than duty and companionship.

He nodded. “It’s enough for me.”

Her arms unfolded, and she reached for him, as her lips parted in a sigh that could only be relief.

In an instant, he closed the space between them and pulled her against his chest. Just as he’d been yearning to do all evening, he buried his face in the nook between her neck and shoulder. “I love you, Quin,” he said in her ear, then pulled back far enough to look in her eyes.

She clung to him, hands tight on his back, eyes wide upon him. As well as the relief, there was still an undercurrent of something else there.

Back in his chambers all those days ago, when she’d dozed off in his arms, she’d flinched and made soft noises in her sleep. Something awful had happened, either in the distant past or as she’d worked to prove his innocence.

Whatever it was, something haunted her. Perhaps he could help ease her troubles.

And perhaps he could help with her secret too. If he could work it out, then it would save her the terror of telling him. He’d be able to prove to her that she could stay no matter what secrets caged her, what darkness wanted her. That it didn’t matter, just like nothing else had mattered when they’d been in each other’s arms in his chambers.

He stroked her back. “More than that, bigger than that, I trust you. You saved me. More than once and in more than one way. And you’ve risked so much to do that – I don’t even know how much exactly.”

She opened her mouth undoubtedly to object, but he shook his head. “Don’t worry, I understand that’s one of the things you can’t tell me. I’m not going to ask. I understand now – I trust you, and if there are things you can’t tell me, then I accept that, as I accept you.” He smiled. “Even if I can’t quite fathom why exactly.”

“I – you –” She shook her head and sank against him like an exhausted warrior returning from the battlefield. She kissed him, warm in the chilly night air.

Arms tightening, he melted into her.

This was right. This was easy.

A light rain began and long moments later, she pulled away, and a small smile crept over her lips, lighting her eyes. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “Thank you for giving as much as you can.” He traced a finger along a rivulet of water running down her jaw. “Now, much as I love this rain, what say we go inside?”

She scoffed in that honest way of hers, a little glimpse of the true woman beneath, the one he loved. “What say we duck out of this party?” She arched an eyebrow. “I think there were some corners of your chambers that I didn’t get to fully investigate the other day.”

Back home – an offer beyond tempting. One that meant she definitely didn’t have regrets. Hells, hadn’t she called it one of the most glorious moments of her life? And that was only their first time together – and the second. With a little luck, the first of many.

The muscles low on his belly tightened.

He sank his fingers into her hair, eliciting a soft groan from her throat. Hundred, it was tempting to simply lose himself against her lips right here, make her groan louder, but her idea was better. “How remiss of me,” he murmured, mouth inches from hers. He shook his head with mock solemnity, biting back a grin. “We’d best go so I can give you a full and thorough tour.”

Hand in hand, they ran back to the ballroom.

6

Deduction

The next day, long after Quin had slipped away in the pre-dawn light, Atesh smoothed his hand over the sheet of paper for the twentieth time. “Come on, man, get a grip.” Shaking his head in disgust, he picked up the silver fountain pen and held it above the paper.

His study was littered with similar pieces of paper, all screwed up, a clear path running through them where he’d huffed, turned from the desk, and paced.

Over and over again.

What was Quin’s secret? It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her – last night’s conversation had confirmed he did – but leaving her alone to face something she found so frightening left a sour taste in his mouth, like corked wine.

If he could discover the truth, he’d be able to help, and then perhaps she’d stay.

To that end, he’d tried writing down what her secret might be, but each time, it came out a garbled mess.

He huffed and tugged his lip, gazing out the window. Last night’s storm hadn’t materialised, just rain and wind blowing over, leaving this morning bright and clear. The air still felt heavy, faintly buzzing like the tiny kernel that would eventually become a full-blown storm.

Beginnings. Perhaps that was it – he was beginning in the wrong place. If he started with what he did know about Quin, it might help him work out the rest.

Pursing his lips, he wrote:

Quinta Sabia

Or was it? He scrunched his face and added a question mark, so it read:

Quinta Sabia?

Much more appropriate.

Young woman. Lives in Arianople. Apparently a gentlewoman.

He cocked his head at the page.

Has skills no ordinary gentlewoman would.

Overprotective butler – also happens to be a famous duellist.

At least that explained her sword skills.

Speaks with a Thanatolian accent, because her mother ‘is’ from here – slip up?

Claims to be from Umbria. Moved here 2-3 months ago. Where before?

And that was the rub – her past. Everything about it. At his trial, he’d feared Cassian attempting to discredit her by digging into her past or secrets. And yet the prosecution attorney hadn’t said anything about it. He’d been only too happy to make insinuations about their relationship – there’s no way he would have kept quiet if he’d known anything incriminating about her.

Has a well-hidden secret. From long ago?

He sat back and pressed the top of the pen against his lip, the silver cold and smooth. Perhaps the answers weren’t within Arianople or even Thanatolia – if it was beyond their jurisdiction, that explained Cassian not being able to find the information.

Or far away?

He scowled at the last phrase and added another two question marks.

Fights like a Sellsword, like she’s fought for her life before.

Sighing, he closed his eyes. Quin covered in blood on the back of her sabrecat. As one they leapt to sink the killing blow into the ribcage of the enraged forest elephant that had threatened to kill them all.

Killed a damn forest elephant. How?

She’d been afraid. The wide eyes, the sweat on her brow. But she’d kept her head. Apart from the cries of battle, she hadn’t screamed, even when it had first erupted from the trees.

Composed in a crisis – façade? Or used to dangerous situations?

Tap, tap, tap on the desk.

Bought and then freed a slave, who now follows her, keeps her secrets, is her friend.

With a sweeping motion, he swirled a large question mark in the margin. Something about the tale she’d told of buying Derry didn’t ring true with him. Quin wasn’t the type to support a cause she was so against by giving it her money.

Principled.

Talked her way into the Fortress of the Seven Towers to visit me.

Pretended to be my cousin. Disguise. Actress?

Yet he could so often see through her. It had already crossed his mind that she could be a spy and wasn’t that essentially an actress? A living lie.

But she hadn’t been lying when she’d faced him at the scaffold.

He winced and closed his eyes against the image of it, dark against the sky. That he was here to even think of it was because of her.

Saved my life.

He thought back to the elephant and added:

again, risking

He paused, gazing at the flames licking in the fireplace.

The guards could so easily have cut her down or, at best, arrested her for interrupting the course of a court-sanctioned execution.

everything.

He underlined that last word.

And she’d been afraid, but not for her life and not of Ilyas when she’d faced him and told him exactly how wrong he was. That wasn’t it.

He’d seen fear in her a few times throughout their acquaintance. Facing the elephant, yes, but the strongest sign had been when she’d turned to him on the scaffold. The half-laugh, half-sob, her shining eyes, and the trembling squeeze she’d given his hand as she’d taken her rapier. That was the aftermath of fear spelt out.

And he’d seen fear alive and well in her last week. The first time he’d beheld her naked in the afternoon sunlight of his chambers – glorious moment that it was – she’d stood there frozen. Her bursting breaths and trembling body had said fear. It had taken him a while to realise it was of letting go. After all, hadn’t she spent their entire acquaintance holding back? Right from the start, she’d tried to not be herself. But there, unclothed, alone, she’d given up that game, had huffed out that fear, almost laughing, and had come to him, running her hands over every inch of his body. Fear gone, no more holding back.

Temporarily, at least, because it was something deep she feared. Something that made her fight for constant control. Something related to her secret. Like last night when she’d been afraid again at three words: I love you.

What so haunted her that she could face a rampaging elephant and the Sultan and the scaffold and yet stand trembling before him, before being truthful?

Perhaps that was part of it – she feared telling him the truth. If her feelings for him were a fraction of his for her, and he believed they must be, then perhaps she was afraid he’d turn his back on her when he learned the truth. That’s something he would fear if he had some great secret to keep from her …

He sighed, slouching back, head resting against the chair.

Even if he couldn’t help with the problem itself, he could save her having to face telling him. He could say, Quin, you’ve nothing to fear – I know the truth, and I still love you.

He swallowed. Was that right? Was there anything she could have done or could be that would scare him away?

A spy, a killer, a criminal on the run … all the insane things he’d written on these screwed up sheets of paper. Could any of it change his feelings for her?

He clicked the lid back on his pen, rose, and stretched, shoulders popping.

No, the nature of her secret didn’t matter. Not really. Whatever it was, he’d still love her. That truth sat full and light in his chest, effervescent with hope.

He loved this damn woman, even with her mysteries, and he’d do anything to help her escape them. He would protect her secrets as he would his own.

And that was another thing for her to fear, wasn’t it? If she was a spy, the consequences of those secrets could be deadly. If she was a foreign spy, he could protect her if she married him. As his wife, she’d fall under Thanatolian jurisdiction, and any attempts to arrest her for defection would fail. And that would be the end of it – no foreign power would be desperate and foolish enough to attempt to assassinate a Shahin, even one by marriage, when it would blow up a major diplomatic incident. She’d be out of their reach.

He read over his notes again and nodded, mouth set.

No one else could read these scribbles. Ever.

Hundred, even his own prying could lead others to her secrets and thus endanger her. That was not acceptable. He sighed and shook his head.

This was the end of his investigation into Quinta Sabia. They didn’t matter, so he didn’t need to know – satisfying his own curiosity wasn’t a good enough reason. He’d only know her secrets when she chose to tell him.

He screwed up the sheet of paper and gathered the others from the floor before taking them to the fireplace and throwing them all on.

The flames surged, bright yellow at the edges, black at the core. He crouched there, watching until every sheet had curled and burned to ash.

* * *

A couple of days after the ball, Quin squeezed Derry’s hand in the crook of her arm and smiled reassuringly. They walked along Kahvesi Street. Derry wore a hood over her red hair, but her pale skin still drew lingering looks and raised eyebrows.

No one looked at Quin. She was merely another woman of Arianople. Better dressed than most here on the fringes of the Gutter Streets, yes, but still possibly a local – perhaps a professional who worked at one of the better brothels on these streets, like the Pearl.

Although Derry didn’t have tattoos lining her skin, marking her as a Varangian, her colouring just as clearly said foreigner. Not only alien to Arianople, but to Thanatolia, and the Inland Sea – from a land where even magic was different.

At least they didn’t have to venture deep into the district today; the sky darkened overhead, and in the Gutter Streets proper street lamps were a rarity. They only had to go as far as Dethero’s shop. Except it wasn’t his anymore. Maybe she’d always think of it as such. Maybe Red and Ela would eventually overwrite Dev’s mark on the place.

They’d come to see the sisters this evening, see if they had any details about the murders. She’d put the feelers out amongst her Gutter Street contacts, but information had been patchy and contradictory.

There’ve been six so far.

Five.

No, they were all different, unrelated.

No choice but to ask Red and Ela, bristly as the former could be towards her. Her stomach twisted at the prospect. She sighed.

“You sure about this?” Derry eyed her with concern. “You know, I could’ve come on my own.”

She scoffed. “Send you out in the Gutter Streets on your own when there might be someone here murdering women? I think not. It might not be so bad, maybe Red’s in a good mood.” Even so, at best, she could expect a mixed reaction from her old friend.

They circled around one of the stone buildings, using an alley to cut to the back of the shop, both keeping hands on their weapons. They arrived at the back door without trouble though, and Quin knocked.

Moments later it opened, and a petite woman in a sky-blue jacket and skirts opened it. Her deep brown eyes widened. “Quin?”

Dethero hadn’t been wrong when he’d said Ela had grown into a beautiful young woman. Even with her brows raised and mouth open, she’d make anyone look twice at her wide cheekbones and angled eyes shaped like a sabrecat’s. Her rounded chin and halo of brown curls, like her sister’s, softened her face. Or perhaps it was her good nature. “Quin!”

Her laugh was like music, and she grabbed Quin in a warm hug, making her gasp.

Smiling, closing her eyes for a moment, Quin squeezed her back. Ela’s hair tickled her face. Foolish woman, why had she avoided Ela since returning to Arianople? Red was the one who hated her. Ela was far too sweet a person to let her sister sway her opinion.

The surprise, the relief knotted in her throat.

“Come in, come in,” Ela said, at last pulling back and looking Quin up and down. “You suit the sellsword gear.” She smiled in the same easy way she’d always had as a child.

Quin’s chest felt like it would burst. She entered the office, not yet trusting her voice.

Derry introduced herself to Ela, and the pair exchanged niceties. “I’m sorry,” Derry said, looking from Ela to Quin, “it looks like we’ve caught you on your way out.”

“We are,” came Red’s voice from the top of the stairs. She stomped down.

“We’re going to a Hidden Court meeting,” Ela said, still smiling. “We’ve got a little time before we have to leave, though, haven’t we?” She raised an eyebrow at her sister and her gentle smile hardened for a moment.

Red turned from the bottom of the staircase, sighing and rolling her eyes at Ela. She watched Quin, brow crinkled. Not quite a scowl, but close enough. “What’re you here for? Ariston already collected the goods.”

Quin shifted from foot to foot, neck prickling. Four were too many for this office. Red’s bristling presence, together with the large oak desk forced her to back up to the shelves. Deep notches stood out along one edge, making her swallow. Was that one from her blade or Alora’s?

She gripped her elbows, pulling her arms around herself. She forced her gaze to Red’s. Even with the flashing irritation in her eyes, it was a better place to look than the spot beside the desk that tugged at her, as if she’d see Dev still there, bathed in his own blood.

Derry shot her a quick frown, lips twitching as if she were more concerned than annoyed, and her hand rose as if to reach for her, but Red was now between them, blocking the way. “We’re worried,” Derry said, raising her eyebrows at Red, “and thought you might have some information to help us.”

“Worried?” The expression Red sent Derry’s way matched the concerned one that had been on Derry’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Derry’s nod urged Quin on. “Do you know anything about the woman who was killed up in the alley around the corner?”

Red flinched, drawing a short, sharp breath. She winced. “I know a professional got done in a bad way over there.”

No wonder Red winced to think of it. Did she wonder how close she’d been to death all those nights she’d walked the alleys herself? Or was it enough being reminded of the work she’d been forced into so young? Damn it, couldn’t she have raised it less clumsily? Quin grimaced, searching for help in Derry’s blue eyes.

“From what people were saying,” Derry said, drawing Red’s attention again, “it sounded like she isn’t the only one to suffer that fate.”

Red pursed her lips.

“There have been six,” Ela said, voice ringing clearly through the room as she lifted her chin.

Quin exchanged a wide-eyed look with Derry – six women? If they’d been killed by the same hand, this was far worse than they’d realised.

“Sinem,” Ela went on. “Özlem. Belinay. Sherife. Hazan. Nona’s the most recent. I think they’re related, they all –”

“Come on, Ela,” Red huffed, folding her arms and shaking her head. “You’re not a child anymore. You know well enough that women around here die all the time. I know it’s scary, but don’t you think you’re clutching at straws?”

Maybe she should have sent Derry without her. Red was clearly irritated by her presence and then the reminder of her old work on top of that – they’d be lucky to get anything useful.

Ela folded her arms and pursed her lips, the perfect mirror of her sister. The look she threw was just as sharp as any Red had ever worn. This was not the little Ela she’d helped Red look after when they were children. That timid, gentle girl would never have pulled off such an irritated expression.

“This isn’t merely any death,” Ela said. “This isn’t someone getting too cold on a winter’s night and not waking up in the morning. And yes, food prices have gone up, and everyone’s going to be a bit hungrier this winter, but this isn’t someone starving to death because they can’t afford to buy a loaf of bread. It’s not sickness either or a babe born and gone in days. This isn’t even some bastard beating his wife to death – hitting her a few more times than he usually does.”

Quin let out a breath, the grip on her elbows loosening. So, they weren’t the only ones concerned about these murders. Maybe there was something to the rumours connecting them. And if there was a connection, there had to be some pattern and, thus, some solution. She nodded, gaze locked with Ela’s. “Someone’s going out and seeking women, isn’t he?”

“Hunting, more like. He’s looking for us in the Gutter Streets because he knows we’re vulnerable – or thinks we are.” The way Ela’s eyebrows lowered, she looked anything but vulnerable.

In contrast, Red hunched over her crossed arms, closed off, glaring at the desk as if she didn’t want to be here.

Ela sighed. “At least news of the killings has reached the higher districts. Maybe they’ll do something about it.”

Quin shared another look with Derry, wincing. She had to be thinking the same thing – no one up there had even heard of the murders, as far as they could tell. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” she said carefully. “They aren’t in the papers up that way. I only heard because I was passing the day they found the latest one – Nona, did you say?”

Red scoffed and tossed her head. “So why are you worried, then?”

Ela scowled, narrowed eyes sliding over Red to land on Derry. “You mentioned information. What is it you want to know?”

“We know precious little,” Derry said, “so anything you can tell us would be helpful. We’re hoping there might be some clues or leads or something that we can help with.”

Ela snorted, apart from the delicacy, the cynical sound seemed more suited to Red than to her. “There isn’t much, I’m afraid, but I’ll tell you what I can …” She picked up a lidded inkwell from the desk. She held it up to the lamplight and turned it, brow furrowed at the dark sloshing liquid. “He’s cutting their throats and stabbing them. How many women die like that in the Gutter Streets in a year? Never mind this close together. And it’s not only once, not even half a dozen times, but 10, 20 – I heard 30 on the latest. Then he dumps them like a knackered old pair of shoes.”

Quin shivered. Stabbed 30 times. That was monstrous.

No, that wasn’t the right word, because there were no monsters. The only monsters she’d ever seen were humans. And that’s exactly who had committed these crimes. A human like her or Derry or Ela or Atesh. A human driven to such violence that he continued stabbing even once the person was dead. She swallowed and hugged herself again.

“Six murders in as many weeks,” Ela said, lifting her chin at her sister, who still glowered, “all the same, all unsolved. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

Red’s mouth set in a straight line. “Murder is a fact of life. There are always bodies showing up in the golden horn, washed up on shore.”

Swallowing, Quin clutched her elbows until her fingers ached. She’d been there more than once when she or another mudlark had found a body washed up on shore, sometimes bloated because they’d drowned, sometimes half-eaten, but always grey and lifeless and returning in her dreams for months after.

She couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes, but the images were all the more vivid there.

“Quin,” Derry murmured, pulling her back to the here and now.

She opened her eyes again and threw a grateful smile to her friend.

“It’s no coincidence, Red.” Ela’s voice had grown hoarse as if her throat was tight from repeating this argument. “A man was seen nearby straight after two of the murders. Tall, broad, dark clothes.”

“Such a unique description,” Red said, one eyebrow raised, mouth twisted. “Did anyone see his face to tell it was the same bloke?”

“He was running,” Ela countered, clunking the inkwell back onto the desk. The ink coated the inside of the glass, black and gleaming. “He slipped away before anyone could see him up close. Therefore, he must be familiar with the area, knows which alleys are dead ends and which link up. Red, you can’t tell me you think this is all coincidence.”

“Well, I’m clearly not clever enough to work stuff like this out, am I?” Red gave Quin a smile, sickly sweet, but laced with ice, like one of the frozen desserts they’d served at the palace masquerade. “Lucky for us, you’re here. What do you think?”

The back of her neck prickled. Damn it, she was only trying to help. Didn’t Red understand that wherever she went across Europa, this was still home and the place and its people mattered? She raised her hands. “I didn’t come to answer questions, I came –

“What did you come here for?”

Derry leant forward, jaw knotted, but Quin lifted a hand to quiet her. This was her battle.

Ela’s nostrils flared, and she fixed her sister with a frown, but she kept quiet.

“I came because I’m from here,” she said, letting her hands drop, “same as you. I was born here, and I grew up here, whatever you might think of me and where I’ve gone since. I came because I wanted answers – if someone’s murdering his way through the Gutter Streets trying to frighten us, then maybe I can help.”

Red snorted. “Us?” She shook her head, eyes rolling. “Quin, you’re not one of us. I’ve lived here all my life. I know every inch of the Gutter Streets. I’ve worked many of them. You? You’ve hardly been here for the past six years. Thank you” – her accent changed, a clipped imitation of Quin’s – “for gracing us with your presence, however, your help isn’t needed. We can take care of this ourselves.”

Quin drew a long breath to respond. Bloody hells. It wouldn’t help anything, though, would it? Arguing with Red would achieve nothing. She’d never change her mind. She bit her lip, forcing herself to silence.

Hands on her hips, Derry raised her eyebrows at Quin. When she shook her head, Derry huffed and turned her frown on Red. “Help isn’t needed? How many times has Quin helped you?” Her blue eyes were intent upon Red – she knew the stories, knew what Quin had done before she’d left Arianople that first time. “Or any of the Gutter folk?”

The straight line of Red’s mouth wavered as she held Derry’s gaze. She sighed abruptly. “We’ve got a meeting to go to with some of those Gutter folk.” She gestured to the door and began buttoning her jacket.

“Sorry,” Ela murmured, opening the door and slipping outside, “we do need to get going now.”

Quin and Derry followed, and Ela gave them a slight nod, an apologetic smile ghosting on her lips. While Red exited and locked the door, Ela leant close. “If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know,” she murmured.

Quin mouthed thank you. “Let’s get home, then,” she said to Derry, loud enough for Red’s benefit. “Thank you both for your time. I hope the Hidden Court is well.” She nodded and swept away down the alley, Derry catching up as they stepped onto Kahvesi Street.

“What the –”

“Don’t,” Quin said, touching her shoulder. “That’s just the standard response to me when it comes to Red.” Nowadays. Her eyes stung. She sniffed and shook her head. “We came to get information. Now we know it’s likely these murders were done by the same hand.”

“Only likely?” Derry offered her arm and Quin slid her hand into the crook of her elbow. At least she still had some friends.

She shrugged. “Well there’s still room for doubt, and they don’t seem to know much more than our contacts did.”

“Quin, I can’t just” – Derry shook her head, eyes on a woman lighting the street lamps with her long torch – “Red was so horrible to you, I thought you’d helped her. I thought –”

“Yes.” She frowned. “And no.” Urgh – how to explain that complexity? I think she needs to be angry at me.”

Derry cocked her head.

“Her parents sold her virginity to the highest bidder.” She frowned ahead, for a moment back in that crowd of guttersnipes, with Talat triumphantly revealing what Red was selling and planting a kiss on her downturned mouth. She blinked and shut her eyes. “I can’t imagine how – how much that had to hurt. The people who were meant to look after her, love her, betraying her like that. And she had to stay living with them” – she shook her head, chest tight around the words – “she couldn’t afford her own home, and she couldn’t leave Ela.” She huffed. “Maybe it’s easier to direct all that at me. Maybe I deserve it myself. I didn’t stop it happening to her, but I stopped them doing the same to Ela.”

“Well, she’s wrong.”

She squeezed Derry’s arm and bit her tongue, eyes stinging. Gods, change the subject. “I think Ela’s right – it’s most likely one man killing all these women.”

In the periphery of her vision, Derry shot her a look. “I didn’t mean that, I –”

“I know, but I’m done thinking about a broken friendship I can’t repair.”

Derry opened her mouth, but instead of speaking, she sighed.

With a nod, they passed the lamplighter. Quin squeezed Derry’s arm, a silent thank you for not pushing the matter. “At least the puzzle of who’s killing these women has a solution.” Hopefully.

Derry sighed. “One I fear it’ll be hard to find.”

“I’m afraid you’re probably right. Until it is, I think it best if you avoid the Gutter Streets after twilight.” She touched the back of Derry’s hand, the thought of losing her making her chest tighten again.

“Me?” Derry raised her eyebrows. “What about you?”

“I’ll try to avoid them when it’s dark, as much as I can, but at least I know my way around the quickest escape routes – all those years of familiarity with this place are useful, you know.”

“And you’ll carry your rapier?” Derry pursed her lips in a way that said this was the only way she’d accept.

“Of course.” She patted the sword at her side.

“Fine.” Derry rolled her eyes. “I know that’s the best I’m going to get from you. So, what next?”

Always with the what next. “I don’t know that there is much we can do at this point,” she said, grimacing at the non-response and what it meant. “I hate to say it, but we have to sit back and wait until either we get more information or …”

Derry glanced at Quin, drawing a sharp breath. “Or wait until another murder.”

She nodded. “Much as I hate the thought of sitting back while someone else is killed, it looks like the only way we’re going to get any more information. Who knows, maybe he’s had his fill of blood.”

“Ha. That’s wishful thinking if ever I heard it.”

Quin gave a mirthless laugh. Wishful thinking, indeed. She sighed and nodded, leaning her head against Derry’s shoulder for a second.

They walked through the edge of the Gutter Streets arm in arm, making for the outbuilding where they’d stored changes of clothing. The early autumn air blew chill and damp, with the promise of rain, and they kept close to share warmth, but Quin still shivered.

7

The House of the Living & the Dead

In the House of the Living and the Dead, the air was still and thick with incense. Warm, woody frankincense and black copal filled Atesh’s nostrils and throat, lifted by sweet-but-crisp juniper. Around him, coloured light streamed in through the high stained-glass windows, catching on the dense smoke, hitting benches and tracing the columns that held up the cavernous ceiling.

Ahead, the great western window pooled a circle of coloured light upon a dais, capturing the setting sun. At his back, the eastern window – the place of beginnings – darkened with the day’s end.

Apt. This wasn’t a day for beginnings.

This part of the building, capturing the last rays of the dying sun, was the place for endings. The ritual that ended a marriage if both parties agreed. The first half of the coming of age ceremony, where young men and women said goodbye to childhood. And every part of the funeral service.

He stood at the edge of shadow and light, watching the way the glass painted the shrouded body upon the altar with shades of blue, red, gold, and purple, light glinting upon the goldwork-embroidered silk. Little spangles and chips of rich yellow gold edged with thick thread patterned the cloth with geometric girih designs.

A shroud fit for a Sultana.

“Zeynab,” he murmured, not that she would ever hear him again. He frowned. This was all of her that was left in this world. It was all he could say goodbye to, so he’d come in this short time before the funeral to speak to her alone.

What could he say?

No, that wasn’t right – Zeynab had left behind a part of herself in Safira. His little cousin would have to grow up with only young memories of her mother. She was younger than he had been when he’d lost his mother. His memories of Mama were fragmented as it was. Would Safira remember Zeynab at all?

In everyone else’s memories, his association with Zeynab would always be linked to her death and the accusations surrounding it. The crime – and his framing – that was what they’d remember. But the last time he’d seen his cousin – at least that had been a pleasant memory. Even if it had been mere hours before her death.

As soon as they’d met at the masquerade, they’d recognised each other. After all, they’d grown up together. They shared a smile and greeting, without names, and agreed to dance.

She’d wasted little time in teasing him, but he should have read the warning signs of her glinting eyes and the smirk at the corner of her mouth. “You’ll be glad to hear, cousin,” she’d said as they’d joined hands and twirled, “that a certain woman newly of my acquaintance has been invited this evening – have you seen her yet?”

From the impish smirk she gave, there could be no doubt of whom she spoke. Quin. Atesh laughed and shook his head. “How subtle you aren’t, cousin,” he told her before they returned to either end of the line, both chuckling.

When the dance brought them back together, Zeynab wasn’t finished. “Subtle? I’ve tried subtle for years now, and you haven’t taken the hint. It’s high time you marry, particularly with our family so thin on the ground.”

Atesh gave her nothing but a roll of his eyes.

“Think of poor Safira,” Zeynab went on, “think of how much she and any future siblings of hers would love to have little cousins to play with.”

That apparently casual comment now carried a greater weight to it. Atesh closed his eyes and took a long shaking breath. She’d been pregnant when she’d said it, and although he hadn’t known, she had. She must have been thinking of that unborn child.

“After all,” she’d gone on, “I have an heir, and it’s my duty to produce a spare, but it is also your responsibility, cousin, to provide your own heir and spare, otherwise who will continue your branch of the family and support my line, as you’ve always supported me?” Her grin had faded, replaced by a small smile. They had indeed always been close and worked together in many areas. Who would work with Safira when she was old enough to rule?

Nevertheless. “I’m afraid I don’t intend to marry only for the sake of having heirs.”

“No, but you would marry for the sake of an intriguing woman who had caught your eye, would you not?” She’d tilted her head, and Atesh could picture her raised eyebrows, even though they were hidden behind a mask.

He’d given an exasperated sigh and continued the dance. They spent the rest of it teasing each other – largely Zeynab teasing him, he had to admit. As they finished and said goodbye, retiring to different parts of the ball, Zeynab had given one parting shot: “I’m sure the Sultana will always be there when you’re ready to ask for permission. Though I know you understand time is always a consideration in these matters. I’m sure the Sultana would have no qualms about her cousin marrying such an interesting woman.” She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, the weight warm. “After all, she freed a slave: that kind of behaviour will always win favour with any ruler of Thanatolia.”

Back in the House of the Living and the Dead, Atesh smiled, despite the blur in his eyes. He placed his hand on the marble altar. The stone was cold, stark against the memory of her warm touch on his shoulder.

She’d been wrong – she wouldn’t always be here for him to ask.

“Not here for me to ask anymore – about anything,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not here for me to ask permission to marry. You’re not here for me to even ask how you are.” He scoffed softly. “Not even here for me to argue with about refurbishing the Gutter Streets. You’re not here to be my cousin, and you’re not here to my friend, and you’re not here to be Safira’s mother.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the altar.

He’d been to visit Safira – unsurprisingly she was quiet and didn’t really understand that her mother was never coming home. Zeynab wasn’t even here for him to tell that to.

His eyes were wet, but heat also made him clench his hands into fists. She wasn’t here, she’d left him, and although it wasn’t fair, it still made him frown and bubble inside with anger that only boiled all the harder when he thought of Erdem. He’d taken her away.

Atesh’s relationship with Zeynab hadn’t been perfect, he wasn’t about to fool himself about that. But even if she would have opposed his plans to help the Gutter Streets now and improve the city for everyone, as she had when he’d tried it years ago, he would still have taken that over her being gone entirely.

He shook his head. He’d lost two cousins in a matter of weeks. Now he only had Safira on the Shahin side and Malos and a few other very distant cousins on his father’s. With Erdem and Zeynab gone, he was the only adult left in the royal line. There was no one else who understood what it meant to be raised in this family and circumstance, and there was no one else who could take the responsibility.

“Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered and stood up straight. “This isn’t the time for self-pity. Not that there is such a time.” He forced one corner of his mouth to rise.

Now more than ever, the things Quin told him about taking responsibility, using his wealth and power to do good, were vital. He took a long breath and wiped the unshed tears from his eyes.

“I will correct the wrongs our family have done and have allowed others to do, and I’m going to help our city and country be great for everyone, not only the privileged few.” He placed his right palm flat on the altar, fingertips brushing the couched golden threads. “This I vow.”

A creak echoed through the House of the Living and the Dead, as the imposing double doors at the side of the main chamber groaned open – Atesh jumped, snatching his hand away. Those doors were some twenty-foot tall and required a man to open each one. That was the public entrance, the state entrance. Atesh had entered through an unassuming little door around the side, hidden from the public. This was a personal visit, not a public one.

As the massive doors finally opened fully, Ilyas entered. He waved as he strode towards Atesh and the doors shut behind him. No guards followed.

Atesh’s eyebrows raised – this was a surprise, though a pleasant one. That the Sultan – no, now Valide Sultan trusted him enough to be alone with him, perhaps this meant his reputation wasn’t quite so marred by the false accusations as he’d feared.

“Atesh,” Ilyas said once he reached him. An informal greeting: this wasn’t a public show.

Atesh bowed even so. “Ilyas,” he said, hoping he hadn’t misjudged in using his name.

It was the first time he’d seen Ilyas since Kediler Square. He looked as haunted and haggard as he had then, dark shadows beneath his eyes and his thin skin gone sallow from lack of sunlight.

Ilyas’s fingers drummed against his jacket of black silk, and his eyes similarly darted, looking everywhere but at Zeynab’s shrouded body. “I trust you’re well.” His voice sounded loud and abrupt, and it wasn’t a question – there was no rise at the end. It was merely a statement, not one with much feeling behind it. He frowned, and his chest rose and fell with a long breath. “When last we spoke, I” – he shook his head and finally met Atesh’s gaze – “I said things I regret. I was angry, although now I understand that anger was misplaced. You need to understand –” he huffed an abrupt sigh – “you need to understand, I didn’t realise that at the time.”

Atesh nodded – of course, this was bigger than the usual niceties of asking how each other were, hence the lack of question. “We were all deceived by Erdem. That he was family makes his betrayal all the worse. And that he was able to keep deceiving us even after he’d” – he placed his fingertips on the cool altar, as though that could bring her into the conversation – “well, that he continued to ingratiate himself upon you and all of society makes it all the more … shocking.”

“I still can’t believe he had us all fooled.” A deep frown scored between Ilyas’s eyebrows he shook his head. “I should have realised – should have understood that he was out to help himself. That he was out to betray us all.”

“Do you not think I’ve thought the same thing these past few weeks?” Atesh sighed. “But I realised – after all, I had plenty of time to think about it in the fortress – I don’t think this was always his intention. He was … always a little discontented at the fact he had to rely upon us and our family’s forgiveness and Zeynab’s beneficence, but the sister he mentioned …”

He’d managed to piece together bits and pieces of the picture. A tiny bit from Quin, a little from Derry, and the rest from Erdem’s words on the scaffold. “I understand she was a half-sister from the harem and so grew up in exile. I believe she returned to his life at some point in the past six months or year to manipulate him or at least encourage his discontent to such a terrible outcome.”

Ilyas frowned at the floor, the lines between his brows not quite as deep as they had been. “His half-sister – the woman that saviour of yours fought. The one whose blood she wore on the scaffold?”

His half-sister, which made her another cousin, but one he wasn’t keen to claim as family. “From what I’ve pieced together, I believe that’s the woman. So, you see, he wasn’t always deceiving us. I believe he was once simply a boy, my cousin, her cousin, perhaps dissatisfied with his lot, but not a murderer. Certainly not plotting against us. That came later … I think only recently.”

“Still,” Ilyas said and lifted his hand towards Atesh for a moment before letting it drop, “I should have – I shouldn’t have – not against you …”

“You were grief-stricken, and the evidence did seem to largely point towards me.” Atesh forced a tight smile in place. Ilyas had been … perhaps unreasonable, it was fair to say, but the man had suffered enough and had seemed mad with grief over Zeynab. He didn’t need Atesh telling him how unjust he’d been or holding a grudge against him, however much his own fingers stiffened with anger at the way he’d spoken in the fortress. “It’s no surprise you believed it. Like everyone in the city, you wanted an answer, and they presented you with one. It’s done now. And today is about her, not him or his co-conspirator.”

Ilyas took a long breath, and his eyes finally returned to Atesh’s. He nodded. “Actually, it’s not only about her.” He still didn’t look at Zeynab or touch her shroud, but there was a faint lift of his fingers as he said her.

Atesh lowered his hand from the altar, suddenly self-conscious, as though by touching it, he had crossed a line or encroached upon Ilyas’s relationship with Zeynab.

Clearing his throat, Ilyas nodded. “I was hoping to catch you here alone – it’s you I came to see rather than …” His hand lifted again. “The Divan Council has an interesting proposal. As you understand, Safira needs a regent at her age. Preference is always towards a member of the royal family if one’s available. I may not be one by blood, though I have married into it. And Prima is in the same position – she only acted as regent before because your mother and then Erdem’s father both declined. And now everyone knows why Cordus was so keen to avoid the city.”

Because he’d preferred life in his countryside villa of Silivri. Too busy enjoying the harem he’d kept despite the ban. But who could blame the man for wanting to keep hold of the family he’d built?

Ilyas cleared his throat delicately. “Besides my daughter, only one remains in all the world who is of the blood.” His brows raised slightly, as though he expected Atesh to speak at that.

Was Ilyas offering him the regency? Surely not, he’d just been released from jail. He tilted his head, inviting Ilyas to go on.

Ilyas opened his mouth, closed it and shook his head. “Unfortunately – although you’re of the blood, you are – well.” He shifted from one foot to the other and straightened his back. “Although you, of course, are quite innocent, you are a little – excuse me for saying – marred by the accusations from … all of this.” He waved his hand to encompass both Atesh and Zeynab.

Ah, that was what he meant. Although he had been proven innocent of Zeynab’s murder, the idea had been planted in everyone’s minds that perhaps Atesh desired power for himself, since that was meant to have been his motive for murdering her. He suppressed a sigh that tickled the back of his throat.

“I might not have royal blood,” Ilyas went on, “but I am Safira’s father and have not been marked by any false accusations.” Indeed, left a widower, Ilyas fitted quite well into the wretched narrative of the royal family, even if he lacked their bloodline.

The tragic Shahins.

“So,” Ilyas said, “the council proposes that you and I work together as co-regents.”

“Oh.” That was … not expected. He’d expected to come here and say a private goodbye to his cousin. Ilyas appearing at all had been a surprise, and now here he was offering him what exactly? “Co-regency? There hasn’t been one of those in … well, to the best of my recollection, ever.” His chest ached, suddenly feeling full, but it was a good ache. And it was right that she was here, even if in body only. Surely, she’d have approved.

“Yes, I understand that.” Ilyas nodded and wrung his hands. “The idea is that you would buoy my claim by being of the blood and I would buoy yours by deflecting accusations of a power grab. Though of course, no one can force you to take up the position, you would have to agree. It’s not as though –”

“I accept.”

Ilyas flinched, and his mouth hung open, staying so for a good few seconds. “You – you accept?”

“I do.”

“Oh.” Ilyas nodded slowly, confusion spelt out in the lines yet again between his brows. “You don’t have to go to the Divan Council meetings or anything like that. You can leave them to worry about all the bureaucracy and day-to-day running of things. All you’d need to worry about is attending official events and signing off any major decisions. That sort of thing.”

“No.” A simple word, but it made Ilyas blink at him, brows raised. “If I’m going to be Co-Regent, I’m going to do it properly.”

“Oh.” Again, that little clearing of his throat. “I – I always thought you weren’t interested in power and responsibility and all the trappings that go with your family name.”

Atesh winced. He had indeed gone through life dodging responsibility. That was all power had meant to him in the past. The one time he’d tried to take responsibility, it had been snatched away as Zeynab had disliked him also taking the credit. He smiled past the discomfort at the thought of the time he’d wasted. “I’ve stood back too long, allowing others to bear the burden. Perhaps if I’d been more involved, Erdem wouldn’t have found it so easy to get his lackeys into the masquerade or seen me as peripheral, so easily cast aside in his own attempt at the throne.”

Ilyas’s throat bobbed. “Perhaps. You – you’ve given it a lot of thought, even before I made this offer, haven’t you?”

“What can I say?” He spread his hands. “Almost being hanged … No, actually being hanged – almost being killed is – well, it makes a man re-evaluate the world and his place in it.”

Ilyas frowned and his gaze slid away from Atesh’s to the floor. After two long breaths, it rose and at last rested upon Zeynab’s shrouded form. “Yes,” he said softly, “some things do make you re-evaluate … everything.”

“Thank you, Ilyas,” Atesh said when he remained quiet for a long while, “for coming to seek me out, for asking me, and for this opportunity. I understand now it’s one few have and although it brings responsibility, I’m ready for it. I’ve realised – it’s not about wanting power, it’s about wanting change.”

But Ilyas only stared at Zeynab, eyes glistening with unshed tears, apparently unable to take his eyes away now he’d finally looked at her.

Atesh bit his lip against the sorrow pushing at his heart like water about to overflow a dam. He clapped Ilyas on the shoulder.

Ilyas stooped, body crumpling as the tears finally trickled down his cheeks.

Atesh pulled him into a fierce hug. “Ah, Ilyas.”

Ilyas clung to him as a man in a shipwrecked gale. They were alone, so at least this breach of propriety would go unwitnessed.

That was it, this wasn’t a chance for Atesh to have power for its own sake, that wasn’t something he wanted, but it would allow him to help others, to be strong for them.

Atesh squeezed Ilyas and nodded, making soothing sounds as the sobs wracked through the widower’s body. He held his own tears in check. There had been time enough for them in the fortress, and if he needed more, well, he could share those with Quin.

A crier called the hour from the tower soaring above the House of the Living and the Dead.

Ilyas pulled away, sniffing and rubbing a handkerchief over his eyes and face. “It’s almost time.” He drew another breath and his back straightened. Apart from the red rims around his eyes, he almost looked composed.

“It is,” Atesh said, nodding slowly. “Let’s say goodbye to her.”

8

To Win

The crowd filed into the House of the Living and the Dead. Three thousand people give or take and three thousand shades of black in various fabrics – shiny, matte, velvet, taffeta, tulle, satin, and moire. People filled the pews, sitting and awaiting the start of the ceremony proper. Between the quiet murmur of the crowd, the shuffle of their feet, and the thick, warm incense, the room felt full, its solemn columns looming over Alora’s head.

She narrowed her eyes as she spotted the Pasha sitting at the front, not far from the Valide Sultan. No sign of the false Contessa yet, though.

A woman on the bench in front pulled out a black handkerchief of the finest silk gauze and dabbed at her cheeks. It was all Alora could do not to tsk and roll her eyes.

Even from here, the Pasha’s eyes looked red-rimmed. Indeed, the crowd, in general, were quite wan. Perhaps it was the wearing of black, or perhaps they really did grieve.

She raised an eyebrow. If the Sultana’s murder had caused so much sorrow and even fear and mistrust, how much more frightened would people be if they were the ones at risk? Or if their wives, daughters, mothers were the ones in direct danger? How much terror would grip the city then?

Was the man responsible here? That’s if it was indeed only one person killing all those women. She had, or rather, people who worked for her had dug into the crimes. Subtle questions, an eye on the papers, an ear out for the murmurs amongst the janissaries and their informants who would reveal more than perhaps they should for the promise of a coin or two.

From what they said it appeared there was a common theme. The victims were all professionals or other desperate Gutter Street women. They’d been killed with a slash to the throat and several stabs to the belly and below. Brief research revealed such crimes weren’t so common, even in the Gutter Streets. Usually, murders were the result of some sort of brawl in a tavern or a cruel husband abusing his wife and taking it many steps too far.

Alora’s hands knotted into the skirts of her gown.

On occasion, professionals were found beaten to death, but that was usually after they tried to renege on a deal by asking for more money or backing out of delivering on their work. They were unplanned deaths, an act of momentary aggression, rather than premeditated. The manner reflected that – strangulation, beating, or a head dashed against a wall.

This man, though, he walked around with a knife or razor blade ready – these were planned.

And, yes, she was sure they’d all been committed by the same hand.

A short man approached the Valide Sultan, bowed, and spoke – he wore a celebrant’s turban of gold. The Valide Sultan sat straight, but when he turned to the celebrant, she could see his sallow skin and shadowed eyes. A man crumpling in upon himself. A man broken. She raised an eyebrow – a man almost ripe for new light to enter his life. Interesting.

The celebrant bowed again and turned to the dais. They must be about to start. Still no sign of that woman and no seats remained empty near her Pasha.

Alora scowled and scanned the crowd again – perhaps she’d missed her. A lady a few rows ahead shifted to whisper to her neighbour – past her, a flash of red hair. Derry.

And beside her, the false Contessa.

Alora ducked on instinct. Wincing, she took a long breath and angled her hat to stay hidden. Gods, that slice still hurt. Damn Quin and her clever little bladed fan.

No doubt the woman was insufferable with her triumph. It had been bad enough when she’d won all those years ago. And undoubtedly she thought she’d won again, now she’d saved her darling Pasha. Alora gritted her teeth until they ached.

Well, it didn’t matter who won most, only who won last.

And this new plan was something exceptional.

Best if that woman didn’t see her quite yet.

Interesting that she wasn’t sitting near her precious Pasha. Alora allowed herself a very brief smug smile. Perhaps the rumours about her were having some effect, meaning she couldn’t officially attend with him.

Perhaps it was that they weren’t yet married or even engaged, and this was an official state funeral. Alora frowned and pouted. So maybe Quin hadn’t been ostracised from society entirely. Yet.

She chanced a glimpse at Quin, from this angle she caught her in quarter profile as she spoke to Derry. She had to admit that damn false Contessa had a pleasing curve to her slender throat. Pity she hadn’t had the chance to cut it on the floor of that alleyway last week. She clenched her hands into fists as tight as they had been on the handle of her rapier.

She hadn’t had that satisfaction, but there was some enjoyment in watching Quin as she caught the Pasha’s eye and the pair nodded to each other, not quite smiling.

Did Quin even dream that she was still alive? Surely she must know – much as she hated the vile bitch, Quin wasn’t stupid. She knew no woman’s body had been found in the alleyway. She must realise she’d escaped and her injuries hadn’t been as fatal as she’d pretended.

Alora licked her lips. Was Quin frightened she’d appear again? Did the thought keep her awake? Was she having nightmares of waking up to Alora sitting over her, blade against her throat?

Again, she smiled. Whether Quin had those dreams or not, she would turn them into a reality.

Derry turned to speak in Quin’s ear.

Ah, pretty Derry with her bright hair and pale skin and striking blue eyes. Alora had had the girl at her mercy once, and she could have it again if this murderer was a man with whom she could work.

Manipulate was such a dirty word, but it had served her well so far, and men were such weak creatures, so easily controlled once you knew what they wanted. Exactly how would Quin react to discovering her dear friend dead?

It would be a shame to see Derry’s blood plastered over the walls – she was such a sweet thing, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. And the delightful Miss Bowyer was one she was prepared to make if it meant she’d finally get to see Quinta Guldan break.

And then she would win.

But she was getting ahead of herself. She had to find him first. She glanced around the room, gaze resting on various gentlemen. The strength behind the crimes – it had to be a male. One victim’s throat had been sliced down to the bone. Such an injury required raw force.

The celebrant still stood on the dais, making a dull speech. The poor Sultana. Growing up in the palace must have been so hard. How would she have liked being forced to flee Thanatolia on pain of death? As if she’d have survived that life! As if she could have won when faced with stark reality. Starting in a new city, helping Mama net a husband, suffering his strange looks for years and years until …

She flinched and closed her eyes, hands tight, strangling her skirts. No, Zeynab Sultana would never have done whatever it took to survive, whatever it took to win. And that was why she wasn’t here and Alora was.

The Sultana had lost.

At least she had to give Quin that – she was a survivor. No doubt, she’d learned it from her mother. To survive in Arianople, right under the nose of Prima and her machinations, Livia must be a survivor. An asset to her daughter. So why wasn’t she here, hiding in plain sight as her daughter did?

Alora pursed her lips. Was she still so recognisable all these years later? Or was there some other reason?

She shook her head. No matter. Today she was here to find a new ally. It had been a pleasant surprise that her brother had even killed the Sultana in the first place. When they’d first been reunited, she’d questioned whether he’d be of use to her plan, but months of working on him, reminding him what it was like to have a family again, little whispers of how cruelly he’d been denied his birthright had started him on the right path.

And the day she’d shown him Silivri, their home, the place they’d played and laughed and grown up together as close to twins as could be. Where he’d been raised a little shehzade, promised a position in the line of succession … Well, once he’d seen the place all in ruins, he’d realised how far the Chalik line had fallen, and the change in him had been tangible. He’d stood taller, shoulders somehow broader, jaw so tight it popped, and his light brown eyes had burned with the injustice of it all.

Their mansion left to ruin; their family ruined. Such a useful metaphor.

But the damn fool had got himself killed. He’d let her down. He hadn’t known to hold his water, even if the game seemed to be over.

It was never over.

And so she’d returned to play a new game. Potentially a more dangerous one, but didn’t all the best games carry a risk?

The celebrant picked up a chalice-shaped incense burner upon a tray, and at his nod a dozen attendants followed suit, congregating upon the altar where the Sultana’s body lay shrouded in glistening gold.

In perfect synchronisation, they flicked open a fan each, the sudden rap loud in the silence of the chamber, echoing back and forth before getting lost in the smoke and high ceiling. First, they fanned the incense over the body then they turned and walked out into the room, wafting smoke upon those gathered. The frankincense protected the soul from djinn, and for the living, the black copal resin, heavy and musky in the air, was also meant to heal the heart.

If she had her way, the people of Arianople would certainly need protection, but not from djinn or any other silly superstitions.

Her new ally. She needed to find him. A man, tall and broad. Huge, even. Powerful enough to do that kind of damage to a woman.

Eyes narrowed, she resumed her scan of the assembly.

Straight noses and aquiline ones. High starched collars and carefully tied cravats. All manner of moustaches, beards, and well-groomed sideburns. Fine silks and diamond cravat pins. Soft velvet and softer skin.

Nothing brutish.

She sighed. Of course not. Massive shoulders were challenging to tailor in the latest fashions and suggested a peasant working the fields – not a build to be encouraged in the gentry.

What she’d heard of the crime and the scenes and the victims … Could it be someone from the Gutter Streets themselves, rather than a rich man preying on the scum there? After all, what would a gentleman have to be so angry about towards people so very far beneath him? And these were undoubtedly crimes of rage …

Hundred damn it, she was searching in the wrong place.

She’d been looking at this all wrong. She’d thought it a rich man using Gutter Street women as worthless playthings, but …

Yes, many of these men were repressed, denying their baser instincts until they reached professionals or indulged in whatever secret vices they hid in their hearts, but they weren’t involved.

These murders were involved. Personal. The man who killed in the Gutter Streets and killed its women was from the Gutter Streets and hated its women. Perhaps he hated all women, and they were the closest ones available … Well, she could help make others available to him.

The injuries had been described as frenzied. It was said one of the women had been stabbed two dozen times. The bodies were then left unceremoniously dumped in alleyways, or on doorsteps in corners of courtyards. Little thought had been given to the crimes, but plenty of anger.

Anger was something she could use.

When she realised she was smiling thinly, she wiped the expression from her face. The Sultana’s funeral was not the place to wear a smile.

Now, if this murderer could be found, could be reasoned with, then she could definitely make use of him. Rich man or poor, he could be a valuable tool for her. It was a shame she wouldn’t find him here, but she would find him.

And when she did, she would turn him to her own ends.

9

Flirtation & Façades

It might have been a wake, but at least this was an occasion Atesh could attend with Quin on his arm. Hundred knew, it wasn’t an occasion for genuine mourning. A royal wake was a state event giving the nobility a chance to pay lip service to their departed Sultana and display their loyalty to the Shahin family. As with any social gathering in Arianople, it was the chance to gossip, speculate, and flirt.

Real mourning was a private thing. He did it at his household shrine, while walking through his gardens, and in soft words with Quin in the night. As planned, they’d snuck from the ball earlier in the week to explore each other in the privacy of his chambers. Afterwards, they’d murmured in the dark, but that felt an age ago.

Smiling down at her, he squeezed the hand tucked into the crook of his arm as a footman announced them. She gave him a brief, tight smile and nodded.

The doors opened and the sounds of the party hit – chatter and music and the whisper of a hundred gowns.

He and Quin strode forward as one, expressions appropriately solemn. At a wake, it was not the done thing to smile until one had finished the first drink.

All eyes were upon them, accompanied by whispers behind fans and murmurings in ears. A few eyebrows raised, but after promenading arm in arm at the ball the other evening, surely people had to expect them to attend together. Perhaps they merely speculated that this entry together at a state function was a move towards a more official announcement.

Good, perhaps it would finally stop other women from pestering him. Surely it would quell any speculation as to a lack of engagement meaning anything beyond consideration of timing. Any thoughts of Quin as simply a casual flirtation had to be quashed. Thoroughly.

Although some must have guessed that they did more than merely flirt. Much as they’d tried to be discreet, someone could have seen them sneaking away together. Or spotted her leaving his house in the early hours of the morning.

He bit his lip to keep from smiling as a footman held out a pair of drinks. As was tradition, these were tall shots of cloudy raki, sharp with aniseed. He and Quin turned to face each other and nodded, holding up their glasses, each murmuring a prayer for the dead to wish Zeynab a smooth journey in Morta’s boat. The raki warmed his mouth and hit the back of his throat, the liquorice tang refreshing his palette. The fumes filled his nose, and at last, he could smile.

And the smile she gave him – gods, it took him right back to his house after the ball. If only she could have stayed all night, sleeping by his side.

If they were married, she wouldn’t have needed to slip out in the dark like a mistress or professional.

He admired the swift, controlled movement of her gloved hands as she took glasses of ruby red wine from a tray and passed him one. He nodded his thanks and held her gaze as they both sipped.

Suddenly this wake seemed terribly dull, and its end a long way off. He glanced at a clock at one end of the room. The next few hours were something to be endured.

He sighed and offered his arm.

“Bored of me so soon?” she asked with a light voice and arched eyebrow.

“No, bored of this wake so soon,” he replied. “Must we really stay four hours before I’m allowed you to myself?”

He caught the flicker of a smile, even as she turned away to nod a greeting to some acquaintance. “I’m afraid you’ll have to persevere, Atesh Shahin Pasha, weather the storm. Especially at a full state event.”

A flush of pleasure suffused his body as she said his name. Her tone said he was special, precious; no one said it quite as she did.

“That’s it exactly – it’s a state event,” he murmured close to her ear, “not for me, not Ilyas, not for Safira. This isn’t a personal event – it’s nothing to do with Zeynab, though all would claim it is. Endure is exactly the right word. And so I have to console myself with your presence and – I hope – your continued presence much later.”

She smirked, then hid it behind her glass as she took another sip. “I prefer to think of it as less something to wait for, and more …” She tilted her head. “I know what is to come, or at least I can imagine, and the next few hours are only the beginning. When I took those first sips of raki, I was looking forward to tonight and thinking of all the things I will do to you later. And now, the warmth and strength of your arm is a promise of things to come and if I move just so …” She trailed off and shifted, breast pressing into his arm.

He bit back what would have been a foolish grin and swallowed. Ah, the things he would do to her later, by candlelight, against a bedpost, perhaps.

Her tongue darted out, catching a bead of red wine from her lip. “So, is this party so dull after all?”

He cleared his throat. “Suddenly not.” He patted the back of her hand and fought to bring his mind back to here and now, as they approached a cluster of people, all watching intently.

“Atesh,” Malos said, greeting them with a bow and a less subtle than he thought wink, “Lady Sabia.” The usual glint in his eye faded, and his smirk dropped as he nodded. “My formal condolences, cousin.” Perhaps there was some real mourning here, after all. It looked so out of place on Malos’s face, though.

Atesh patted him on the shoulder and murmured his thanks before Malos indicated the rest of the group. They already knew Danyal and Nazli, and Malos introduced a pair of ladies, recently come out into society: Miss Aurelia Tiryaki and Lady Lucia Kartal.

Both smiled at Atesh, offering apparently effortless bows.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Pasha,” Miss Tiryaki said, adjusting the lilac bow in her hair. “And may I offer my heartfelt condolences to you and the rest of your esteemed family.”

Lady Lucia looked up at him with wide eyes. “Indeed, it is a sorry occasion that brings us into your company. I’m glad you were able to attend after recent events.”

His hanging. He swallowed and forced a smile into place. Covering Quin’s hand with his own, he squeezed. Her satin gloves, her gentle grip, the scent of her rose perfume – he clung to them to keep from sinking back to that day in Kediler Square. He had to stay here. It would be impossible to get through this wake if he went to that place every time someone alluded to it. As a state event, he was here as a Shahin, not just as himself, and he had a duty to fulfil, circulating and greeting their guests. Inevitably everyone who greeted him would mention it at some point.

“Isn’t it a pleasant surprise the Pasha could attend?” Miss Tiryaki turned her smile from one member of the group to the next. “Though I suppose not all surprises can be pleasant ones. After all, I’m surprised to see Lady Sabia here.”

What was that supposed to mean?

Quin stiffened at his side. He too bristled, shoulders tensing. He glanced at Malos in question, but he watched Miss Tiryaki.

Lady Kartal tittered behind her fan, brown eyes twinkling. Clearly, there was some unpleasant joke he wasn’t aware of. “Indeed,” she said, flicking sharp eyes to Quin, “I had heard this was a state function. I wonder if the Valide Sultan realises the quality that has been admitted.”

“Or the lack thereof,” Miss Tiryaki added.

That first comment could have been forgiven as a misunderstanding, but this last statement – it was no accident, but a deliberate insult to Quin.

Malos, Nazli, and Danyal shared looks, eyebrows raised, but none spoke.

A flicker of a frown creased Quin’s face. “Excuse me,” she muttered before draining her glass, “it appears I need to refresh my drink.” And she was gone before he could stop her.

“An excellent idea,” Miss Tiryaki said, narrow eyes following Quin’s retreating form. “Indeed, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to powder my nose and clear it of the foul stench of jasmine.” She arched an eyebrow at her friend before leaving.

Jasmine. The night-blooming flower that produced a cheap and plentiful perfume favoured by professionals. This was no private joke, but a heavy-handed allusion that Quin was such a woman.

Atesh’s teeth ground together, creaking in his ears.

How damn well dare they?

There was no sign of Quin, but he muttered his excuses anyway and spotted Miss Tiryaki’s lilac bow bobbing through the crowd. He strode after her. “Madam – Miss Tiryaki,” he called once they were in the hallway leading to the powder rooms.

She paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “Ah, Atesh Shahin Pasha.” She smiled a pert smile and drew her fan across her décolletage. The motion was so obviously studied, he rolled his eyes. “I wonder what brings you to seek a private audience with me,” she said, peering at him from beneath lowered lashes.

“Curiosity,” he bit out, “as to what the devil that was all about.”

“All what?” She fluttered her fan, the picture of innocence.

“Your abominable treatment of my friend, Lady Sabia.”

“Friend?” She tittered. “I’d heard lover.” She gave a narrow smile, pleased with herself, no doubt. “And not only yours.”

Atesh blinked. “I beg your pardon?” His hands balled into fists, and he had to force himself to stand still, rather than step forward and tower over her, although his rising anger growled at him to do precisely that.

“My dear Pasha, you can’t hold me responsible when it’s you who should be better informed about the person with whom you share your bed.” She tossed her head and sauntered away, leaving him gaping in her wake.

She paused by the powder room door, speaking to a tall woman with red-brown hair. The taller woman nodded and smiled at Miss Tiryaki before offering her arm. Before the pair disappeared into the powder room, the tall woman turned and smirked at Atesh, eyes sharp and glinting as cut glass.

Impossible to follow Miss Tiryaki and her friend into the powder room. Instead, he stood in the hallway, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists until his fingers ached.

How dare that little chit …

Deep breaths. He straightened his fingers and shook his head. She was merely some girl come out into society looking to create a name for herself. Perhaps she was one of those who thought that being cruel to another woman would improve her own position.

He shook his head. He didn’t understand it, but he had seen it. Perhaps she even thought she could drive a wedge between him and Quin and thus win him for herself. It was entirely likely, and it wouldn’t be the first time a debutante had tried such a thing with a man seen as a prize.

Glaring at the powder room door, he shook his head again. It was deliberate cruelty, aimed specifically at Quin. Well, handily his own wishes and the best method to punish the nasty young woman were in agreement – stay with Quin, be seen at her side all the very more. And perhaps even secure an engagement before the summer.

He took another breath and couldn’t help but smile at the thought that glowed warmly in his chest. That would show Miss Tiryaki and any others who thought to try such underhanded tactics.

Rolling his shoulders, he returned to the party to go and find Quin.

It wasn’t a difficult task – Derry’s bright red hair was a beacon amongst the black and brown more common in Thanatolia. She stood with Quin, their heads bowed together, deep in conversation beside a punch bowl.

Throwing out hurried greetings to the people he passed, he approached the pair. “Quin? Are you –”

She gave a casual wave of her hand. “I’m fine. I just needed to walk away, because if I didn’t, I was about to cause a scene, and that’s not something I really wanted to do in the middle of a state funeral – your cousin’s funeral.”

“You’re a stronger woman than I,” Derry murmured, a glower darkening her face.

Quin scoffed. “Inconceivable.” She squeezed Derry’s shoulder and gave her a quick smile before turning to Atesh. “It’s bad enough the silly girl said that today of all days, but I didn’t want you to have to stand there while I had a full-on argument with the … young lady in front of everyone.” She sighed and held out a glass of deep red punch studded with glistening pomegranate seeds. Rose petals floated on the surface. “So, I ran away.”

He held a hand up to decline. “Thank you. I appreciate you doing that for me. And for Zeynab’s memory.” He took another breath and the tension in his shoulders lowered a notch. Raising his eyebrows, he offered Quin one arm and Derry the other. “There,” he said as they each slipped a hand in the crook of his elbow, “aren’t I the luckiest man in Arianople?”

Derry chuckled as Quin scoffed and the trio turned to stroll through the staterooms together.

“You know,” he murmured, ducking towards Quin, “I’m fairly sure the girl only did it to undermine you and our – er – us.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Quin said with a crooked smile. “I expect there are many unhappy that the most eligible bachelor in town entered announced on the arm of a foreign Contessa.”

He opened his mouth to contradict her use of the word foreign, but her raised brow told him that she was only too aware of that particular irony. It was yet another unspoken non-secret between them. Her mother, at least, was Thanatolian, so she wasn’t exactly foreign. And yet they hadn’t even spoken properly about where she really was from.

He scowled. “Still, it makes my blood boil.”

Quin shrugged and sipped the drink she’d offered him. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about it.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Marriage would silence them. But that was a topic where they’d agreed on a kind of truce. He sighed but didn’t bring it up again.

Her hand on his arm tightened, and she froze, glass an inch away from her lips.

“Quin?” He followed her gaze to Aunt Prima and an elderly Bey on the other side of the room, talking.

Prima held out her glass, not sparing a look for the footman who hurried to fill it. Her grey hair, perfectly set in place, didn’t have the effect of softening her appearance, as it did with most once the colour faded, rather it gave her the appearance of steel or silver – hard, cold, unyielding.

Still, there was no reason for Quin to find her intimidating. Prima might be one of his only surviving relatives, but Quin had no need to impress her. She’d impressed him, and that was more than enough. Perhaps she feared Prima approval or lack thereof could have some impact on their relationship.

It would not.

He nudged Quin gently with his elbow, smiling in reassurance. He wouldn’t force her to meet Prima yet.

Her chest heaved once, and she cleared her throat, took a gulp of drink, and smiled up at him.

“Come along,” Derry said, craning her neck over the crowd, away from Prima, “I see Yildrim over there, near some rather delicious-looking pastries.”

“Indeed,” he said, “and there’s no danger of her trying to win me from my foreign Contessa.” He gave Quin a smirk, which she returned, but her hand was still stiff upon his arm.

10

Hungering

He stalked his way through the streets, veins itching for satisfaction. It was like some animal lived under his skin, stirring, hungering, burning. Tonight it was lively, pushing him to the alleys the girls liked best.

One of them had to be here tonight, and he’d have her. Hanging around here, they were asking for it.

They’d always asked for it. Laughing at him, making him feel stupid with their smug little smiles and high laughs.

Well, now he was giving it to them. And bloody Hundred gods, it felt good.

Before, he’d had power over their bodies, making them accept him, whether they liked it or not.

But now? Now he had power over their very lives. He’d watched as their eyes had grown dim, felt their warm blood on his fingers, leaching from their bodies.

And he’d held all that in his hands.

Not so stupid now, eh?

Smiling, he turned down an alley they always touted on. But the doxy was already kneeling before some bloke, with another waiting, hand shoved down his trousers as he watched.

He scowled and turned away, taking a different route. Wasn’t worth getting past two men for some whore.

Besides, he couldn’t be sure she was one of them.

The worst, well, he knew exactly where she lived, even if she’d moved. And he was saving her. She was something special.

But did it even matter if he couldn’t find one of them tonight?

Hadn’t all these women done him wrong? Didn’t they all need to pay? And wouldn’t he get the same satisfaction from teaching a lesson to any one of them?

A tap tap tap ahead.

His fingers went to the razor in his pocket.

A woman’s shoes on the cobbles.

His breath caught, and a thrill ran down his spine. His groin twitched, but with it came shooting pain.

They’d asked for it.

He bared his teeth as a woman stepped into view.

Jackpot. He smiled. She thought herself something special from the fancy clothes – a black dress and matching coat with lace at the high collar and cuffs. Wouldn’t get much business covered up like that. Maybe not a professional – maybe a rich woman who’d wandered into the wrong district.

Shame the Blind Lady frowned on her today. But the Blind Lady’s favour was like a coin, her frown on one side, her smile on the other. And tonight that smile was turned upon him. For a bloody change.

Stupid bitch didn’t seem to realise it, though. She eyed him with a lifted chin and cocky little smile on her pert lips, and it made the thing under his skin start bubbling.

She reminded him of someone. From a long time ago … On the mud … In an alleyway … At Red’s place.

Quin. The way she stood, the way she looked at him like she was better than him. This one’s hair shone reddish in the lamplight, and her eyes were dark, but gods it felt like her.

And when he took her, he could pretend. She would do as a stand-in. He’d heard the real one was back in town, pretending to be an aristo. Maybe he could go after her.

But for now, he had this one. He approached her with a smile.

Still that damn smile on her face, not even a flicker of fear even though he closed the gap in four quick strides.

Her smile sweetened, sickly like too much Anatol delight. Slowly, her eyes trailed down.

She had a knife pointed at his belly, just touching his shirt.

His stomach flipped as if trying to escape. He hadn’t even pulled the razor from his pocket yet.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said. “I’d hate to have to get my blade and gown dirty, and I’m sure my friends feel the same.” She nodded left and right.

Out of shadowed doorways stepped two men, one on either side. Their blades – long, thin, fancy rapiers – glinted. They hung back, not in reach yet, but close enough to set the hairs at the back of his neck on end.

Bloody hells, he wasn’t going to get himself killed like this. He hadn’t survived through all that just to let some posho bitch murder him in an alley.

He glowered at her. “You’re messing with the wrong person.”

If anything, her smile grew wider. “Oh no, I think I’m messing with exactly the right person. And I have something far better than a quick murder to offer you tonight.”

The air in his lungs froze. How could she – no, not possible. She couldn’t know.

“Don’t concern yourself,” she said, the knife still below his ribs, “you have nothing to fear from me unless you bring it on yourself. So, will you take your hand from your pocket so we can have a civilised conversation? Or do I need to use this?” The blade brushed his belly, light as a woman’s fingers, trailing her way down …

The twitch. The pain.

He gritted his teeth. She’d ruined the fun now anyway. He sighed and dropped the razor back in his pocket, pulling his hand out empty. “Fine.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A man of many words, then.” She nodded to her men who retreated into the shadows. “And in case you get any ideas,” she said, lowering her knife, “they’re nearby, and I always have this little friend.”

What the bloody hells was she after? Civilised conversation – as snobby as he’d thought. He took a step back, folding his arms. “What do you want?”

“I know what you’ve been doing, and I’m not here to stop you. Is that enough to persuade you of my good intentions? I haven’t called for any janissaries, after all, and as long as you don’t make me, that’s the way it will stay.”

No, she hadn’t called for the nappers. Not yet. Was she trying to mess with him? No way could she know.

She smiled, all sweetness. “Rather than stop you, I’m here to help.”

He snorted. Stupid woman. “Help me? I don’t want or need your help. Don’t know what you’re on about.”

She cocked her head. “Slashing throats and stabbing – it’s wearing thin, isn’t it?”

Maybe she did know who he was, what he was, what that paper in the Gutter Streets had called him. Monster Strikes Again – Another Girl Dead. Fine, let her have her brush with a monster if that’s what she was after. Run away back to her fancy drawing rooms with the story. He bared his teeth.

She didn’t back away. “That’s why you did that last one forty times, isn’t it? But more stabbing isn’t the answer. You need something more … involved.”

His fingers hurt, clenching and unclenching. How far away were those two men? Far enough? Did she know how to use that little knife of hers?

He could drag it out of her dainty little hands, slice it across her throat, watch the blood drain into her pretty dress. He hadn’t had a chance to watch blood soak into silk or lace yet. All his women had worn cheap tat by comparison – rough wool or linen or threadbare cotton.

Gods, the need was strong, stronger because of her words, almost like she understood. But those two men she’d brought along were stronger. He hadn’t started this to get himself killed. He gritted his teeth and waited – there would be a chance to run, live to see another day, live to kill another night.

She smirked in a way that made her eyes glitter as cold as stars. “Here’s my help for free. The next one you take, rather than merely stabbing her, why don’t you slice her? Play with her, maybe cut something off. Mutilation, my dear fellow – there’s one thing more terrifying than a frenzied murder fuelled by rage, and that’s a cold, calculated killing, where the body is desecrated even after death.” She spoke low, suggestive somehow. “You need to be careful, you’ll need more time, but this slow work will allow you to reshape your women’s bodies.”

Your women’s bodies, like she understood they were his.

She blinked slowly. “You’ll hold power over her after she’s dead. And after that, when they find her and see what you’ve done, you’ll hold power over them, too. The power of fear of what fiend walks among them that could do such an act, not in a fit of rage, but in long minutes of considered thought. Isn’t that a far worse killer?”

He found his tongue dry. He’d been staring at her, mouth open. The picture she painted set the empty space between his legs ablaze. He gulped. “Why would a fancy lady like you want to help a monster?”

“A monster?” She scoffed, and her dark brown eyes bored into him like she saw him. “You’re not a monster. You are a rare man, indeed. And unlike those fools, I treasure rarities. Someone like you should be cultivated and taught. You shouldn’t have to skulk in Gutter Street shadows, hoping for a passing professional. There is something in you that could make a real mark on this city.” Something about her smile sent a shiver across his shoulders. “You are an artist.”

An artist? Not a monster? Ha, he wasn’t some dandy bastard who painted naked women, showed off in galleries, and called it art. What he did was more real than that. He huffed. “Why give me a tip? What’s in it for you?”

“This city,” she said without a single thought. What she meant by that wasn’t clear, but the way her jaw clenched solid as a fist said it was true. “It hurt my family, tore us apart, killed my father and banished my mother and me. I want to see it hurt. I want to tear it apart. It will feel all the pain we felt. It will see that it did not beat me. And you” – she shook her head, eyes trailing over him, bright – “you have so much potential to make it bleed … Think of your crimes on everyone’s lips – the fear, the silent streets after dark as they avoid you – the death that stalks the night.”

The city tore her family apart. “The city banished you?” He’d only ever heard that word used for one group of women. He narrowed his eyes at her. “No … You’re from the harem?”

She jerked away then frowned at him. “What do you know of the harem?”

“I knew a harem whore’s girl when I was a kid. She was a stuck-up bitch, too.”

But she didn’t gasp or scowl at those words like a lady should’ve. After a second, she laughed.

She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand anything. This woman was a silly little lady wasting his time. He could have scratched that itch between his shoulder blades that he couldn’t quite reach, if not for her useless chatter. He slipped his hand into his pocket and –

“Now, now,” she said, blade pressing into his bellybutton with an accuracy that made his hair bristle. “I can’t blame you for trying after all this appears to be your nature. I understand you’re not convinced, so let us make a deal. You try out my tip the next time you’re… working, and if you enjoy it, then we’ll meet again, and I’ll help you get what you really want.”

He clenched his jaw, sighing slowly. “As if you know what I want.”

She snorted. “My dear artist, it is obvious. We might be from very different parts of this city; however, there is one thing you and I have in common. In your work I see it, the longing for it, the claiming of it, the hatred of its absence. Right now, you’re railing, because I have it. But I can help you have more of it.”

The way she spoke, the way her eyes bored into him, it stilled the crawling under his skin.

She lifted her chin. She might have been tall for a woman, but she was still inches shorter than him. And yet when she angled her head like that, it was like she towered over him. “It is power. Power over life and death. Power over the women who have tried to exert it over you. I can give you more power – no, give isn’t the right word for it – I can help you take power. Take the power that you deserve, that is owed to you.” She held out an empty hand as if saying, join me up here.

The words stuck in his throat, like fishbones, but, damn it, she was right. He stared at that leather-gloved hand, at its grain gleaming in the dim light. Damn himself, but he wanted to reach out and take it.

The leather creaked as she made a fist. “At the moment you have some women of the Gutter Streets afraid. That’s an excellent start. But what about the women in their cosy drawing rooms in the Sixth District or the Third or even the First? Do you think they’ve heard about you or your work?”

He burned, the thing under his skin pulsing as if it would burst out of his flesh. Women beyond the Gutter Streets.

That twitch again and the pain – always the bloody pain. His fingers shook. Damn this woman. How could she know what he wanted, the words to say to make him feel this?

Hundred, right now, he wanted her – he didn’t know whether it was to kill her or take her if he could still, but he wanted her. Her words …

Teeth gritted to stop himself saying something stupid, he stared at her in silence.

She tilted her head. “But I can help you. Together, we’ll have those women in their drawing rooms as terrified as any professional facing your blade.” A slow blink and an even slower half-smile. “So what do you say, try out my tip and see if it works? After all, you have nothing to lose.”

Breath tore through his chest. He watched her throat, the throbbing vein above her lace collar. On other women, he’d seen that vein open, bright blood spilling. “I could take aristos, not just professionals?”

“You could. With my help.”

He could have aristo bitches at his feet, pretty lace stained with their own blood. She seemed so sure of it. The pain and the pleasure in his groin merged, wonderful, unbearable.

“And they’ll be afraid?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “What worse monster than one that comes from the Gutter Streets and strikes wherever he wishes?”

That would be real power.

But … “You said I wasn’t a monster.”

“Not to me, no.” Her nostrils flared – she had to smell it, the stink of piss that he couldn’t control, but the look she gave him, the smile, there was something gentle about it, like she really did care. He’d seen it in the looks mothers gave their kids. Never from his mum, though.

Even her dark eyes softened, no longer distant stars but lit candles in windows, beckoning home. “But to them, you’ll be a beast from beyond the very hells, a terrifying creature they cannot fathom nor escape.”

A beast from beyond the very hells. Maybe she did understand.

11

A Stolen Gift

Derry drew gently on the reins, her leather gloves creaking. She murmured for the black and white sabrecat to slow. The trees lining the wide road rustled in the breeze, their leaves touched with copper and gold. She’d received an invitation from Tacita and, now she was on her street, her stomach fluttered in the same scared-excited way it had when she’d received that note at the ball.

Smiling softly, she fingered the front edge of her jacket, only inches from her inside pocket and the striped hair clip within. Black and yellow like a wasp, like her more-than-friend Tacita Di Vespa, the wasp. It would make an excellent gift. The gods had put it in her path.

Or, rather, Erdem somehow had, even from the grave. Last night, she, Quin, and Ariston had snuck into Erdem’s former home. At the funeral, Atesh had mentioned Erdem’s belongings had become the property of the Tulip Throne, but the house hadn’t yet been emptied. When they’d made further enquiries of neighbours and the Hidden Court, they’d discovered his home still stood empty, with guards at the front door, but none inside. Their contacts’ information had been good, allowing them to spend a couple of dark hours gathering valuables to sell. The Tulip Throne had plenty – they wouldn’t miss it.

When Derry had opened a little trinket box, she’d found treasure inside: a two-inch gold hair clip, covered in glittering stripes of jet and perhaps yellow sphene or chrysoberyl? Maybe citrine? Quin would know, but if Derry had shown her, it would have gone into the collection to be sold.

And if she’d told Quin she wanted to keep it, she would have been forced to explain why. That would have led to Tacita and exactly what she was to Derry. She wasn’t ready for that conversation yet.

So, she’d kept quiet, and they’d carried their haul away on the backs of two sabrecats stolen from the enclosure behind Erdem’s house.

Now Derry rode the smaller of the two, a female, black and white with amber eyes and a pointed, almost fox-like face.

She patted the sabrecat’s sleekly-furred shoulder and drew her to a stop outside number 11 Deniz Road. The house was nine windows wide, closer to a mansion than their modest-by-comparison townhouse. Five storeys tall, opening right onto the road, it loomed overhead, blocking the sun at this time in the late autumn afternoon.

Raising her eyebrows, Derry swallowed. Gods, Tacita certainly was wealthy to afford such a large house in the city and in the Third District, too. She was always well-dressed, but that could have been a wealthy woman’s whim, sacrificing in housing to afford a better tailor.

This house was no sacrifice.

She dismounted neatly and tethered the cat – she’d have to come up with a name for the delicate creature since Quin had declared they were keeping them. For now, Cat would do. She scratched under the pointed, furry chin, and told her to stay, before approaching the front door.

Moments after she rang the bell, she was escorted inside by a stout butler, Mr Karga, of middling years, olive skin, and dark hair. After storing her coat and gloves, he took her through the high-ceilinged corridor, past a sweeping staircase and through a set of double doors that opened out into a profusion of light and leaves under a glass roof.

Frothy ferns and leafy palms surrounded them, sketching the edges of a flag-stone path that opened out to a patio and her.

Tacita sat at a cast iron table, a white smallcat curled on her lap, and a tiered cake stand before her, covered in pastries, dainty sandwiches, and miniature cakes. She wore a deep lavender gown with a single row of ruffles along the neckline, mirroring the decorative icing. At their approach, she looked up and smiled.

Derry sighed. That shade of purple complemented the gold in Tacita’s skin and stood out against the deep greens of the garden room, as though she were a flower in its midst.

“My dearest Derry,” Tacita said, voice smooth as ever. She nudged the smallcat from her lap and rose before dismissing Mr Karga with instructions to see to Derry’s sabrecat. Once he was gone, she spread her arms in welcome. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Thank you for the invitation.” Derry smiled as she approached, clasping her hands. How were they meant to greet each other now they’d kissed? No etiquette books covered that subject.

Tacita swept towards her, apparently free of any such doubt, and gripped her shoulders, strong and certain.

The breath caught in Derry’s throat, and she swayed towards her. Kiss me.

Tacita met her gaze, and her smile softened before she pressed her full lips first to Derry’s right cheek, then to her left: the standard greeting in Italia and Hesperia. She paused, mouth a few inches away. “Come sit,” she said, breath fanning Derry’s face before she pulled back.

It was all she could do to nod and let Tacita lead her to a seat. They exchanged pleasantries as Tacita poured peppermint tea with a porcelain tea set painted with blue tulips. The cups were so delicate, light filtered through them. This set had to be valuable, indeed.

Derry squeezed her hands in her lap. What would Tacita think of her little gold hair clip? Perhaps it would be an insult to such a wealthy woman to receive such a petty gift.

It had been over a week since that kiss in the drawing room. When she’d received Tacita’s invitation, she’d been thrilled at the prospect, but this seemed so normal. Tacita’s polite chatter about balls and gossip, her confident, calm handling of the tea – she showed no signs of nervy excitement and her greeting had been polite, despite the butler’s absence.

Derry sipped the refreshing tea, glancing over the rim of her cup at Tacita, who delicately bit into a bright green pistachio pastry.

Perhaps she had regrets as Quin had feared with Atesh. Perhaps this afternoon’s invite and the exorbitant amount of cakes was all a kindness. An effort to let her down gently. She frowned. But hadn’t Tacita been pursuing her for a while? She’d chosen her costume at the palace masquerade with reference to her homeland and had made a point of showing it off to her.

Unless Derry had read all the signs incorrectly.

“I really must apologise,” Tacita said, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “I intended to invite you here much sooner, but I’ve been very busy with business dealings.” She lifted the teapot in offering and Derry shook her head. “I was horrified when I looked in my diary this morning and realised it had been over a week since I’d seen you.”

“No need to apologise.” She gave a stiff smile. Had her disappointment leaked into her expression to be read so easily?

Tacita raised her eyebrows, eyes wide for a moment. “Oh, but there is.” She poured herself another cup of tea and shook her head. “It’s entirely beastly of me to leave you without the slightest contact after such an enjoyable evening.”

The corner of Tacita’s mouth twitched and did Derry imagine it or did her gaze flick to her lips? Surely that had to be an allusion to their kisses?

Perhaps she’d been worried over nothing. Her smile relaxed, and she leant over the table and squeezed Tacita’s hand, the touch warm and rewarded with a soft gasp from Tacita. Ah, so Derry could affect her just as she did Derry. Good to note. “Then any beastliness you believe yourself guilty of is forgiven.” She forced her hand to release Tacita’s and take a bite-sized cherry tart from the top of the tiered stand.

Quin extolled the virtues of closeness then absence in matters of flirtation and she’d been trained in the art – who better to take advice from?

“Thank the Hundred for that.” Tacita grinned and raised her cup as if toasting. “I did read a little of you – by proxy, at least. The columns mentioned that Atesh Shahin Pasha attended his cousin’s funeral wake with Lady Sabia on his arm.” She raised an eyebrow. “I say mentioned – really I should say they described each painstaking detail. What she wore, what they drank, to whom they spoke – la, what a bore it must be to write gossip columns!”

Derry scoffed and nodded. “It’s a wonder their identities remain secret – surely they must carry notebooks to record all those little details. I’m surprised no one sees them scribbling away in a corner.”

Tacita snorted. “True enough. I saw it reported that they were even announced together” – she took a sip, eyebrows raised over the rim – “might that be an overture to a more official announcement about the pair?” She clicked the cup back into place on the saucer, a little harder than Derry would have done with such fine china. “Indeed, they seem a veritable power couple in Arianople – he the dashing, popular artist with the glamour and tragedy of the Shahin name and she …” One shoulder rose, and she gave a funny half-laugh, half-sigh, gaze drifting away. “Well, I’ll grant she’s most easy on the eye, and I suppose someone must think she’s faintly witty.”

Derry clamped her jaw shut before her mouth could drop open. What a thing to say about Quin. But, then, Tacita wasn’t saying it about Quin, was she? She only knew of Lady Sabia. This had to be more of that jealousy she’d glimpsed at their last meeting. She’d have to find ways to reassure Tacita that no matter the gossip about some ladies and what they did with their ladies’ companions behind closed doors, she and Lady Sabia were simply friends. Over time, if their relationship continued, it would strengthen, and that would make Tacita forget any jealousies.

She cleared her throat, easing her jaw now the surprise had passed. “Lady Sabia is indeed beautiful,” she said, as though Tacita hadn’t made it a back-handed compliment, “but she isn’t the one I’d award with the golden apple.”

Tacita’s brows shot up, and a slow smile stole over her mouth, her eyes hooding, as though she were a cat having her chin scratched. “But, I wonder …” She sighed. “If they marry, what will become of you? Will you stay in Arianople? Or will that mark time for you to go home?”

Home. The word was a jab to the belly when she didn’t even realise she was in a fight. She sucked in a sharp breath.

She missed it, but she couldn’t go home yet, not when shame still knotted her guts into a hopeless tangle. She couldn’t face Sigrid’s family when she hadn’t done enough to atone. It was her fault they’d been captured. It was her fault she couldn’t save Sigrid’s life. She’d learned a lot since then, even saved some lives in her work with Reyhan, but …

Would it ever be enough?

That was what she wanted. Tacita had asked the other day, and this was the answer. To be enough or at least to know she would one day have done enough to loosen the knot.

She worked her tongue around her mouth and swallowed. “And you said I speak about Lady Sabia too much!” She managed a stiff grin.

Tacita’s laugh cascaded through the glazed garden room. “I’m sorry, I suppose you have a point.”

“But, more seriously …” Derry tapped her cup with a fingernail, the note ringing around them. “I have been considering the question you asked after you said that, about what I want.”

Face smoothing, Tacita nodded, gaze intent upon her. “And do you have an answer?”

She sucked in another breath and sat back, letting her gaze drift up to a palm’s huge fronds. “I want to help people, to do some good.” Her work with Quin and Ariston went towards that, not that she could mention it. “I have some apothecarial knowledge.” That was safe to own up to. “I want to use that knowledge to help people in need.”

After visiting Red and Ela, she’d suggested to Quin that they direct some donations to the families left behind by the murders. Not only did they have the tragedy of losing a loved one, but they were now struggling with a lost income. Money wouldn’t soothe their grief, but worrying about paying for food or rent would only make their sorrow deeper, their lives more difficult.

They’d donated money, but there was more she could do with her skills. “I’ve been going to the Gutter Streets, trying to provide free treatments and medicines and even the preventative to those who want it, but there’s only so much I can do, only so much I can give away” – she sighed – “it all costs money.” Her face heated. Gods, people like Tacita didn’t discuss money. Society considered it crude. To address it, suggested you needed it and the games of society revolved around maintaining the appearance of boundless wealth. She winced. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me” – she shook her head – “I got carried away.”

“No,” Tacita said, shaking her head, “no, please don’t apologise. I enjoyed listening to your impassioned discourse. It was quite enchanting … And I understand a lady’s companion often has, forgive me for saying, limited means, no?”

Derry sucked on her lip, watching Tacita. Her eyes were wide, and she leant forward, engaged. There was so sign of distaste hidden beneath her kind words. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, yes.”

Her eyes narrowed in calculation. “So, you have access to equipment and” – she wiggled her fingers – “whatever it is that you need to do your apothecarial tasks?”

“Oh yes, yes, Reyhan’s very good at allowing me to use her equipment and she’s taught me a great deal.” Perhaps being able to talk to Tacita about this would help her find a solution. And if it didn’t, owning up to this wish made it feel more solid, perhaps even made the knot a whisper less tight. “And I’ve not been entirely useless – we’ve been able to exchange quite a lot of knowledge. The herbs and resins here are different from those to the north and west, you know.”

Tacita cocked her head, a smile at the corner of her mouth. “This work means a lot to you,” she said, voice soft, “doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I …” Grey eyes swam into her vision for a moment, clear as they hadn’t been for years. She swallowed, throat full. This was the first time she’d been able to picture even that little detail of Sigrid. I’m sorry, my friend. She blinked away the image. “This work – it’s mine. It’s a way I can help others under my own direction.” Rather than under Quin’s.

“My dear” – Tacita nodded, gaze intense – “it does sound as though you’ve indeed found what you want.”

Derry touched her chest as her eyes stung, not with sad tears, but with the relief of the right answer, of a direction that felt true.

Tacita tapped her fingers on the table, the cast iron reverberating softly. “And the thing that’s holding you back is funding the raw materials, the dried herbs and so on?” She gestured at the plants growing around them.

Wincing, Derry clenched her hand into a fist. She’d been clumsy to mention it. “I’m sorry I brought it up – I don’t mean to –”

“No, no” – Tacita reached over and ran her fingertips over Derry’s knuckles, easing her fist loose – “whatever society might think, when you are with me, Derry, no subject will ever be taboo. Indeed, I’m thrilled you’ve told me.” She smiled brightly, eyes glistening as she rose. “Don’t you see? You have a direction, and I have the means.” She yanked on a bellpull by the door.

Derry blinked. What did she –

I have the means.

Did she think this had all been a hint to get money from her? “Oh gods, no – what must you think of me?” She shook her head and rushed to Tacita, hands raised. “I wasn’t trying to hint that you should –”

“Of course not – I didn’t for a moment think you were.” Tacita took her hands and placed them together, giving a gentle squeeze. “Ah, Mr Karga,” she said as he appeared, “please instruct Miss Terzi” – she glanced at Derry – “my secretary – that Miss Bowyer is to be given … How much do you think you’ll require? Would ten zeri a month be enough?”

Derry stared from Tacita to Mr Karga and back again. Damn it, what must he be thinking – here’s a woman pursuing his mistress for her fortune?

And it clearly was a fortune. The large house in this district. Enough staff to include a secretary. The clothes tailored so exquisitely. A cake stand full of far more cakes and sweets than two people could ever eat in an afternoon. She could certainly afford to help.

It wasn’t such a leap from what they already did, only this time it was a donation from the rich to help the poor – no crime required.

And Tacita had offered.

Whatever her pride might say, to decline a gift would deprive families of much-needed medicine. Her knowledge, combined with Tacita’s money, could save lives.

She swallowed and nodded. “That’s far more than enough, I think I could quite easily manage with a few.”

“Ten a month, then.”

Derry opened her mouth to reply, but Tacita raised an open hand.

“Derry, I don’t want this endeavour to merely manage, I want it – I want you to be a raging success.” Her smile was warm. “Mr Karga, tell Miss Terzi she can mark it in the ledger as charitable donations to an apothecary in the Thirteenth District for medicines to help the locals.” She waved her hand, dismissing him to the task, and leading Derry back to their chairs.

Once Mr Karga had shut the door, Derry rubbed her face. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that, but I do truly appreciate it.” Gods, how many people could she help with that much money? They’d be able to stock up on plenty of resins and herbs, including the rarer, more expensive ones. They’d even be able to buy that more effective distillation set-up Reyhan had been pining after.

“Please, it’s a small matter for me, but I see it’s a great one for you and from what you’ve said, I understand it’s an even greater one for the Gutter folk you’ll be helping.” With brows lowered, she watched the white smallcat as it prowled out from between two orchids. “I confess, I’ve never had much time for charitable works, but it – yes, it feels good. Thank you, Derry – you truly are an eye-opening young lady.” Her gaze drifted back from the smallcat and fixed on Derry. Her chest heaved above the neckline of her gown. She lifted her hand, brushing the back of it across Derry’s cheek, making a shiver dance down her back. “The night I found you at the Asams’, I was given a rare gift indeed.”

Derry swallowed, pressing into Tacita’s touch. “Speaking of gifts,” she said softly. “I – I have a little something for you. Don’t get too excited, it’s only small, but I saw it and thought of you.” She’d said it now, she had to do it. Not daring to look at Tacita, she pulled the hair clip from her pocket, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a red bow.

Tacita gasped at the parcel and clasped it to her breast, staring at Derry with bright eyes. “Thank you, Derry.” The tissue paper rustled where she gripped it as if she’d never received a gift before. “Thank you.”

“You’ve not seen it yet,” Derry said, face hot. Gods, what expectations did Tacita have as she unwrapped it? This was a mistake. “It’s not anything – I mean, if you don’t like it or don’t want to wear it, I won’t be offended – I’m sure it’s not nearly as fine as some of your other –”

“Oh, Derry,” she said in a low voice as she pulled away the last of the tissue paper. She looked from the clip to Derry, eyes narrowed for a moment. Damn it, she must be wondering how she could afford gold and jewels when she couldn’t afford more herbs for the Gutter Streets. She shook her head. “I adore it.”

“It – it was a bargain, really.” She winced. It wasn’t as though she could tell Tacita she didn’t pay anything for it because it was stolen. “I spotted it in a pawnbroker’s – I suppose they must not have realised what they had – it’s real gold, you know – they were selling it for a song, so I had to –”

A throaty chuckle came from Tacita. “My dear lady, please hush.” Derry clamped her mouth shut. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re quite the worst gift-giver they’ve ever met? Because if not, then let me do so now.” She grinned, shaking her head. “I’ve told you how much I love it, there is no need for justification or depreciation – of yourself or the gift.” Holding the clip out, she raised her eyebrows. “Now, will you please help me put it in my hair and tell me why you chose this exact clip?”

Derry licked her lips and scoffed at herself. Maybe Tacita was right – what kind of person other than an idiot gave a gift, then spent the next minute explaining how inexpensive it had been?

She gave Tacita a rueful smile as she took the clip and rose, circling the table to stand behind her. The smell of ginger and sandalwood, vibrant and familiar, brushed her nostrils. “It made me think of that wasp pin you were wearing when we first met and, of course, your name.” She opened the teeth of the clip and combed her fingers through Tacita’s hair, the silkiness forcing a sigh from her lips. “Di Vespa means the wasp, doesn’t it?” She slid the clip in place above one ear and closed the jaws around her hair. Not wanting to step away, she let her hand fall to Tacita’s shoulder, the tip of her thumb falling over the edge of her gown, grazing her skin.

Her heart thrummed heavy and hard, and she had to bite her lip against the urge to bend down and kiss that same spot.

Tacita must have felt the sudden tension thickening the air because her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and she drew a long breath before looking up at Derry. “Yes, I was wearing that, wasn’t I?” She scoffed. “Aren’t you observant, my dear?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “How does it look?”

There was only one answer Derry could give. “Beautiful.”

“The clip?”

The look Tacita gave her – all lowered lashes and heavy lids – made her breath hitch.

“You.”

Tacita flushed – her feline smile leaving no doubt that it was with pleasure. She snaked an arm around Derry’s waist and pulled her onto her lap, as easily as she would have lifted the smallcat and placed it there. “You think me beautiful?”

Gods, it was true. Her dark eyes, deep and gleaming, so often hinted at humour or thoughts bubbling beneath the surface. Her soft hair begged to be touched again. One lock draped over her shoulder, now, its red-brown gleam irresistible.

Nodding, Derry rubbed the curl between her fingertips.

“What a simply delightful coincidence,” Tacita murmured, bending close, “because I think you are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen.” She came so close with the last of those words that her lips brushed Derry’s as she spoke, sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

This wasn’t being let down. This wasn’t a woman with regrets.

And neither was Derry.

Closing her eyes, smiling, she sank against Tacita’s mouth.

12

An Approaching Storm

Around the corner from yet another ball, Quin huddled in a shadowy gateway, pulling her cloak close against the rising wind that whipped up her hair and blew her skirts against her legs. But the chill did nothing to cool the excitement thrumming through her body. Each fibre vibrated like magic in the air.

At a rumbling sound, she held her breath. Was that carriage wheels on cobbles or thunder? The air was damp and heavy, the night sky thick with cloud. There would be rain tonight, most likely a storm, but as this sound neared, it brought the jingle of harness buckles.

Two black sabrecats loped around the corner, one with a familiar round face and wide, kittenish eyes. Atil. And that meant Atesh.

The coach stopped, and its door flew open. A quick glance left and right – no one but her, the driver, and Atesh in the carriage, reaching out to her.

She ran from the shadows, hurried to him, and took his warm hand in hers. She smiled broadly as he pulled her up and inside.

Alone at last.

The carriage rumbled on.

“I’ve been waiting to have you to myself for an age,” he said, arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her close.

“Indeed?” She raised an eyebrow as she pulled off her gloves. Reyhan had removed the stitches yesterday and declared the wound was healing well. Pain shot through it most days, but the skin had closed, and the apothecary told her it was a normal sign of healing. In public, she still had to hide the red scar that had formed, but here, alone, it didn’t matter if Atesh saw. He knew that secret. “Well, we’ll be at your house shortly.”

She smiled, smoothing her hand over his chest and the fine linen of his shirt. Gods, it was good to feel something. She hadn’t realised how much she relied on and enjoyed her sense of touch until she’d been forced to wear gloves all the time, dampening all sensation.

He raised his eyebrows at her, a roguish grin on his mouth. “That wasn’t the only reason. Not that I can’t wait to get you up to my chambers, but there are things I’ve wanted to talk to you about for some time.”

Gods, please don’t let him try and propose. She swallowed and tilted her head in question.

“Before the funeral, Ilyas came and found me.”

Ilyas … So not about them – unless he’d asked the Valide Sultan for permission. “Oh?”

“He had a proposal for me.”

She couldn’t help but scoff at that. Not the kind of proposal she’d been expecting to discuss.

He gave her a faint frown, tilting his head.

“Never mind,” she said. “Go on, what’s this proposal?”

“He’s offered me the Co-Regency.”

Co-Regency? Had there even ever been one? He’d only said offered … “And did you accept?”

He took her hand. “I did. I was shocked he even offered it, but it was an easy decision.” He leant close, green eyes fixed on hers in that serious look he got when he did foolish things like saying he loved her. “I thought about what you said in the fortress. I thought, this is my chance – not to have power for myself, for its own sake, that still doesn’t interest me and never has. But this could me be my way of helping the people of the city – all of them.”

All of them: that could only mean the Gutter Streets. So changing his will to help them hadn’t just been the fleeting act of a man facing death: he intended to help them in life, too. Hundred, he’d actually listened to that dressing down she’d given him. Not only listened to it but taken it to heart.

She swallowed. With him helping the Gutter folk officially and her doing so unofficially, they might be able to make a real difference. Most of the time, it felt like she was fighting to keep people’s heads above water. She squeezed his hand. “Atesh, this is amazing. This could be such an opportunity for you – for the city, for the country.” And yet his body was rigid with tension, his jaw especially. “You’re worried?”

“Yes, a little, I confess. I’m trying not to get too excited about what I’ll be able to do – the changes I’ll be able to make. I – I tried once before to use my position to help, but” – his gaze slid away – “I’m ashamed to say that when it became difficult, I gave up. What if someone tries to block me again, and I can’t push through their obstacles?”

Tried before? And been blocked? By Zeynab Sultana – it must have been.

A light patter on the roof and side of the carriage, tapping on the window. The threat of rain had come to fruition.

“As Co-Regent who could stop you? This is different – you’ll have an official position, power, and influence. You won’t just be a member of the Shahin family, not only a pasha.”

He sighed. “Safira could stop me, I think. Technically she has the power to veto, despite her age. I could still fail.”

Gods, he sounded so vulnerable, so afraid. More afraid than she’d heard him in the fortress, even. She couldn’t push him into finding a purpose in life and then leave him alone to face it. And she wouldn’t let it break him with the weight of responsibility when he was only getting started. Not everyone had been trained to great responsibility since childhood.

“Atesh,” she said, voice soft, touch soft on his cheek until his gaze returned to hers, “failing because someone else stops you is no failure. The only true failure is not trying. If Safira blocks you, then she blocks you, but I know you’ll try and that’s all any of us can do in life.”

The fine line between his brows endured as he searched her eyes, mouth set in a straight line. “But what if after all this, after everything – after my great realisation on the doorstep of death … What if, after all that, I still can’t help anyone after all? I don’t think I could bear it.”

Quin scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, my dear soon-to-be-Co-Regent. I have absolutely no doubt that you’ll do good, that you’ll help.” No, no doubt about him – he was intelligent and kind and if there were a way he could help through the Divan Council, then he would.

Her doubts lay much closer to home. Their proximity was already a risk to him – if her crimes or identity were to come to light, it could be a danger to him. People would accuse him of being complicit even though he knew nothing.

And this new position would only increase the attention upon him. He’d no longer be some member of the royal family, but an active part of the rulership of the nation.

More power. More attention. Upon him and so upon her, even if she were at his side in only an unofficial capacity. A much higher chance of discovery. Gods, what might that mean to his work to help the Gutter Streets?

Could she put him and his work at such a risk?

And growing closer to him placed her closer to secrets better left buried in the past. Seeing Prima at the wake had had a physical effect that she hadn’t prepared for, as though she’d been struck by lightning.

“You’re very quiet for someone with no worries or concerns,” he said, lifting her chin and her gaze from where she’d been staring into the distance. “If you’re worried that this will have an impact on you and me, then please don’t fear. Apparently, I must have a bodyguard – if I don’t choose one, he’ll be chosen for me. But I’ll find someone I can trust, so it won’t affect us.”

That was the last thing they needed, some stranger tailing his every movement. It was hard enough now to find privacy. Hopefully, his confidence in finding a trustworthy bodyguard was well-founded.

“And as for the rest” – his thumb stroked her cheek, his gaze searching hers as if his intensity would make her believe – “I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again – I love you Quinta Sabia, and this position changes nothing as far as I’m concerned. I know you’re not ready to say it back and I’m not saying it because I expect you to, but I want you to know how I feel. You mean absolutely everything to me – your talking to in the fortress is the reason I’m even accepting this role. You’ve opened up the possibility I might actually make a difference.”

How had she found such a man? Oh yes, by trying to con a fortune from him.

She sighed and managed a smile. “Thank you. Thank you for not pressuring me into saying … It’s – I’m just concerned I could be a source of scandal for –”

Scoffing, he shook his head. “Let me worry about any scandals that may or may not make their way to my doorstep. You forget that I regularly invite professionals to my house to paint them – I’m quite capable of creating my own scandals, thank you very much. You’re no concern to me in that respect.”

Easy to say when he didn’t know the exact level of scandal her secrets could cause.

Gods, she should break things off with him and leave. It was the only way to protect him and the good he could do for the Gutter Streets. And yet, she leant closer to him, to his warmth, to the solidity of his body.

Damnation, he was tempting, and she was weak.

Although maybe he had a point – he was a Shahin, one of only two left in that bloodline, and that afforded a certain level of protection. She’d be tried and punished, yes, and the papers would buzz with the scandal for a month or so, but then they’d forget and move on to the next new thing.

When Mum had muttered about Prima and her crimes, she’d said a regent could only be removed thanks to either of two things: death or treason. Quin’s offences certainly didn’t qualify as treason, and a ruler was virtually safe from punishment for any other crime – just as Ilyas had been immune from mandatory testimony at Atesh’s trial. Maybe as Atesh’s paramour, her felonies wouldn’t hurt his work – he could go on helping the Gutter Streets. That was the most important thing.

He slid an arm around her waist. “I was actually hoping you might be able to help me with ideas about how I could use the position for the betterment of the Gutter Streets. You seemed to have a lot of ideas that night we spoke to Malos, Danyal, and Nazli. I have the contacts and the capital you mentioned. Perhaps you can consider where I might best direct those assets to do the most good and let me know. I’d thought a school, perhaps, as a starting point, but I’m sure you’ll have ideas I haven’t even considered.”

A school. A place where the children could learn to read and write. They might even manage to get jobs that paid a decent wage. An excellent idea, but the Gutter Streets didn’t only need grand gestures – there was a multitude of small things that would make life better, healthier, safer. All the practical considerations someone like Atesh brought up with only the best wouldn’t even think of, like water and proper sewage provision and new houses and making the existing ones safer. In some areas, they were in real danger of collapsing while the people inside slept. In a few places, they’d already done so.

Hundred, how far could the Tulip Throne’s coffers stretch? How much did a new standpipe or construction of proper outside privies cost? Not things she’d ever needed to consider before.

She swallowed, heart racing as fast as her thoughts. So many possibilities, so much to think about. But what mattered was that he wanted to help, and he wanted her ideas about how to do so. She leant closer and covered his lips with her own, melting against him.

When she pulled back, his eyebrows shot up. “I’m not complaining, but what did I do to deserve that?”

“Just being you.” She smiled and smoothed a stray lock of hair from his brow. “Also, I’m pleasantly surprised you recall so much of the conversation from that evening – I recall a fair amount of punch was involved.” She fought against a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He chuckled and squeezed her waist, hand trailing down to rest on her hip. “I remember a great deal about that night, regardless of the amount of punch involved.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “There was even one point that night I was strongly considering kissing you. I wondered if perhaps it was too forward at that point. But I do hate missed opportunities. I suppose I’d better make up for it now.” He bent over and first brushed his lips against hers, teasing. She couldn’t help the soft noise at the back of her throat, but a smile flickered on his mouth. “Now, now, impatient!” He shook his head in mock disapproval before pressing his lips against hers more firmly and gathering her into his lap.

She nestled against him, tongue brushing against his, and when they finally pulled apart, she sighed. “You know, I still think there could have been a fair bit more kissing than happened that night, so it might take a while to make up for the missed opportunity.” She nodded with a grave frown.

“Ah, that’s your expert opinion, is it? Well, duly noted. I’m sure we have plenty of time to do all sorts of making up for missed opportunities.” He leant his head against hers, eyes closed.

They sat that way a long while, gently rocking against each other as the carriage worked its way through the streets of Arianople. But their quiet contentment was eventually interrupted by a flash of light outside soon followed by a crash of thunder.

Atesh twitched the curtain, glancing out with a frown. “Well, that explains the headache.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was one other matter I wanted to ask your advice on.”

“Hmm?” It was all the question she could give, as her eyelids had grown so heavy and her body, too.

“I suppose Ariston told you about my father.”

“Your father?” What could Ariston possibly have to tell her about Atesh’s father?

“Oh. I assumed he would’ve shared with you before me.”

“Shared with you?” She sat up, shaking her head. “I think you need to take a step back because I’m thoroughly confused now.”

“Huh. Well, I wasn’t expecting that. He visited me when I was in the fortress – didn’t you know?”

“Visited you?” Why would Ariston visit him in jail and then not tell her about it?

“The plot thickens. He came to the fortress the day after you. He had news to tell me – well I suppose something from twenty years ago can’t really qualify as news, can it?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, but get on with it.”

“Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked, aren’t I?” He shook his head and a frown creased between his brows, so fragile she regretted pushing him quite so harshly, even if only in jest. “It’s just I haven’t said this out loud yet. You see, it turns out that … Undoubtedly, you’ve heard about Ferros Shahin and his vices through the gossip channels.” His brows raised softly, hopefully.

Of course, he didn’t want to have to spell out. She’d built up a picture of his father – partially through things he’d mentioned about his childhood, partially from Malos, and even the odd comment from insufferable gossips, perhaps trying to put her off, or in the case of Yildrim probably trying to foster some sort of pity.

Ferros had been a drunk and a coward – what else could you call a man who beat a boy? According to some, his wife, too. He sounded like he’d been a singularly vile individual. How he’d managed to sire a man who seemed in every way his total opposite was something of a mystery, but one she was grateful for.

She swallowed. “I’ve heard enough to get an impression of the man.”

“Yes, despite being dead for over a decade, he still has a reputation. Well, I’m very grateful to say Ariston was able to shed some light on my family in a most unexpected way.”

Still hedging – this must be something significant for him to so dawdle around the topic. Despite her impatience, she nodded encouragingly and ran a fingertip across the little crinkles between his brows. She continued the line down his cheek and along his jaw. Her touch had the desired effect, and he smiled.

“You see, it turns out he wasn’t my father after all.”

She blinked. Not his father? That cleared up that mystery – he hadn’t sired a son who was his total opposite. Then who had? And how did Ariston know? Oh, gods, don’t say Ariston was his father. Please. Ariston had always been like an uncle – no, like a father to her. Was he going to start playing dad to Atesh, too? That would be –

“You see,” Atesh went on, “Ariston was going to be my fencing master … Because … Er, I can’t say why –”

“You know who he is” – she narrowed her eyes – “don’t you?” Oh dear, he wasn’t a great liar away from the card table.

“Oh, so you do know that?”

“Of course.” She grinned. “Who do you think I train with?” He still hadn’t said Ariston wasn’t his father … Swallowing down the question, she raised her eyebrows at him to go on – this was his story to tell in his own time.

“Well, I’d assumed that, but when you said Ariston hadn’t told you about my family, I suddenly wondered if you shared quite as much with each other as I’d thought. I promised him I’d keep his secret safe and I didn’t want to accidentally share it with you thinking you already knew.”

“Entirely understandable and he’d appreciate it. In fact, it makes sense – that will be why he didn’t tell me. Ariston’s a great believer in not telling someone else’s secret. He would never tell me about your family because it’s not his secret to tell. As far as he’s concerned, it’s for you to tell me if and when you so choose.” Although if he was Atesh’s father …

“Very … Honourable. If and when you so choose.” Atesh nodded thoughtfully, thumb tracing his lower lip.

She tapped her fingertips on her thigh, silk skirts rustling. Gods, would he please just tell her?

As if eager to highlight the insignificance of her finger-tapping, the rain redoubled its efforts, lashing against the window. It hammered on the roof, deafening. The poor driver would be drenched – the cats too.

Drawing a breath, Atesh shook his head and blinked. “So, much as I’m glad to say Ferros isn’t my father, I have not been rescued from being related to the fellow entirely, and I don’t doubt you’re wondering who my real father is.” He gave an enigmatic smile, now apparently settling into the revelation and mystery.

So, he had that information from Ariston, too. “Go on.”

“You see, he isn’t my father, but he is my uncle. His brother Dastan Aksoy is my father.”

“Huh! His brother – Malos’s father?” So Ferros was his uncle and – “Malos is your brother – half brother?” The likeness between them – it explained so much. Not Ariston. Thank the gods – that would have been too strange.

“Exactly.”

“Gods! Does he know? Does his father know – your father?”

“Ferros knew. Right before my mother died, she told him she was leaving him for Dastan.” He shook his head, gaze distant.

She was going to leave him? That made it sound like his mother had loved Dastan. She didn’t know whether to smile about or cry about it – the woman had found someone she loved, despite growing up at court, a rare achievement, and yet she’d spent her years married to an abusive coward and had died before leaving him. Shaking her head, she ran a hand over her face.

“Hundred, what a scandal that would have caused. Your mother must have been a strong woman to have the bravery to face that.”

“She was.” His throat bobbed. “I wish you could have met her. I think you’d have liked each other – she was independent and chose her own path, too.” His voice was soft on the words as if they were an embrace he longed to give his long-dead mother. Her chest ached for him.

He cleared his throat. “As for Malos and his – my father – our father, well, I haven’t yet addressed it with them. I think our father knows I’m his son, but I don’t think he realises I know yet. My gods, how does anyone keep track of secrets and who knows them or not?” He shook his head and sighed.

Poor Atesh, he really wasn’t used to all the secrets and lies. She raised her eyebrows. “How, indeed.”

“I’m not sure how to broach the subject with –”

The carriage jerked to a stop, and the door burst open.

She reached for the dagger hidden beneath her skirts – were they being held up?

But when she caught her breath and looked out the door, they were at Atesh’s home, sheltered beneath a brick archway close to the house, with Nald staring at them, a slender hand on the carriage door.

Atesh calmly removed her from his lap, placing her back on her seat. “What on earth, Nald? Give a man some warning!”

“Forgive me, sir, but an urgent message has arrived for the lady,” the valet said, breathless.

She raised her eyebrows. This was the second time she’d seen him flustered, and the first time had been when Atesh faced execution.

“For me?” That narrowed down the number of people the message that could be from – only Derry and Ariston knew where she was staying this evening. At least, she hoped only they knew.

“Yes, madam,” Nald said, handing her a sealed letter.

“Thank you, Nald, particularly for staying up so late to give this to me.”

“I didn’t trust it to anyone else’s hands.” With that, he bowed and hurried back into the house.

There was only one reason he’d be so circumspect with an apparently innocent note. “You told him, didn’t you?” The folded envelope simply said Lady Sabia, but it was Derry’s handwriting.

“I told him that you helped me.” Atesh raised his eyebrows and nodded at the note before exiting the carriage and waiting in the doorway.

She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Quin,

Our friend down the road requires help. Her house has been hit by the storm. Assistance needed. I’ll have your transport ready.

D

All warmth drained away. It was coded, but she knew whom Derry meant. Livia. What happened at the asylum? Here, the carriage was protected by the brick archway but outside it pelted down. The storm had only just hit the city, blowing in from the north – the same direction as the asylum, standing at the top of the hill.

A prime spot for a lightning strike.

“Quin,” he said softly, “what is it?” Sudden warmth: his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Atesh, I need to go. Do you mind if –”

“Of course, take the carriage.” He called for the driver, who had jumped down from his seat. “Is there somewhere we can take you or –”

“Just home, please.” She went back over the letter. Hit by the storm. What had happened? Was Livia safe? Her stomach knotted, bile rising in the back of her throat.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” His eyes fixed on her, making a clear effort to stay away from the note. Respecting her privacy.

His kindness and discretion were two pinpricks of warmth in the ice that her body had become. “Thank you. Your help in getting home is all I need. I’m only sorry I have to dash away, rather than …” She raised her eyebrows.

“Perhaps you can join me after you attend to this business?”

Though the knotted, sickly feeling in her belly dominated, there was an echo of longing in there too. She sighed. “I think it unlikely – I need to travel some way and won’t be back until the small hours, perhaps later. But call on me tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”

“I’ll ride to your house with you, I can at least do that.”

“No, no sense both of us missing out on sleep – for no good reason.” She raised an eyebrow and gave a half-hearted grin.

He looked at her fingers drumming on her thighs. “Very well, you hurry home and stay safe. Will you travel alone at this hour?”

“Ariston will come with me, maybe Derry too.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and they kissed briefly, with him promising to take her up on the offer of a visit tomorrow. When he closed the carriage door, he called up to the driver to get her home as quickly as possible.

All the way, Quin stared out at the lashing rain and the staccato lighting. It must be bad for Derry to interrupt, bad enough for the asylum to send a message in the first place. They didn’t have her real name or address. To reach her, they contacted an inn on the fringes of the Gutter Streets. The inn sent a message through a go-between to Oria, who looked after some of her kit. And Oria sent a note to the house. How long had that taken? How long since they’d been hit by the storm? And what exactly did that mean?

Gods, had the message reached her too late?

“Hold on, Mum. Please, hold on.”

13

Burning Bright

The streets were busy tonight, with girls working in the alleys more than touting on street corners. It was that time of year, the last big blow out before winter settled in with a hike in food and fuel prices and the need for new clothes to keep out the cold. Tonight, the air smelled of rain, fresh and damp. He didn’t have long before it would send everybody inside – it was only drizzling now, grey and constant, but thick, dark clouds blew in from the north. His eyes narrowed. Storm clouds.

Hat pulled low, he stepped from the deep shadows of the piss-smelling doorway where he’d been watching the girls and their customers and their comings and goings.

Thank the bloody Hundred, at last, this one was on her own, the other professionals otherwise occupied, and no one else waiting. She looked familiar – she had to be one of them. He and she were the only two on this narrow lane.

Light flashed in the distance, a crash of thunder right after. Not a moment too soon.

The storm would be here soon, and he needed this one tonight. It had been almost a week, and the hungering burned in his blood. It itched somewhere in his belly that he couldn’t reach. It twitched in his groin, painful and insistent.

It demanded release.

She peered up as he approached, that glint in her mud-brown eyes inviting like she enjoyed her work. Her dress was tatty and dull, the hem hanging around her ankles, short and frayed, but it had maybe once been pink, like the paint on her lush lips. Those lips, full and bright, were the prettiest thing about her. A short silver chain circled her neck, a little freshwater pearl dangling from it, like the ones he’d picked up in his mudlarking days.

“Good time, mister?” she asked, leaning forward, so her tits were practically on show. She bent so far, they spilt from the top of her stays completely. They were a good handful or two, and the dark ovals of her nipples sent his crotch tense. That sickly mix of heat and pain stirred low and empty.

Slice her …

Seeing where he stared, she pushed her arms together making more of her assets. “I can show you that and more.” She was almost pretty in a hungry, shadow-eyed way. Right up until the moment she smiled, showing yellowed teeth in a jagged row, a big gap on the left.

Yes, she was one of them. She’d been right at the front. Those teeth. They’d sneered at him. How on earth could he forget?

Rage bubbled in the pit of his belly. It churned with the heat already there and the twitch lower down. He took a deep breath – he couldn’t let her see his anger, his hate – it would scare her off.

He gave a smile of his own – hopefully not too wolfish – and reached into his pocket to pull out a coin. Didn’t she recognise him? Probably not – most likely she saw a dozen men a night, maybe more. Probably didn’t even look at their faces. Right now, her attention was on that shimmer of metal in the dim lamplight. She watched as he pushed the coin down into the darkness between her tits.

“Hundred bless you, sir, you can have whatever you want for that.” She grabbed his hand, leading him away into the alleys. “Twice.” She winked over her shoulder.

“For what I like, once’ll do.” He followed, staring at her swaying hair. It was long, down to her arse and fell in loose waves that he reached out for. His fingers tingled as they brushed against the blackness, trapping a few strands for a moment.

“Not that way,” he said, yanking on her hand, so her shoulder snapped back, “this way. I’ve paid, I want a long time, no interruptions, and I know somewhere dry.”

“All right, you’ll have as long as you’ve paid for, lovey.” Again, she smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Her nose and lips were cold. Autumn was definitely here.

He led her down a silent side alley and turned left and right, then left again until they reached a small courtyard around the back of some old houses, long abandoned. The front room of one had collapsed, and families had moved out of the ones next door not long after. The collapse had crushed an entire family, and some said the place was haunted.

Haunted – bugger that. No such thing as ghosts, or monsters. Only him. What did he have to fear, when he was the one to be feared?

He smiled at her again before leading her to a doorway sheltered from the rain. Just like he’d promised.

There, alone in the gloom. And with a hand on his chest, she pushed him back against the wall and unbuttoned his trousers.

“Bit of suck before? You paid for it, lovey.”

“I have.”

She knelt down and let the front of his trousers fall.

“Here, where’s” – she sucked in a breath – “it’s you!” She looked up to find a blade inches from her face.

Her wide eyes. Slack jaw. The tremor in her voice. The vein in her neck, throbbing hard and fast.

She knew him. She feared him. She was powerless in his grip, and his blood sang with the sweetness of it.

She didn’t have time to scream.

He stepped aside to avoid the spray, all the while smiling down at the gaping red grin in her throat. The cut was perfect this time, and she barely moved before slumping in the doorway.

Rain roared in the courtyard, heavy now. Bastard stuff would wash away the blood. He loved the stuff, the oozing of it, the way it glinted black in dark alleys, and they were scared of it.

But if he did what that posho woman had said, he’d give them something else to scream about. Something to whisper about with a shiver, afraid and wanting. Something to write about in their papers.

And after tonight, they’d have something to call him. So far, they’d always said the murders, but last night, before that woman had taken her guards and left him, she’d made another suggestion: a name. If you don’t name yourself, they will. Naming was power, and he’d be bloody damned if he’d let them have that. So he’d chosen one for himself. And what better way to announce it than to write it in this whore’s blood?

The flow from her neck slowed, stopped. He dipped his fingers into the dark liquid and smeared it on the dry door where it would be sheltered from the continuing rain, but bright and clear to the poor bugger who found her.

Imha. Like the god himself. Destruction. Misery. Disaster. As horrific as the image on The Fallen Tower Card that he’d pulled out of his Mum’s Deck on his thirteenth birthday. Imha would approve of these women’s deaths, the violence done to their bodies, their destruction.

Speaking of which, time to see if that posho woman knew what she was on about.

But first, his prize. He yanked the necklace until it broke with a clink. Pretty. His. A reminder of this, of her, of making her his. He held it out into the rain, letting the cold drops wash away the blood before he slipped it into his pocket.

Now for destruction.

He smiled and angled razor and knife to begin the next step. The handles were smooth against his white-knuckled grip, and he took long breaths. Gods, he could just stab and stab and make this bitch pay and …

But he’d done that before, and there hadn’t been any newspaper reports outside the Gutter Streets, only some pathetic meeting at the Hidden Court. That woman had pissed him off with her posho accent and … and everything, but she’d said she could get him attention. She’d told him he could make a real mark on the city. And the things she’d said had whispered in his ears ever since.

… play with her …

Apart from the rain, it was quiet here. He could play in peace, so he took his time with every inch that interested him.

Tomorrow’s papers. Would this make the front page?

… maybe cut something off …

Yes, they’d have to report on that shocking detail.

And the terror on the face of whoever found her … And the grimacing janissaries who’d have to deal with the mess.

Though not her face – that he would leave as it was. A little questioning O in her lips, eyes staring up, pretty and dead.

… reshape your women’s bodies …

It wasn’t hers any more. It was his.

She was his. The tension low in his belly throbbed. She’d been one of the women who’d thought they could stop him. And that was in his old work. Taking them, listening to their screams, their crying, their begging. But screams didn’t last. Crying didn’t last. Begging didn’t last.

This did.

Stupid bitches. Thought they could control him? He would never stop. He made his own rules, and these were his streets now.

His hands crisscrossed slowly: a touch here, a slice there, peeling somewhere else.

You’ll hold power over her after she’s dead.

A shiver crept across his shoulders, so close to pleasure it made him groan. It was good to plunge the blade in or inch it in slowly, to watch the light snuffed out at his wish.

But it wasn’t the same. It didn’t get rid of the ache that made his balls twitch, with no way of helping them spill. They’d taken that from him. Forever.

He growled, jaw tight, knuckles hard.

The blade slipped on bone, ruining the careful line he’d been drawing.

“Bugger!” He slashed the knife, hacking. The body lifted, as if alive for another moment, but that was only where he’d kicked it.

“That was your fault.” He glared at her and the stupid O on her face. When he took a breath and stood up and looked at her exposed body, her clothes cut away and pulled open, her skin in places too, he smiled and nodded.

“What do you know? Posho bitch was right.” He frowned and nodded to himself. Perhaps he’d go to the meeting she’d offered.

If she had more suggestions, maybe she could help him finally get satisfaction. A satisfaction that lasted.

And once she’d finished giving him all those ideas, he wouldn’t need her any more, and he could take her too.

14

Into the Storm

Quin and Hira skirted the trees, taking some shelter from the wind and driving rain. The sky ahead looked clearer, calmer, driving them on in the hope of escaping the storm.

Even through leather gloves, her hands were growing numb where the wind lashed them. Every so often, she tucked one in her armpit for a minute to let it thaw out, before returning it to the reins and repeating the procedure with the other, gentler with her left.

Glancing over her shoulder confirmed Ariston wasn’t enjoying the conditions either – the lower half of his face was buried in a thick scarf. With a raise of his eyebrows, he asked if all was well. Nodding, she turned back to the road ahead.

They’d left Derry at home, sorting through more belongings to sell – if the asylum needed repairs, they might increase the fees or ask for a donation. Although they’d had an excellent haul from Erdem’s house, it would take time to find suitable buyers, distant enough to avoid suspicion or crooked enough to buy hot goods.

The asylum’s message had been about as vague as Derry’s, simply requesting her attendance post haste.

So here she was, riding through the night, through the storm, through the undergrowth at the edge of the forest, Ariston close behind on a grey cat they’d taken from Erdem’s stables. Both kept watchful eyes on the darkness of the woods, searching for movement and the danger it signalled, but it wasn’t likely any animal would be out in this weather – anything and anyone sensible was tucked up at home, waiting out the storm in comfort. Poor Hira’s coat clumped in wet spikes of fur. None of them should be out here.

But neither should Livia.

Quin squinted up through the haze of rain to catch the outline of the hill ahead.

For so long, no one had known Livia had been ill, not even Livia. She’d escaped the palace and raised her daughter, believing herself lucky to escape the illness that had plagued the Sultan and eventually claimed his life. No signs of sores or madness. How were they supposed to know it could sit dormant in the system, waiting to show symptoms for years, decades even?

Waiting until the most devastating moment.

Livia had kept the bouts of illness hidden at first, but it became harder when lesions appeared on her neck.

Quin had worked out the symptoms must have started when she was a teenager. Over the years, Livia had declined, the lesions leaving scars that became increasingly difficult to hide, the disease wracking her body. But worst of it all had been its creeping consumption of her mind.

Initially, it had been little moments of forgetfulness. So easy to dismiss – didn’t everyone have them? It was unusual for Livia, true, with her flashing eyes and intellect to match – she forgot little if anything – but even she was human, fallible. Mortal. It felt as though the sickness had spent the past few years proving that to Quin: one day, Livia would die.

In returning to Arianople, they’d come full circle, except instead of Livia living in the palace harem, as she had before the Night of the Innocents, or the Gutter Streets, where she’d brought Quin up, she dwelled in the Rumelihisari Asylum, in a strange half-existence.

The old fortress sprawled over the top of the hill and down one side, its position no longer used to keep attackers out, its new focus to keep patients within. Quin could see it now through the sheeting rain, lamplight at the arrow-slit windows, the smell of –

“Smoke,” she shouted back to Ariston, squinting into the night. Was that a yellow glow beyond the walls or was her mind playing tricks on her? “Fire?” The wind snatched the word away the moment it escaped her lips.

The ride uphill was agony; the smell of smoke grew stronger, the glow above the fortress more definite.

When she’d last visited, Mum had only had a few minutes of lucidity when her eyes focused on Quin rather than away in some past before she’d even been born. In those moments, she’d asked where Quin had been, what she’d been doing, whom she was conning.

And Quin had lied. After all, what could she tell Livia about Atesh? The woman had always told her: Never let a man possess you.

Wincing, Quin stared at the fortress until her eyes stung. Lying to her sick mother, who was now locked in a burning asylum. Those lies might be the last thing she ever got to say to her.

She gripped the reins until the fresh scar on her palm screamed.

Hira had barely stopped before Quin leapt from her back and banged on the massive iron-banded doors, Ariston not far behind.

No answer.

She frowned – usually the shutter opened first, and eyes appeared, checking her over, recognising her from previous visits. She hammered on the doors again and again until her hand throbbed.

At last, a flustered-looking boy, not more than ten, flung the wicket door open. He wouldn’t have been able to even reach the shutter.

“We’re busy,” he yelled, flinging the door back in her face.

Ariston caught it and pushed his way past her and inside. “We’ve come a long way, lad,” he growled. “What’s happened here?”

The boy was already scurrying down the hall. “Been hit,” he called over his shoulder, “lightning. Some has gone down, but we’ve got the fire under control – it’s the store in the courtyard. Rain’s helping.”

Quin shot Ariston a wide-eyed look, as they hurried after the child. All the adults must have been fighting the fire. “And was anyone hurt?”

The boy shrugged. “Maybe – some rooms came down, probably crushed ‘em.”

Her step faltered, one hand shot out to the cold stone walls to keep her upright, to stop her head spinning.

“And Mrs Chichek?” Ariston asked. “Is she safe?”

“Don’t know their names. I work in the gardens.” The boy stopped at an intersection and shrugged again, then frowned and looked up at them, as if seeing them for the first time. He raised his eyebrows. “Is she yours?”

“My mother,” Quin croaked past the knot in her throat.

He swallowed, nodding. “Well, you can go check on her if she’s yours.” He started off to the left and pointed them the other way. “I’ve got to help with the water. Keys are hanging at the end of each hallway.” With that, he disappeared around the corner.

“Ariston,” Quin said. Her stricken expression must have said it all. She was frozen to the spot, not wanting to check, not wanting to know. If they went to her mother’s room and found it caved in ...

And the adults had left that boy to answer the door and no one to check on the patients. The Warden must have been more bothered about the stores than people who might be injured or even …

“She’ll be all right,” Ariston said firmly. “Your mother is a survivor, even more than you are. She’ll be all right.”

But the hand he placed on her shoulder trembled.

Taking a breath, Quin nodded, trying to reassure both of them. She didn’t trust herself to speak, though, and so they trotted together along the hall towards Livia’s room.

There were signs of the storm – a general feeling of damp and cold, some part of the roof must have been leaking. Little rivulets of water ran along the corridor. The door of one room was open, and they went to pass, but both stopped in their tracks.

A low moan escaped Ariston’s lips. Quin stared, mouth open.

The far wall had fallen in, revealing the courtyard beyond. In the dark and rain, shapes darted back and forth, edged with firelight. Beneath the piled stone that had been the wall, splintered wood and blood-stained sheets. The bed. Or, it had been.

Bile at the back of her throat. The person who lived here …

She had to be sure. She couldn’t leave them.

Looking to Ariston for reassurance was no help – he stared, eyes wide, hand clamped over his mouth.

She swallowed, once, twice, and again.

“Quin,” Ariston murmured as she started forward, but she shook his trembling hand off her shoulder. Now she was in movement, she couldn’t stop until she reached the bed and checked. What if they were still alive? Trapped? Injured? Suffering?

Through a gap in the debris, she saw it. Red and gore and the white of bone. Chest crushed beneath rock. A woman’s wide, unseeing eyes. Brown hair spread across the pillow.

Quin stumbled away, vomit sour in her mouth. She retched in the corner until nothing more came.

Gone.

That poor woman. Dead. Just left there, alone and terrified in her last moments by the look on her face.

A single sob ran through Quin before she mastered herself, breath held for a few seconds.

And everyone who worked here was busy with the stores. Where the hells was the Warden? All the times she’d met him, he’d seemed to care, but the corridor was empty – he’d sent no one to check the rooms.

She shook her head, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

“Ariston.” Her voice sounded far away. “Come on.” She turned away from the collapsed room, dragging on his arm.

“Livia,” he whispered, shaking hand over his mouth as if he’d tried to stop the word coming out.

“Around this corner.” Quin swallowed down the sick feeling, stomach roiling, legs somehow still working.

Step by step, they approached Livia’s corridor. What if she’d been crushed? What if they got to her room, door intact to their relief, but once they opened it, just found a pile of rubble? What if she was trapped beneath the stone, alive, but hurt, begging them for help? What if Quin wasn’t strong enough to move the stone? What if? What if?

She and Ariston were arm in arm now, but it was hard to tell who was leaning on whom. His breaths came ragged from his lips, and he stared ahead, unblinking, as if unable to look away from everything unfolding before them.

They reached the corner. A corridor stretched off to the left, sparsely lit by a single lamp.

True to the boy’s word, keys hung on hooks, each labelled. She took the one labelled Mrs Chichek, while Ariston grabbed the lamp from the wall, jaw knotted so tight it looked like it might snap. They looked at each other and nodded, striding ahead, elbow to elbow.

When they reached it, Livia’s door was still locked. The key clinked against its ring as Quin’s hand shook its way to the lock. She had to clamp both hands around the key to get it in the hole and turn it, the lock was so stiff and her fingers so clumsy. Her injury twinged, but she clenched her teeth and ignored the pain.

The door seemed to swing open in slow motion.

She stumbled forward into a room dark but whole. Light spilt in as Ariston held up the lamp.

There, in the corner, a pale shape curled up on the floor.

“Mum.” Quin ran to her, eyes burning.

Livia looked up, eyes round, but no sign of injury.

A breath huffed from Ariston, halfway to a laugh. “Thank the Hundred.” His voice rasped on the words.

They checked Livia over, and she seemed uninjured, though chilly in just her nightgown. She reacted to their presence and voices but didn’t speak. Searching the cabinets, Quin found some mismatched clothes in a cupboard and managed to get them on her without too much struggle.

At Ariston’s raised eyebrow, Quin straightened up and took Livia’s hand. She lifted her chin at his unasked question.

“We’re taking her home.”

15

Portrait of a Lady

Atesh tapped his fingers on his thigh – it was taking a lot longer than usual for the door to Quin’s house to be answered. When it at last opened, it was Derry who greeted him, bluish circles below her eyes.

Atesh raised his eyebrows – in all the time he’d been calling on Quin, her lady’s companion had never once answered the door.

“Oh!” From that sound, he wasn’t the only one who was surprised. “Atesh Pasha. You’re here ... now ... Er ...” She trailed off and looked back into the house, returning to him with a twisted expression.

“Qui – Lady Sabia asked me to visit this afternoon,” he said, correcting himself to a more formal address, following her lead. Technically he should call her Lady Sabia at all times if they were being proper, but there were a lot of technicalities they hadn’t followed in the time they’d known each other and things between them had grown rather improper.

Derry’s eyes widened. “She did?” Again, she glanced back into the hall. “Well, I’m afraid she isn’t –”

“Who is it?” came Quin’s voice from within.

Derry scowled over her shoulder. Had she been about to lie and tell him Quin wasn’t home? With a sigh, she turned back to him. “Well, do come in, sir!”

The hall was in a state of disarray – assorted chairs and boxes stacked next to the staircase, a card table and a threadbare chaise longue. “You’re not moving, are you?”

Quin emerged from the small door that must have led down to the kitchens. “Who –” She froze at the sight of him. Like Derry, she looked as though she’d slept little, her eyes were tinged red, and her hair fell in a simple braid over one shoulder, messy from sleep.

But her attire was something else entirely. He’d seen her in a ball gown the morning after a ball. He’d seen her in the relaxed ‘undress’ gentlewomen wore about the home – lightly petticoated skirts and loosened stays with sleeves attached by ribbons that were most enjoyable to untie, one-by-one. He’d even seen her in men’s clothes at the palace masquerade and at Kediler Square on that day, but those outfits had been disguises.

Here she was in stockinged feet, breeches, and a white shirt with billowing sleeves in the middle of the afternoon. The fit of the breeches showed off her curved hips and well-muscled legs and the tailored shirt cut in under her breasts, rather than following the usual conical shape stays created in women. No stays. As relaxed and comfortable as when they were alone in his chambers. Certainly not a sight for company. At least not officially. He swallowed, clenching his hands to keep them from reaching for her.

This was her as herself. No disguise. Strong and independent as the sellswords who wore such shirts and breeches. Dear gods, his blood burned in his veins, urging him to take her now upon the staircase and damn Derry or anyone else who might see.

But the look on her face was frozen in shock. This outfit, much as it suited her, much as it screamed Quin, it was another outward sign of her secret. And that secret kept her and her truth out of his reach.

Derry cleared her throat. “Not moving, no.” She exchanged glances with Quin, closing the door behind him.

Quin brushed her hands down her front, tugging her shirt. “You recall the message I received last night? Well, my – my friend’s home was quite uninhabitable, so we had to clear a room here for her to stay in.”

He eyed the stacked furniture and boxes. Why would Quin keep such a tatty chaise longue?

She smiled ruefully, scratching the back of her head. “We were in something of a rush and haven’t had time to move it today. I’m afraid the room was being used as something of a store cupboard.”

“So I see.” He raised his eyebrows. “I hope I ha –” It was his turn to freeze.

It was half-hidden behind a chair, but he could make out the colours and the texture of the brush strokes past the chair’s balloon back. Breath caught in his throat and he started forward without realising he was moving. “That painting.” He pulled the chair away and crouched beside it. There was a sound of objection from Quin, but it faded beyond those familiar brush strokes.

It is.

He checked the bottom left corner – the silhouette of a falcon, little more than an inch high marked the oil painting, together with 113. “It is!” He drank it in, the delicacy of the light hitting flesh, the different quality of it against the subject’s hair and silk gown; the changing hues and shades used in the shadows and highlights; the way this brushstroke was angled exactly so to convey the impression of a fold of fabric, that one to emphasise the line of her lip. The hand he placed on the falcon signature trembled. Mama.

“Where” – he swallowed, throat suddenly thick – “where did you get this?”

“I – it …” Quin shook her head.

“Oh, that old painting?” Derry asked. “Wasn’t it up in the attic when we arrived?”

“Yes! Yes, I do believe it was. We found it in the attic, it was –”

“Can I buy it from you?” He said, finally looking up at Quin. He cocked his head and peered from her to the painting and back to again. The likeness ...

If he hadn’t known the piece had been painted before she was born, it could have been her. Almost. Quin’s features were softer, her eyes and skin lighter; the mouth in the painting perhaps smaller than hers. Still, the resemblance was strong.

“No.” She raised her eyebrows, seeming as surprised at her abrupt response as he was. “I – I’m afraid I have grown quite attached to the piece –”

“And it belongs to the owner of the house,” Derry chimed in, “doesn’t it, Quin? We’ve only taken the house for six months, if you recall, Pasha.”

“It –” He ran his fingers over the frame, sighing, as he rose from his crouch. “It’s a beautiful piece. Do you know who the subject is?”

Quin shook her head, lip caught between her teeth.

“We don’t,” Derry said. “But doesn’t it look like Quin? I think that’s why she’s taken such a shine to it.”

Quin parted her hands and gave a rueful smile.

The woman looked a lot like Quin. Could the subject be a relative? Perhaps the painting didn’t belong to their landlord, and they’d brought it with them. But, in that case, where had they got it from? Mama had gone on a grand tour in her youth – perhaps she’d painted Quin’s relative on her travels, and it had returned here in some enormous coincidence.

No, that didn’t seem likely. And yet this painting just so happening to look so much like Quin seemed an even less likely coincidence.

“Do you know what that little bird means?” Derry asked, cocking her head, “I saw you looking at it.”

At first, he simply nodded, not trusting himself to say it.

Get a hold of yourself, man. He swallowed and squared his shoulders. “It is the signature of a very famous painter of the last Sultan’s court,” he said, pleased at how firm his voice sounded, even as he looked the painting over. “She was a favourite of the Sultan’s family. But she was also loved by other artists, sparking a change in fashions with the way she observed so carefully, but painted so freely. She wanted to capture the impression, the essence of the things she painted, rather than slavishly recreating every strand of hair. See how the eyes are so precisely painted, the glint of light so perfectly placed? Then the hair, the gown, moving further away from the eyes, becomes less distinct, less definite, more of an impression. She wanted to capture a moment in the life of the subject, not trap every strand of hair or frill of lace in dead oil and canvas.”

A soft grip on his little hand, adjusting the paintbrush. The smell of linseed oil, but with that tinge of lilac when she hugged him, praising his efforts. Her velvet voice, soft and silky as the throat of a little songbird, pointing out the way the slant of evening light changed the colour of the leaves where it caught them, turning them gold.

“She was my mother,” he went on after the pause, dimly aware Quin and Derry had been staring at the painting and now at him. “I thought I had all her surviving works, save for the ones still in the palace, but it would seem not.” His hand rested on the frame. “So, you see why I’m so keen to buy it.”

When there was no response, he glanced up at Quin and was shocked to see unshed tears in her eyes.

He opened his mouth to apologise for upsetting her, when she spoke: “Your mother painted this?”

He nodded, chest full and warm with pride.

“It’s a shame we can’t sell it to you,” Derry said, putting a hand on Quin’s shoulder, “but, as I said, it’s not ours to sell.”

Fine, he’d play along, even though she could be lying about that. “Could you perhaps ask the landlord if he’d be willing to sell it? He could name his price.”

“We can ask.” Derry nodded. “Now, I’m sorry, Pasha, but Quin isn’t feeling well after last night’s adventures – she was back very late, you know, and I fear she forgot she’d asked you to visit today.” Her icy eyes flicked to the door. “I think I’m going to have to take her to bed if you wouldn’t mind excusing us.”

Quin looked pale and somehow shrunken. “I’m sorry Atesh,” she murmured, with a grimace. “I’m so tired, I fear I’d be terrible company. I feel awful cancelling our plans twice in a row. Can I come to you tomorrow evening for dinner, perhaps?”

“Tomorrow is the Uzuns’ party.” He sighed – he’d sent his RSVP to Nazli and to renege would be the height of rudeness, even if a private dinner with Quin would be infinitely more enjoyable. It felt as though the only times they were alone were snatched moments around social engagements. But he still had bridges to mend amongst the aristocracy ahead of his investiture as Co-Regent. “If you’re still going, that is?”

“Oh, yes.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I’d lost track of what day it was. Yes, I’ll see you there tomorrow.” She glanced at Derry, who was resolutely looking at the floor.

Derry muttered something about going to fold back the bed and padded up the stairs.

Once she was gone, Quin leant closer. “And after, I’ll see what I can do to get you to forgive me for being so useless today.”

He laughed at that and pulled her to him, arms around her waist. “You are amusing.”

“I aim to please.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Go and sleep, my darling.” Despite his heart’s wishes, he let her go and turned to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

Out in the chilly autumn day, he took a long, cool breath. The Blind Lady had surely smiled on him today – finding another of Mama’s paintings in such an unexpected location.

How could he get it into his possession? And who was the woman in it? Was the resemblance to Quin a mere, odd coincidence? Hundred, everything about the woman led to more and more questions.

113, it had said below the bird in tiny black numerals. Mama had kept logbooks, cataloguing all her works, often with notes on the subjects and the circumstances behind the painting. He had most of the little gilt-edged books somewhere in the house. With the Blind Lady’s blessing, he’d have the log that covered painting number 113.

Perhaps that logbook would give him some answers.

* * *

Quin sighed as the door clicked shut behind Atesh. She sank onto the stairs, rubbing her eyes. Gods, why had she come out here? She’d thought Derry had sent away whoever was at the door. Foolish error, thanks to her exhaustion. That had been far too close. His shocked expression when he’d first seen her – did she truly look so terrible or was it her mannish attire? And the painting – gods! She winced to think of how he’d stared at it with such longing. Had he paid much heed to the likeness? She swallowed. Of course he had. The way he’d looked from the canvas to her and back again, there was no way he hadn’t.

The way Derry sighed as she trotted down the stairs suggested her thoughts ran in a similar direction.

It would probably be safer, easier to sell the painting to Atesh, or give it to him, so it was out of the house, away from her. But she couldn’t part with it.

Livia’s painted amber eyes peered as bright as they had once been, not as they were now.

Wincing, her head dropped.

Derry sat beside her. “Well, that was close.”

“I think it went beyond close.”

“You think he recognised Livia?”

“No, I doubt he’s seen any other pictures of her.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “He saw the likeness, though. There’ll be more questions.”

“Or he’ll work it out.”

“Or that.” She groaned, leaning against the stairs, the edges digging into her back. “I thought I’d tackled it all the other night, but no. I can’t answer his questions, so there will always be more of them, won’t there? There’s never going to be just him and me; always he’ll have his unanswered questions, and I’ll have my lies. A bloody cage of them.” It held her apart from him. They could touch, his closeness tantalising, but her secrets and lies were iron bars. Unbendable. Unbreakable. Unavoidable.

“Hypothetically, have you ever wondered what would happen if you told him? The truth, no lies – all of it.”

“Oh yes, let’s see how that would go, shall we?” Quin closed her eyes and pictured it. “Listen, Atesh, I have a few things to tell you. For starters, my mother was in the Sultan’s harem, turfed out on the Night of the Innocents. So I was born and raised in the Gutter Streets, trained to act the part of the gentlewoman to lure in noblemen – why, yes, like you, Atesh! – so I could con them and flee with a small fortune. But I’d never steal from you, honest. I mean, I was originally planning to, when I first met you, but I actually … care for you, so somewhere along the line, I decided I’d save you, rather than steal from you.

“I’ve stolen enough that I could probably have retired by now to some massive villa in the country, except I’ve given most of it away and the rest has been spent on my mother’s care. Oh, did I not tell you? Well, my mother has the Sultan’s disease, too, so she’s lost her mind and there’s a small chance I might have it, depending on what physician you speak to, but I’ve never had symptoms, so they think I’m probably fine. Aren’t I quite the catch?” She sat up and lifted her hand to her forehead as if shading her eyes from the sun, squinting. “Look, there’s Atesh running away as fast as he can. Oh, and he’s stopped to tell a passing janissary, too.” She sighed, and her hand dropped. That was unfair – he was kind and had already helped hide her secrets. He probably wouldn’t tell the janissaries about her, even if he knew.

But a person whose feelings were hurt badly enough was like a wounded sabrecat – they could lash out at even those they loved most. Especially if that person had caused the hurt in the first place.

The running away part, though. Well, that was inevitable.

And the worst thing was, she couldn’t blame him.

Derry winced. “I perhaps wouldn’t put it quite like that. But, yes, you have a point. He – I’d like to think he was trustworthy, but who knows how he’d respond if he found out. And if he told a janissary, well …” She mimed putting a noose around her neck and tugging it up, tongue sticking out, eyes rolling.

When Quin didn’t laugh or reply, she sighed and let her hand fall. “You are fine, you know,” she said in a low voice. “Both Reyhan and I have checked you, but that was only a precaution – more to soothe your fears than for any medical reason. You’ve never had any symptoms – Livia didn’t even have symptoms when you were born or when you were a child – it’s only communicable when there are lesions present. And if you’d been born with it, there would have been signs by now – you wouldn’t get to almost 24 years old without a single symptom. There are always signs from birth, however small.”

Quin took a long, shaking breath. “Thank you.” She gave Derry a brief, fierce hug. “I know, I know, it’s just –”

“Terrifying?”

“A little, yes. It’s hard – so hard – seeing her like this. She – it’s like she’s already gone half the time and the other half is spent waiting for her to slip away again.” She knuckled her eyes, the weariness of last night catching up with her.

It had been closer to dawn than midnight by the time they’d left the asylum. They’d stayed and helped check each of the rooms – three residents had died. The one Quin had first found, crushed to death, another in a similar condition, and the other lying peacefully in bed with no apparent injuries. His heart must have given out from fear at all the noise.

The other rooms had been intact, and the fire hadn’t spread beyond the storage building in the courtyard, so the residents were safe if frightened and disorientated. She’d stopped to offer what comfort she could, tucking blankets around shoulders and brewing peppermint tea for those who could hold a cup.

Once the fire in the stores was out, she and Ariston had wrapped Livia up the best they could in Quin’s cloak and helped her onto his sabrecat.

Thankfully the rain had eased off by then, and they made good time, considering Ariston’s cat carried two. Quin had ridden ahead on the last stretch, checking the streets for anyone who might see them, but the storm had sent people to their beds and kept them there, so they reached the house apparently unseen. Finding Derry still up, Quin had hugged her and filled her in, as they made the Haven into a bedroom. It was the most secure room in the house, with bolted windows and a sturdy lock on the door – there was no danger of Livia falling from the window in a moment of confusion.

Or worse. And who would blame her? If Quin found herself with a fading mind, sometimes not knowing who her own daughter was and often with no idea of who or where she was herself, would she want to stay around to be sucked further and further into that terrible nothingness of not knowing herself or her world?

She shuddered at the thought, clinging to a carved staircase spindle. “That’s bad enough” – she shook her head and gave Derry a sad smile – “but then to wonder if it will happen to you.”

“Well, it won’t.” Derry nodded once, solid and definite as if her will made it so.

They sat back, both exhaling. Quin rested her head on the spindle; Derry looked up at the chandelier.

“Quin,” she said, suddenly, “we seem to talk a lot about what you don’t want – you don’t want to be ill, you didn’t want Atesh to hang for a crime he hadn’t committed, you don’t want Livia in danger, but what do you want? Not for Lady Sabia and not for the Gutter Streets, but for you.”

Quin took a breath to answer, but what would that answer be?

She wanted the people she cared for to be safe – Derry and Atesh and Livia and Ariston and Mrs Tepe and Red and Ela.

She wanted life in the Gutter Streets to be different.

But what did she want for herself?

A life. Atesh. To not have to leave him. Happiness.

But they were impossible things – her past, her secrets, her lies, they all kept her bound. And leaving? Well, that was inevitable, and it had always been the plan. Look how close he’d already got to her secrets in only two months.

Gods, what possible happiness could she actually have? Derry, Livia, Ariston, and Mrs Tepe at her side – her odd little family.

But what did she want? That was too much. Too big a question.

Blowing out slowly, she shook her head. There was no answer she could give. “That’s a good question.” She rose before pulling Derry up to her feet and leading the way back to the door to the servant’s staircase. Downstairs Livia, Ariston, and Mrs Tepe waited to resume their interrupted card game. “A very good question.”

16

Avoidance

Arms crossed, Quin tapped her fingers. It was only moments since she’d knocked on the back door of what had once been Dethero’s shop, but Livia had been unusually present this morning, and she was keen to get back to her. She’d only come because they needed the money sooner rather than later and Tuesday mornings Ela tended to open the shop on her own – it would be significantly easier to get on with business without Red around.

But the shop wasn’t open. And no one was answering the back door. Thank the gods it was closed. If she’d come around here and found the lock ruined again, like when she’d found Dethero ...

She shook her head and pounded on the door again.

Still nothing.

“Ela! Red?” Still no response. “I’m coming in.”

It was wrong to be fishing in her pocket for the key – all the hundreds of times she’d come here, she’d knocked or picked the lock.

And when she’d picked it, Dethero had been waiting on the other side with his rakish smile. Even more wrong was that he wasn’t here anymore. Her fingers brushed the timber of the door, and she swallowed.

That was then; this was now. That day was gone.

There was no reason to worry.

Clenching her jaw, she wrenched the door open. Why Dethero had left his half to her rather than to Ariston was a mystery. And damn him for doing it in her real name – that had required some careful manoeuvring, which Ariston had taken care of. But it had been a close call.

But was it such a surprise? After his father had died, he’d been left with no close family and hadn’t he always sought to bind Quin to Arianople, to keep her from wandering city to city, country to country?

Sighing, Quin surveyed the office. It wasn’t hugely different from when it had been Dethero’s, but there were subtle signs of Red and Ela’s management here.

She touched the desk lightly as she passed. It was far neater than it had ever been under Dethero’s care, only an ink well and a copper-nibbed pen on the surface, both perpendicular to the edge. They’d dusted the shelves, and the books now stood in alphabetical order. Other tools of the fencing and pawnbroker trade that had always spilt out of cupboards and drawers to cover most surfaces were now hidden away or neatly stacked on shelves. Red and Ela had never had so much space to call their own, keeping it so scrupulously clean and tidy was a stark contrast with the curtained-off half of a pokey room they’d shared before.

Quin had already peered through the front windows of the shop when she’d arrived – empty. There was no sign of anyone back here, either.

“Red?” she called up the stairs. Maybe she and Ela were unwell, and that was why they hadn’t opened up. “Ela?”

No answer.

With a sigh, Quin started up the stairs. That smell. There was the sharp, back-of-the-throat smell of piss. She frowned – Ela and Red kept the place clean, why did it smell so bad?

It grew darker as she left the natural light of the office window. No lamps or candles lit up here.

Beneath the piss, a faint smell she couldn’t quite place, stronger as she reached the narrow landing with its three doors. Two bedrooms and a washroom – this was luxury by Gutter Street standards, but this was the edge of the Gutter Streets where money trickled in from the wealthier districts when they came to gawk and taste another side of life. Many houses and shops here had been rebuilt or refurbished years ago, with washrooms and running water added.

She pursed her lips. “Red? Ela?”

Perhaps they were severely ill. Reyhan didn’t live too far away, so she could fetch her quickly if need be.

There was also something else to that smell, something deeper that coated the back of her throat.

She wrinkled her nose, trying to breathe through her mouth, but that only brought the taste of copper. She tapped on the door to the bedroom that had been Dethero’s. Even straining to hear, there was nothing. No response from the other room, either.

“Redore, Ela, I’m coming in,” she called through the first door and pushed it open.

The smell engulfed her, all too familiar.

Blood.

17

Islands

The thick smell clogged Quin’s throat, blocking her nose, choking her. The desire to scream swelled in her chest, but couldn’t get past her throat. She teetered – her whole world did – and she stared.

The walls, the bed, the nightstand, the floor, even spattered on the ceiling – everywhere, a horror of red.

Flushing hot then cold, her strength gave in, sending her to the floor, slick and sticky.

The spots on the ceiling, their spacing, size shape, exactly like the Cyclades Islands stretching from Attica to Thanatolia, like on the map at home. She swallowed and tore her gaze from the ceiling.

She had to look.

Once she did, there was no need to go closer to check if Redore was alive or dead, still breathing or not. The whole room was still, and Redore’s gaping throat confirmed it. Even the blood that seemed to touch every surface wasn’t dripping – it had congealed, sitting in glossy pools, like deep red lacquer.

From the carved ruin of her face, Red’s still eyes stared at Quin. She’d been posed on the bed, hand draped over her empty belly, a hollow redness of gore. What should’ve been inside was instead strewn across the sheets, spilling on the floor, streamed over one shoulder, matting in her halo of curls.

She wasn’t sure how she got there, but Quin found herself out the front of the shop on her knees, retching and gasping and retching again. Ears roaring, head swimming, dizzy, faint. Can’t breathe. People nearby walked along, around her when they had to. One shouted something, but the meaning was lost in the deafening sound.

Rough hands on her arm as someone yanked her halfway to her feet. Long, quivering breaths stilled her stomach to a tight ball of terror, and she ran a hand over her face. It was wet. Blood or sweat, she had no idea.

“Help,” she croaked, at last getting sound past the stench of death that still lingered in her throat. “Murder. Janissaries.” She tried to clutch the sleeve of the man who’d grabbed her, but her hands were suddenly clawed, cramped in place.

“Don’t you bloody worry,” another man said. Quin blinked at the loose circle of people around her. “They’re on their way.”

“And an apothecary,” a woman added.

Quin shook her head. “Too late,” she said, her voice hollow over the rushing sound still in her ears.

“She would know,” someone growled.

She was dimly aware of the man nearest to her speaking again, pulling her to her feet fully this time. “Come on, let’s get her inside.”

Half-dragged, half-stumbling, she made it into the shop and found herself deposited on a chair by the counter.

“Gods, she’s shaking,” the woman said.

A coat or shawl – something warm – fell over her shoulders.

A small knot of them stood to one side, hushed voices urgent, eyes darting to her. One declared he was going to have a look around.

Quin shook her head, but couldn’t push out the words to stop them. No one should see that horror. The room flashed back through her thoughts – seeping crimson, congealed in the creases of Red’s hand where it hung off the edge of the bed. She stared at her own hands, willing that place away, but they were smeared with blood, red, turning brown.

“Maybe don’t,” the woman who’d stayed nearby told the others, pulling the cover closer around Quin. It did nothing to still her trembling.

“What? Doesn’t want us to see?”

A cheery chime signalled the door opening; it merged shrilly with the ringing in Quin’s ears.

“Thank the Hundred you’re here,” the shawl-woman said, ushering in more footsteps. In one corner, she spoke quietly to three janissaries. Quin’s shivering grew worse, chattering her teeth, jarring her bones.

“I’ll look around,” a tall, black-haired janissary said and started through the office door.

“I’ll look her over,” another replied, gaze trailing over her, his amber eyes a match for hers. “Shout if you need us.”

Quin jumped as someone snatched her hands from her lap. Amber-Eyes turned them over, nodding with pursed lips. The stern expression, with those lowered eyebrows, clashed with his youthful features. He only looked a couple of years younger than her.

“Up,” he grunted.

It took her a moment to realise he meant it as an instruction to her and before she had the chance to consider following it, he sighed and yanked her to her feet, jolting her shoulder painfully. He flung away the blanket and turned her around, gaze raking her.

She blinked down at herself. A long stain of blood ran up her right leg and hip; another painted her right arm.

That room. Puddled blood. On the walls, red spattered in a perfect recreation of the Cyclades Islands stretching from Attica to Thanatolia.

“... covered in blood,” Amber-Eyes said, holding her jaw in one hand and tilting her face to the light. She swayed on her feet, fingers tingling, still locked in hooked claws.

“I’d say it’s pretty obvious,” replied the other janissary, a gangly, older man. “No injuries on her, must be the victim’s. Gods, what state must it be in up there?”

Amber-Eyes’ face loomed over hers. “What have you done?”

Quin blinked, trying to get rid of that image of blood, but her line of thought was frayed, slipping away from her control.

The older janissary said something she couldn’t hear over that infernal ringing.

“... clearly guilty ...”

Amber-Eyes shoved her back into the chair, placing a hand on her shoulder, hard, fingers digging in. She squirmed away from the pain, but he only tightened his grip and pushed his face into hers. “I said,” he spoke clearly and slowly as if addressing an imbecile, “you’re going to be coming with us, and you’re going to be locked up for a very long time. We know what you’ve done.”

They knew what she’d done? How? Gods, hadn’t she been careful?

“Sick,” the older janissary muttered. “You’ll hang.”

Her throat closed, but her chest burned for air. She gasped, but that wasn’t enough. Her hands spasmed into tighter hooks.

The red room. Again. Surrounding her. Every time she turned away, that bed was there. Red, red, red. Blood, blood, blood. It dripped from the ceiling, covering her toes, her knees, her waist. It filled her throat, her lungs, her nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t –

A bell rang. She was in the shop, in the chair, hunched over her lap, shaking so hard her head hurt.

“What’s this, Constable?” a new voice chimed in.

Amber-Eyes snatched his hand from her shoulder as if burned.

That voice – somehow familiar. The thought circled in her mind. Familiar. She frowned and raised her head. Porto flanked by two more janissaries and –

Red. Quin gasped. But how? No, it was a trick, like the red room, a cruel –

“What – what’s going on?” Red’s face was still, her eyes wide, staring at Quin.

The janissaries turned. They reacted to Red’s presence – she was actually here. Then who was –

Ela. Oh, gods. No. It was Ela upstairs. Not Red.

“Madam,” Porto said, hands raised to shoo Red away, “if I can ask you to leave, we’re –”

“I live here. I’m going nowhere.” She turned a frown to Quin, gaze slowly covering her from toe to hair.

Quin’s ears still buzzed and her hands tingled, locked into place, but her breathing had eased now, not so sharp in her throat.

Red’s chest heaved. “What is it? Where’s all that blood come from?”

Quin shook her head, hooked hands covering her mouth. How could she say? How could she tell Red what she’d seen upstairs? Ela … Oh gods, Ela.

“Ah, I see,” Porto said, ushering Red into the shop. He looked exactly as Quin remembered – neat, brown-haired with a matching moustache and round spectacles. “Then perhaps –”

“Body’s upstairs, Sergeant.” The black-haired janissary who’d ventured upstairs stood at the back of the shop, ashen-faced, thin-lipped. “Back bedroom.”

Porto’s breath hissed between his teeth. Red’s mouth fell open, and she took a step back, looking from the black-haired janissary to Quin. Gods, she’d worked it out. She knew now. She knew.

Frowning, Porto opened his mouth to speak but stopped when his gaze fell on Quin. His brows rose, but he quickly looked away. “Go up.” One of the janissaries who’d arrived with him split off and made for the back office. “Madam,” he said, turning to Red, who’d fallen stony still, “I am very sorry you had to –”

“Ela?” she asked, brows rising at Quin.

Quin’s eyes burned, and her vision blurred. She nodded, and that simple gesture broke something in Red’s expression – her eyes screwed shut, face crumpling.

“No.” A low moan came from Red’s throat as her knees buckled. The other janissary who’d arrived with Porto, a broad-shouldered man with a round belly, tried to catch her elbow, but she shook him off and backed away. With a clink and clatter, she hit a cabinet and lowered to the ground, face in her hands.

Quin clutched her chest. Red didn’t collapse. She was strong. Too tough for her own good sometimes. She’d never let anything show like that. She – it couldn’t be. It couldn’t. And Ela was so young, so vibrant, so sweet. She couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t –

“What have we here?” Porto approached, addressing Amber-Eyes who stood at Quin’s shoulder.

“This is the killer, sir,” he said, “ah – I – I believe.”

The killer. Who – what was he –

“Oh?” Porto cocked his head and made an expansive gesture. “Pray tell how you solved the crime in such short order.” His voice was low, just enough to reach Quin and the three janissaries surrounding her – Gangly, Amber-Eyes, and Black-Hair.

“Well” – Amber-Eyes adjusted his sleeves, and Black-Hair frowned – “this was the first person on the scene. She was found on the street covered in blood –”

“And in a right state,” piped up the shawl-woman, sidling closer. “She was shaking and puking, gasping for breath.”

“As I was saying, covered in blood, in an apparent state of distress, as a killer would be, especially one of the gentler sex. I’ve examined her and found no injuries – ergo the blood is the victim’s.” Amber-Eyes lifted his chin as if satisfied with himself. “She knew the victim was dead, stating as much to the people here, which she would know, being the one to ensure the victim never took another breath.”

He thought she’d done it – killed Ela.

No. She shook her head, but her throat and mouth refused to work. The roaring in her ears faded to a persistent buzz.

A whistle of breath escaped Porto’s lips, and he glanced over his shoulder at Red.

She still sat there at the front of the shop, face pressed against her knees, hugging her legs.

Quin had never seen her so small. Gods. This was too much.

Porto cleared his throat. “And how are you proposing the blood got on this woman?”

Amber-Eyes frowned, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth as if it were obvious. “As she was stabbing the victim, it sprayed on her.”

“Indeed?” Porto let the word hang in the air a long while. “Madam,” he addressed Quin, voice gentler than it had been for his colleague, “may I ask you to rise for a moment, if you feel well enough?”

He offered his arm, and she wobbled to her feet. He escorted her to the back office, Amber-Eyes, Black-Hair, and Gangly in tow.

She should be with Red, trying to explain, telling her, someone familiar at her side, not standing here in the office while Porto examined the blood on her clothes. “I don’t see any spray. Do you?” he asked the shawl-woman, who stood in the doorway. She shook her head. “Or you?” to Gangly.

“No, sir.”

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow at Amber-Eyes.

“No, sir,” he said, “but – but look at her, she’s covered in blood.”

“Partially, yes,” Porto said. “Down one side, down her leg and arm and on her hands and back. There’s none on her front or left side.” He held out her arm to show that the sleeve was free of blood. “It appears the woman fell in some blood – is there much up there?” He raised his eyebrows at Black-Hair while pressing Quin into a chair.

“Yes, sir.” He swallowed. “A lot.”

“What else?” He approached Black-Hair and leant close, speaking softly. “What state is the body in?”

“Her – she –” he stumbled over the words and Quin felt his struggle – how could anyone describe that place? Porto leant closer, and Black-Hair whispered in his ear. They went on in a brief conversation.

There was no temptation to listen in using a Card. This was one conversation she didn’t mind missing.

Porto nodded thoughtfully, peering at Quin’s face. “And yet there is no sign of a spray of blood on this woman’s skin or clothes. And nothing on her front nor the outline of an apron that has since been discarded.” He nodded to the floor. “Indeed, she has no blood on her shoes, not even the soles – she can’t have gone far into the room, unlike you, Constable.” Despite the roundness of Porto’s spectacles, the gaze he offered Black-Hair was as pointed as any blade.

Black-Hair stared down, grimacing – bloody footprints led to him.

“By stomping in, you’ve ruined the crime scene.” Porto sighed. “Even when it was obvious from the doorway, you were dealing with a murder and not a victim who might be alive. And you” – he turned to Amber-Eyes – “have waded in just as foolishly and accused an innocent woman. This is clearly a major crime where your only task is to secure the area and ensure the safety of all witnesses, not to investigate or wander through the crime scene like it’s your first day.” He sucked his teeth in disgust. “Get back to your station and write your reports – I want every detail. I expect to see you three in my office first thing tomorrow.”

Nervous shuffling of feet.

“Immediately,” Porto said, his voice filling the room. The door chimed as Amber-Eyes, Black-Hair, and Gangly rushed out.

Quin rubbed her face, and the door chimed again.

Porto sighed and waved the shawl-woman out the way. He peered through the office door into the shop. “And you are?”

“Someone sent for an apothecary?” a woman answered.

Through her haze, Quin’s eyes widened – that voice – Reyhan? Derry’s teacher did live nearby and was known for helping the Gutter Streets she lived on the border of – she was one of the few apothecaries who dared set foot in the place.

“I fear you’re here too late,” Porto answered. He was right. It would have taken a miracle from every one of the Hundred to bring Ela back. “Perhaps, though, you could help these young women.” He gestured towards Red, then stepped to one side and nodded at Quin. “Her breathing seems to have calmed now, but she’s shivering and her hands ...”

Reyhan appeared at the door, an answering look of recognition in her gaze as it fell upon Quin. “I see,” she said, voice hard as it usually was when dealing with her. She frowned in Red’s direction. “What happened to them?” She disappeared back into the shop with Porto, their soft voices fading.

Quin hunched over, hugging herself. They’d gone to check on Red first. Maybe Reyhan could help.

Poor Red. Poor Ela. What a way to end. What a way to find out. At least Red hadn’t been the one to walk in and see her. It was the smallest of mercies, but at least Quin had been the one to open that door and …

The Cyclades in red. Ela’s empty eyes. Blood in the creases of her hands.

Quin clutched her chest – it hurt like someone was sitting on it, crushing her. Her lungs burned, her throat rasped as she fought for more air. She couldn’t breathe. She was dying. She would join Ela. Poor Ela –

“Quin?” Reyhan appeared in the doorway, the look on her face softening.

All Quin could do was stare back, her breaths sharp, eyes stinging.

With a deep sigh, Reyhan approached. Porto followed, and the shawl-woman waited at the door, gawping in.

The apothecary gently took Quin’s hands, examining them and making a low noise in her throat. She picked up the shawl and tucked it back around Quin’s shoulders. “Her breathing, you said it had calmed down?” Porto nodded in response. “What was it like before?”

“She was gasping,” the shawl-woman responded, “harder than that, like she couldn’t get air in, and clawing at her throat.”

“And no injuries?”

Porto and the blanket-woman shook their heads.

Reyhan nodded and swung her bag onto the desk. “There’s a stove there, someone get it on and boil a kettle of water.”

The shawl-woman hurried to light the fire, clattering kindling and coal into place.

An overpowering smell wafted from Reyhan’s bag as she opened it – a mixture of floral, green, and resinous amber scents, together with the faint mustiness of dried plants.

She crouched next to Quin. “Quin,” she murmured, “can you hear me?”

Quin nodded. She could hear and see, but it was as though the annoying buzz had filled her head. She couldn’t make her mouth move. She couldn’t think; she could only stare and try to get air in her lungs.

Reyhan smoothed the hair from Quin’s brow. “Your body is reacting to what you’ve seen upstairs. It sounds like you panicked a little, which is what made your breathing feel so difficult.”

Panic. This feeling in her chest. Yes, she’d had this before. A long time ago. She wasn’t dying. She could breathe. Like before. She nodded.

Reyhan took Quin’s fingers and wiped away the blood with a cloth before massaging out the knotted knuckles. “Your hands have cramped up as part of this reaction – it’s nothing to do with your injury.” Her voice was soft, softer than Quin had ever heard it. She stayed there, rubbing her hands until the kettle whistled and she went to fuss with it and two cups.

Quin’s chest felt less like it was going to rip apart, but her hands were painfully stiff. Wincing, she managed to flex her fingers slightly. Thank Lady Deception, she could still move them. Reyhan was right.

Reyhan added ingredients to the cups and poured hot water over. “Here, this will help.” She held one cup out to shawl-woman and asked her to take it to Red. She blew on the other and lifted it to Quin’s lips.

It was hotter than was comfortable, but not enough to scald her tongue. It tasted of lavender and lemon and other herbs, almost familiar, but that she couldn’t name. Until the tea’s warmth spread through her, she hadn’t realised the deep chill that had settled in her bones.

By the time she was halfway through the cup, she could flex her fingers fully and straighten them; they were stiff and the now-familiar shooting pains threaded through her left hand, but she could hold the drink herself. At the bottom of the cup, her ears had stopped ringing. She sighed and pulled the shawl closer.

“Can you answer some questions, now?” Porto asked after Reyhan nodded at him and withdrew into the shop.

“Yes,” Quin replied, voice quiet, distant, “I think so.”

He pulled a chair to sit opposite and settled on it, a notebook resting on his knee. “What is your name, madam?” He raised an eyebrow.

Gods. How the hells to answer that one here and now? She wore a simple grey gown – not fit for a contessa, but not maid’s drabs, either. Her name was on the deeds. Her real name. And the way he’d looked at her when he’d arrived – he recognised her. Even worse, this wasn’t the first time he’d interviewed her about a murder.

She swallowed. “Quinta Sabia.” It was the safest option. The surname Guldan couldn’t appear on a janissary report anywhere. If it somehow got back to Prima …

Porto nodded and made a note before asking what had brought her there today, how she knew the victim, the victim’s name, and so on. Quin gave what information she could. She explained how her butler now co-owned the place, but that Redore and Ela, sisters, managed it.

The broad-shouldered janissary cleared his throat, making her jump – how long had he been in the doorway? “You know the victim – was she a lady of the night?”

Quin pursed her lips. “No, she isn’t. What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Porto said, shrugging off the interruption.

Her mouth went dry. “You think it was him, don’t you? He’s been going after professionals around here, and you think he’s done this.”

“It’s a strong possibility. It sounds like the victim has been … treated in the same way.” His mouth twisted. “Though this would be the first to be taken in her own home. When did you get here?”

“Not long ago?” She glanced around for a clock. What time was it? She outlined what she’d done since she’d arrived. “Why didn’t I come earlier? I could have …” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

“From what my colleague has said, it seems she – the blood has –”

“It’s congealed,” she murmured, “old, not fresh.” Ela must have been killed hours before she’d arrived.

“The killer could have attacked late last night.” Porto nodded, a thoughtful frown on his brows. “It sounds as though she’s been dead some time. We’ll know more after the official post-mortem, but rest assured you didn’t narrowly miss out on saving her.”

Quin closed her eyes, rubbing the heels of her hands into the sockets.

“I see you’re tired. I’ll let you go, but we might have more questions for you.” He returned his notebook to his pocket and accompanied her into the shop.

Reyhan crouched over Red, who’d curled up, hands over her face.

Quin swallowed, throat tight, and tore her gaze away.

Porto saw her to the front door, a hand at her elbow. “I’m sorry you had to see all that, madam,” he said, quiet enough to not be heard by his colleagues. “I have a feeling we’ll be meeting again soon – there’s another killer we must bring to justice and another innocent accused of murder. And once again, Lady Sabia is at the scene of the crime.”

Grimacing, she left. Soon – the word hung in the air like a threat.

Part II

18

Yellow & Grey

Quin’s spoon clinked as she stirred sugar into her coffee. The scent of it, bitter and rich, wafted in the steam rising between her and Porto.

They sat near the window of a quiet coffee shop. It was a respectable lower-middle-class place in the Twelfth District, not far from the Fortress of the Seven Towers. Not somewhere Lady Sabia would be seen.

Still, it had clean tables, comfortable chairs, and decent coffee, and today she wasn’t dressed as Lady Sabia. The Contessa was supposed to be at home spending hours preparing for Atesh’s investiture as Co-Regent. But preening could wait a little longer. Instead, Quin sat here wearing a grey woollen gown befitting a woman of the middling sort.

The grey matched the faint haze of nargile smoke that scented the air with fruit and flowers, though no one smoked at this moment. She and Porto were the only patrons this morning. A lone waitress in a short yellow jacket, bustled behind the counter and in the kitchen beyond, cleaning and humming.

She put Quin in mind of a younger Mrs Tepe – busy and cheerful, a welcome contrast with the nightmare of the past three days. Quin had barely slept: every time she closed her eyes, the red room awaited her. Instead, she’d read half a dozen books, staying up by lamplight until it was impossible to keep her eyes open any longer.

Yesterday, Porto had questioned her formally at the Fortress of the Seven Towers, and after, as he’d escorted her out, she’d asked him to this coffee shop to talk about the killings unofficially. She’d helped him once with the Sultana’s murder, Hundred willing, he’d let her help again. Gods knew she couldn’t live like this, with that moment etched behind her eyelids forever.

Action would help. It had to.

After the fortress, she’d intended to check on Red, comfort her – to be a friend. But she’d made it only as far as the corner of Kahvesi Street. There, her feet had frozen, and her breath had rasped in her throat, hard and fast and suffocating.

She’d turned back, hiding at home for the rest of the day.

Coward. Grimacing, she touched the spoon to the rim of her cup, letting a drip of coffee run back inside.

On the other side of the table, back stiff, hands clasped behind his cup, Porto looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

“So,” Porto said at last, but nothing more came.

“So.” She nodded and placed her spoon on the saucer. Even though he’d helped her save Atesh, speaking to a janissary ran against every instinct running through her Gutter Street veins. Wherever she lived, she would always be of that place.

She shook her head.

If she was going to help Ela and Red, she had to get over it.

“I know it’s not my job, but I also know there have been other women taken, not only her, and I’m involved now.” She swallowed the choking thickness of grief in the back of her throat. “Someone I love is gone. I – I need to make this right. Or as right as it can be. I need to get answers for Red.” Her voice crackled on the name. The way Red had fallen in upon herself – gods, that was nearly as bad as …

Quin sucked in a harsh breath, hand trembling. Not the red room. Not now.

It was bad enough that she went there when she tried to sleep and again when she’d sat reading to Livia last night. Not now. Not in public.

Blinking, she found herself staring at the yellow-jacketed waitress. The young woman smiled and gave a slow nod, eyebrows raised as if to ask if she was well.

Quin lifted one corner of her mouth, the closest she could manage to a smile.

Porto’s brow creased as he watched her. He lifted his hand as if to reach for her, but he let it drop to the table, fingers splayed in the space between their cups. “I’m not sure you –”

“Please,” she said. “What do you have? Tell me you’ve got something.” If the killer had left a clue in that room and it helped identify and catch him, at least something would come of Ela’s…

She clenched her jaw, staring at him, dangerously close to crumbling. “Please.”

His dark eyes watched her, unreadable. Eventually, he sighed and nodded. “If I don’t tell you, I’m sure you’ll find a way to gather the information yourself.” He cradled his little coffee cup, thumbnails picking at the rim. “I’ll warn you from the start – don’t raise your hopes. Everything we have is very vague at the moment.”

But hope was already a tiny ember in her chest – that and the waitress’s yellow hum the only bright things amongst the pressing darkness of grief and that room. Even if what the janissaries had was vague, it meant they had something. She swallowed. “Go on.”

He ran through it all, and his warning had been right – he didn’t have much.

As with her discussions with Ariston and Derry, he reckoned on Ela being the ninth victim taken in the Destroyer murders, as the papers had started calling them. They’d found the previous woman with the word Imha written in her blood above her head. Ela’s had been used to write the same on the inside of her bedroom door.

Imha, like the god of distress, misery, destruction; the god who presided over The Fallen Tower Card. A murderer who’d named himself after a god. Did he think he was doing a deity’s work? She shuddered.

The janissaries had done house-to-house interviews near where the women had been murdered, but few had much to offer. Whether that was because they knew little or didn’t trust the janissaries, he couldn’t say.

She couldn’t blame them. Nappers weren’t exactly loved in the Gutter Streets – they usually only set foot in the district to arrest someone and that often ended with a drawn-out death on the gallows.

What little information Porto had gathered largely corroborated what she’d already discovered – reports of a large man seen near a few of the crimes shortly before. Some said he wore a long, black coat, but that was as detailed as the descriptions got.

His weapons were no help, either – a dagger and a razor were so common she could have found a dozen on each road in the district. Before she’d started stealing, when they’d been at their poorest, even she and Livia had owned a dagger and a kitchen knife. Livia had made her sleep with one under her pillow, with instructions to use it if anyone else entered the single room that constituted their home.

The only reason the janissaries had even linked the murders was because of their proximity in space and time – nine women dead in ten weeks, all with throats cut, most stabbed, too. Even in the Gutter Streets, such murders didn’t happen that regularly.

And what he’d done to Ela …

They euphemistically danced around the details, but as bad as it was, he’d been careful enough not to leave much evidence. That young janissary had stepped his footprints through the building, but the killer hadn’t left any such trail. Inside Ela’s room, the janissaries had found prints of large bare feet, but they disappeared near a washbowl of blood-stained water and a dirty cloth. He’d cleaned himself before leaving, no doubt to avoid drawing attention out on the streets.

So, a man capable of horrific murders, but not a mindless monster.

She shook her head, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, fighting the pressure behind them. “Someone doesn’t simply start killing out of nowhere. Not like this.”

Growing up, one of her neighbours had been infamous for his fights in taverns and alleyways, especially when he’d been worse the wear from drink. After a few years, he’d found work breaking arms for debt-collectors. Eventually, they’d hanged him in Kediler Square for murder.

And hadn’t she started merely picking loose change from pockets in crowded bazaars? Conning aristocrats was a long road from there.

The corners of his eyes wrinkled as they narrowed at her. “Escalation. My thought precisely. Whoever this man is, he likely has some convictions or at least accusations of crime and particularly violence. So we’ve been going through old files, particularly where the perpetrator lives near the murder scenes.” He sipped his coffee.

She swallowed and winced. The way he delayed revealing said it all. She ran her fingertips over the table’s fine grain – she’d stowed her gloves in her pocket. “You didn’t find anything.”

His mouth twisted in an ironic smile as he lowered the cup. “Quite the opposite – there are so many, we’re struggling to get around them all. We’ve focused our efforts on those who live closest and are most violent, most likely to escalate. Especially those who’ve shown a predisposition to violence towards women in the past, but that’s still left us with a depressingly large number of men to question and verify alibies for.” He sighed, shoulders sinking, his whole body caving in as if he’d like nothing more than to curl up somewhere warm and quiet.

She could relate.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Unfortunately, I only have so many officers, and I’m trying to keep them visible – if they’re on the streets, hopefully, they’ll be some deterrent. But the district’s so large; I’m afraid we rattle around in our attempts to patrol it. I’ve pushed for more, but I’ve got limited resources.”

Limited resources, he called it. She called it the aghas didn’t care about some dead Gutter folk.

He raked his hand through his hair, eyes gleaming. “I’ve tried it all, even going over my colonel’s head. Let me tell you: that did not go well.” He smiled tightly, one corner of his mouth twitching.

She blinked. Hundred, he was affected by this. That gleam in his eyes – the dampness of a janissary’s unshed tears for Gutter Street women. She never thought she’d see the day.

There had to be something to go on – some hope.

Please, Blind Lady. She didn’t usually call upon the other Blind Lady, but sometimes Justice could offer what luck could not. Please.

Porto remained scowling at his cup.

“So,” she said, frowning. Maybe getting him to think about possible answers would lift him from his distress. “He didn’t leave anything behind, not even footprints, but did he take anything? From Ela or the others? Is there something he wants or needs, and that’s why he’s doing this?” Not that someone in the Gutter Streets needing money would help narrow down the investigation.

He raised his eyebrows, lifting his cup. “A couple had locks of hair removed – a sudden shock of short hair amongst the rest, a blunt braid cut short. Others were missing a shawl or a handkerchief or a necklace. And at your friend’s, a book was missing from the victim’s room.”

“Is that all?” She frowned, shaking her head. “A shop full of valuables and he only stole a book? Why leave all that and then take worthless handkerchiefs and shawls from the others?”

He drank, gaze on her. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and at last set down the cup. “Because it’s not worthless to him.”

Those simple words sent a shudder through her body, so hard it made her teeth click. It had the ring of grotesque truth.

“We’ve found that some criminals like to collect items from their crimes.” He rotated the cup, no apparent aim to his movement. “Things that belonged to the victims or happened to be at the scenes. Trophies.”

She bit the inside of her cheek against any external signs of emotion. Her toes scrunched in the ends of her shoes. Trophies of her crimes – was that what she’d filled the haven with?

Buying herself time to settle her nerves before she spoke, she drank her bittersweet coffee. “If not money, then” – she shook her head, staring at the dark dregs in the bottom of her cup – “then what – what makes someone do something like this?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “That’s what I’m trying to ascertain. What do you think?”

That room. The red. The blood. The smell. The darkness he’d etched into Ela’s body.

Her throat closed. She had to think of it. This wasn’t dwelling on the horror because she couldn’t stop; this was looking for an answer. She owed that to Ela.

Why? What was in his head? “Rage,” she whispered. “Terrifying rage. Hate.” She blinked away that place and frowned at Porto. It wasn’t only Ela. He’d stabbed another woman 30 times. “He hates women enough to – to – I think he’d tear them apart with his bare hands if he could. He wants to destroy them, to ... hold them, to prove himself above them? No, not above …” She shook her head – there was something else, barely out of reach, tantalising in its closeness. He’d come into Ela’s home and … “It’s a violation of her body, of her safety.”

“Yes.” Porto nodded, a slow breath leaving his flaring nostrils. “Yes, I think you’re right. You’ve got an interesting perspective. My officers seem determined to believe the man responsible some kind of demon, not even human anymore, some creature of pure evil, as though he’ll have red eyes and black claws and we’ll be able to pick him out of the crowd or find him huddled in some cave.”

She clenched her jaw. “If only it were that easy.”

“But there’s one element I’m struggling to resolve with your theory” – his gaze skittered away – “in other cases where men seek to terrorise women, they – they violate them then kill.”

Her body froze, breath caught in her chest, mouth open. He was right. Like almost every woman who’d grown up on the Gutter Streets, she’d known men like that, had nearly fallen prey to them. Much as they’d argued over the years, she and Red had seen eye-to-eye on one point – protecting Ela, especially from that.

And they’d failed. She hadn’t even considered that aspect of the murders before. But, gods, he had to have done things to them before he’d killed them, didn’t he?

Ela, I’m so sorry.

Her vision blurred as she stared at Porto, willing the tears not to spill. If they started, they wouldn’t stop.

Porto’s lips stretched, not quite a smile, but close considering the circumstances. “None of the post-mortems, your friend’s included, showed any sign of him forcing himself on them.”

The breath flew from her lungs, and her body sagged. Thank the gods for that small mercy. She nodded slowly, chest heaving.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” She sniffed. “It’s a comfort to know she didn’t have to go through that on top of …” Swallowing, she touched the corner of her eye where a tear had escaped. “So, what will you do next?”

“Continuing our work, of course.” The corner of his mouth lifted again, closer to a smile this time. “The patrols and visiting those men with previous convictions – that’s all we can do until …” He trailed off with a soft sigh.

“Until next time.” Next time meant another woman dead. If they were right and this man was killing for rage and hate, then he wasn’t going to simply stop. That kind of storm didn’t just blow itself out. He’d already escalated, and he would continue to do so until they stopped him and that meant capture or death. “There’ll be a next time, it’s inevitable. Let me come to the next scene. Maybe I’ll be able to help – spot something you’ve missed.”

His brows shot up, and he shook his head.

“Look,” she said, before he had the chance to say no, “you said yourself I’ve got an interesting perspective. And, hells, your colleagues seem to think the culprit’s a monster under a bridge, rather than a man.”

His mouth closed, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Those murder scenes – gods, they’re bad enough for janissaries, they’re certainly no place for a gentlewoman.”

I’m not a gentlewoman. But she couldn’t say that, even if he might have inklings. “I’ve already been to one and, yes, I reacted, but I wasn’t prepared, and it was someone I …” She huffed out a breath. Someone I loved. Someone who was like my sister. “But I’d be ready this time, and it won’t be someone I know. I can handle it. Think about it, Sergeant, I’ve already assisted you in solving one murder where your colleagues weren’t exactly helpful.” She raised an eyebrow. Best not to mention here in public the specifics of how she was involved with the Sultana’s murder investigation.

“You do seem to have an eye for detail and an imaginative way of approaching things.” He cocked his head. “Even if you don’t play by the book.”

He was considering it, but that twist of his mouth said he was unsure.

“Please, Sergeant,” she said, leaning forward and fixing her gaze on him, unwavering despite how uncomfortable it was to make eye contact with a janissary. “I need this. It’s personal now. I owe it to her. Together we might be able to stop him. Is that a chance you’re willing to miss?”

His hand went to the brown leather Deck case attached to his belt, and his fingertips touched the edges of the dozen or so Cards there. Was he asking what the gods thought of this odd Contessa, feeling for the thrum of their magic, interpreting whether it hummed in approval or spiked a short, sharp no? He huffed out a breath, shoulders slanting, hand falling from his Deck. “Very well. I suppose it can’t hurt, though you may wish to wear a mask or hood.”

She smiled at him, nodding. “Of course. And I’ll fall in with whatever you wish to say to your colleagues about who I am and why I’m there.”

His mouth fell flat. “I won’t lie to them. I’ll say you’re a civilian with some insight I thought might help.” He eyed her, head tilting again. “At the very least, you’ll be someone I can talk through ideas with.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, I –”

The bell above the door tinkled, and a blast of air blew in, together with a pair of chattering young men.

“… the best lunches this side of town,” one said, nodding to his friend before waving to the waitress behind the counter, who greeted them warmly.

Lunch? Quin tugged out her pocket watch. Half past twelve. Buggeration. She’d been here over an hour. She shot Porto an apologetic smile. “I need to go – I’m due at –”

“The investiture,” he murmured, nodding and rising as she did the same.

“Sorry, I lost track of time.” Damn it, she was cutting it fine if she was going to get ready and get to the palace in time. Not that she was in the mood for another big ceremony and the party afterwards. Whatever she might prefer, though, Lady Sabia had an invite to the palace, and that was not a thing to be turned down.

They hurriedly exchanged bows and goodbyes, with Porto promising to send for her if there was another murder. If? More like when. But she didn’t argue and thanked him before rushing out the door and fetching Hira from an area of grass next door where other sabrecats were tethered on long reins.

Jaw set, eyes fixed on the road, she started home.

She might not be in the mood for the investiture, but Atesh would be a comfort. And after that, she’d be at the next murder scene, and maybe, just maybe, she’d find a clue to unlock the Destroyer’s identity.

19

Allegiance

Face hot, Quin hurried towards the ballroom. Hundred help her if she was late to Atesh’s investiture. Footmen stationed in the corridors watched her pass but made no remark or betrayed any reaction – only the best served in the palace.

Whatever her feelings about being here, Atesh needed her support today, and she couldn’t deny him that. Besides, seeing him would be a comfort and, Blind Lady willing, he’d be able to join her at home after. Even lying in his arms would be something – maybe he could stave off the nightmares and help her sleep.

As she approached the massive open doors, the sound of hundreds of voices filled the room and spilt out into the corridor. Thank the gods, they hadn’t started yet. She took a deep breath, adjusted her gloves, and slowed her pace – sedate, stately, as such an occasion demanded.

At the door, she bowed, full and low – at the far end of the room sat their new Sultana. Another inheriting her title so young.

A footman took Quin’s name and guided her up an aisle carpeted in a huge richly patterned rug from Sivas. It silenced the footsteps of servants hurrying back and forth and added another layer to the display of the new Sultana’s wealth and power.

It also served a sadder purpose. With a glance at the windows and position of chandeliers, Quin confirmed it – they’d arranged the room so the carpet hid the spot where Zeynab Sultana had been murdered. Quin clasped her hands against the trembling. More blood.

She could not fall apart – not here, not now.

Drawing a long breath, she focused ahead where a low stage had been erected. At the top of the steps, sat Zeynab’s daughter, Safira Sultana. It was the first time Quin had seen her, though she’d heard much about her and had seen a portrait at Atesh’s exhibition back in August.

So small, only five years old, she barely reached a quarter of the way up the back of the immense Tulip Throne. But with her dark eyes and hair and that pointed face, Quin would have recognised her as Zeynab Sultana’s daughter in an instant.

Despite her smallness against the gold canopy of the throne and its gilded frame, carved with slender tulips, Safira Sultana sat quite still, occasionally glancing to a pretty woman sat to one side – a lady-in-waiting, no doubt. Either side of Safira stood two more large, gilded chairs, almost thrones, though not nearly as large as the Tulip Throne itself.

They were almost at the front of the room, and Quin shot the footman a look. Was her seat so close to the stage? For an occasion like this, the closer to the front, the higher the honour. “Just to check,” she murmured to him, “we’re going to the seat for Lady Quinta Sabia, yes?”

His brows rose. “Yes, madam, and, in fact, we’re here.” He stopped, gesturing with a gloved hand to a seat on the aisle, second row from the front.

“Oh.” She blinked. Such a prominent position. Atesh must have pulled some serious strings. For her. And she’d entered Zeynab’s wake on his arm. Things were getting … official. She swallowed and thanked the footman for his help before taking her seat and sighing in relief. At least she wasn’t late.

In the front row sat middle-aged men in sashes – likely high-ranking politicians, retired aghas, and the like. Important people.

Over the aisle, still in the front row, the sight of a grey-haired woman sent a jolt through her. Prima. She wore a gold gown and gilded tulips decorated her hair, reminding everyone that she was the royal family’s matriarch. From this angle, Quin could make out her crinkled cheek and neck, the straight line of her nose, and the glinting edge of one dark eye.

Gripping her hands in her lap, Quin forced her breathing deep and slow.

Prima didn’t know who she was. There was no way she could. She wouldn’t even be able to see her from here, not without turning around.

And as long as Quin stayed away and kept herself calm, she wouldn’t grab the vile woman by that scrawny neck and –

A gong sounded, its tremulous metallic note resonating around the ballroom and silencing the din of conversation.

The doors to the ballroom opened, and those assembled rose.

Gritting her teeth, Quin pulled her attention away from Prima. Focusing on her would do no good. During the ball that followed the investiture ceremony, she’d avoid her. It would be fine.

First came a procession of courtiers in the deep red jackets of high-ranking officers, covered in gold braid. The tassels of their epaulettes swung as they walked. No doubt many of them held honorary military titles as opposed to any that required service in the field. Their procession was matched by the next, this time in the dark blue jackets of the navy. After that came the green-jacketed aghas.

Despite the sweat the janissary generals brought out in her palms, she wafted her fan, the picture of serenity, and watched the rest of the procession file past. She was Lady Sabia. She was a contessa, not a criminal.

Next came a young boy around eight or nine, carrying a red velvet cushion with a gold-handled rapier upon it. The swept hilt was similar to her own, but overly ornamental, with extra swirls of metal curving over the handguard. The angle and curve of the additions would have rendered the weapon difficult to use, less manoeuvrable than a practical sword. At the end of the hilt, the small pommel that counterweighted the blade was the shape of a tulip flower as it opened. The famous Tulip Blade of the Tulip Throne.

She couldn’t help but stare at it passing by. In all her childhood dreams of the palace, she’d fought with that blade. She’d practised with her ‘big sister’, Zeynab, and protected her supposed family against any dangers in the dark. Well, the Tulip Blade hadn’t been able to save Zeynab from the death that had found her in this very ballroom.

Quin’s gaze dropped. In another world, maybe she’d been fast enough to save Zeynab that night.

Still the procession continued. Next came Ilyas resplendent in gleaming silk satin of regal purple. Goldwork embroidery mixed with copper sequins marked out a floral design incorporating tulips and roses along his cuffs and down the front of his jacket and waistcoat. Below, he wore traditional short breeches down to his knees, with white stockings showing off muscled calves.

Beneath all the show, he looked much as he had the day Quin had confronted him at the scaffold: dark shadows haunted his eyes and his demeanour gave an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Poor man. By all accounts, including Atesh’s, he’d loved the Sultana and to see her so cruelly snatched away, leaving their daughter without a mother – well, no wonder he looked so weary.

Once Ilyas reached the front, he bowed to his daughter and took a position by one of the large chairs. Before he could take his seat, a murmur rose from the crowd, and they craned to look to the back of the room.

“Oh my,” a woman in the row behind purred. Her brows flashed upward when Quin turned, and their eyes met. The woman muttered an apology, her gaze dropping.

With a bemused smile, Quin peered down the aisle. Ah, but of course …

Atesh. That was the cause of her reaction.

No red or gold or flamboyant colours for him. He wore a sleek suit of the darkest slate grey. The only nods to decoration were his customary twinkling black diamond cravat pin and a falcon upon his lapel, the silver and marcasite toning perfectly with his suit. He’d done away with the Shahin dagger and its unfortunate association, but the brooch proclaimed his family, his allegiance, and the legitimacy of his bloodline. The falcon of their family name. He was a Shahin and proud.

The woman in the row behind leant to her neighbour’s ear, whispering something that ended with: “… not even traditional court attire.”

“I know,” her friend replied, “trousers rather than breeches! Is that even allowed?”

So, Quin wasn’t the only one to notice that. Atesh couldn’t have contrasted with Ilyas any more if he’d tried. Atesh’s grey suit was modern, and between the fit and fine fabric, it spoke of wealth, but also taste.

It said he wasn’t an entirely traditional Co-Regent.

Gods. He had deliberately dressed to contrast with Ilyas. Or at least the pomp and tradition of court, of the palace.

That was the signal he was giving the room, and it was the one that the people would have seen as he’d ridden his sabrecat in procession through the city on the way here. He was going to try and change things. Quin gave a fierce smile, eyes misting. This was someone she could respect in power; she never thought she’d see the day.

He walked sedately along the aisle, eyes fixed ahead, despite the room full of people staring at him. Aside from the statement of his outfit, he was a sight to behold – the lines of his suit perfectly delineated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The trousers tucked into black boots skimmed his muscular legs. Quin bit her lip and swallowed, the ghost of the touch of his firm body momentarily real and substantial beneath her hands.

Oh my, indeed.

When he was a couple of rows away, his gaze flicked to her briefly, and she fancied the line of his lips softened ever so slightly, not quite making a smile.

At the foot of the throne, he swept to his knee, one elbow resting on his thigh as he bowed his head to his little cousin. Each movement was perfect and smooth, as though he could execute the formal bending of the knee in his sleep as elegantly.

The Sultana’s voice piped up and reached Quin, at least. “You may rise.”

All controlled movement, he stood, turned to the assembly and took the Sultana’s right hand. Ilyas stepped forward and took her left. When the trio nodded to the audience, the assembly sat.

A courtier stepped forward and began a speech about loyalty and fealty and the greatness of Thanatolia. Quin might not have been to a ceremony like this before, but the whole thing sounded generic and patriotic – nothing personal about Atesh or Ilyas or the tragedy that had made a regency necessary.

When the courtier’s speech drew to an end, he bowed to the Sultana, Atesh, and Ilyas, then the room. Quin smiled faintly as the courtier scanned the crowd. She’d listened as hard as she could – if she bumped into the man later, she’d have to praise him for such a great speech. One more lie to add to the catalogue.

Atesh turned to his little cousin, drawing his Deck box, Ilyas mirroring his movements, though he was stiff in comparison. The men each went down on one knee to the little Sultana, placing their right hands upon their Decks while she hopped down from the throne and mounted a small set of steps that put her face at their level. The assembly rustled as they stood again.

“I swear by the Hundred Gods and by my Deck, which is their boon,” Atesh said, voice carrying through the room, “that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Safira Sultana, Third of her Name, her heirs and successors according to law. I vow that I will truly and faithfully execute the office of Co-Regent, and that I will govern according to law, and will, in all things, to the utmost of my power and ability maintain the safety, honour, and dignity of Safira Sultana, Third of her Name, and the welfare of her people until such time as she is able to rule in her own right upon reaching her majority at the age of 18. I swear that in all matters of war, economy, and marriage, as set out in the Regency Act of Safira Sultana, Third of her Name, I will act in accordance with Her Majesty’s right of veto.”

The boy who’d carried in the Tulip Blade bowed his head and offered it to the Sultana. With both hands and gentle guidance from her lady in waiting, the little girl lifted the ceremonial sword, lowering the flat of the blade to Atesh’s right shoulder. “I accept your fealty and allegiance,” she said. The lady-in-waiting nodded encouragingly as Safira lifted the sword slowly, the tip of her tongue sticking out for a second as she passed it over Atesh’s head. “And anoint you with the title Pasha Regent.” She touched his left shoulder with the blade. “Arise, my servant, my cousin, my realm’s Pasha Regent.”

Atesh stood and turned to the room, bowing to those assembled.

“The Pasha Regent,” the courtier said and bowed to Atesh.

“The Pasha Regent,” Quin joined the audience in saying, as they all bowed together.

Ilyas began the same vows.

Quin swallowed. Gods, this was serious. Yes, Atesh would do all he could to help the people, but he was bound in law and duty and family, also, to uphold the vows he’d made today.

Once Ilyas had finished and bowed, and the assembly had bowed in return, the front row filed out of their seats, taking it in turns to approach and bow to the Sultana, Ilyas, and Atesh.

Ilyas said a few words to one or two of them, even smiling once. The Sultana nodded to oblige each person. But Atesh paused and spoke to everyone; just as she’d seen at balls and parties, each person swelled under his regard. Even in a room of this many people, he knew at least a little of each of them. After each person bowed to the trio, they turned down the aisle and left, no doubt to go into the courtyard where Quin had spied trays of food and drink being prepared beneath a brightly-coloured silk pavilion.

Prima took her turn, clutching Atesh’s hand when she reached him and pulling on it until he bent low enough that she could kiss his left cheek, his right, and then his left again, in the old way. Another statement to the room – this is my family – but there was something else there, something in the way her gaze and her hand lingered on his … Covetous, almost.

Quin shook her head. Don’t be ridiculous. She didn’t get jealous, but she was letting her loathing of Prima plant silly ideas. The woman had lost almost her entire family, most recently her daughter – of course, she’d be affectionate with those who remained. Even monsters were capable of love … or an approximation of it.

When Prima and the rest of the front row had finished paying homage to the Sultana and her Co-Regents, Quin drew a long breath and stepped forward. Thank the Hundred, Atesh had arranged for her to sit near the front – it was going to take ages for the whole room to file past.

As she approached the trio of thrones, a woman opposite elbowed another lady and jerked her head at Quin. Her neck prickled. Speculation, no doubt, as to her relationship with Atesh and whether she would sit at his side in future, whether a regent’s wife had some particular title, and who this woman was who might have so much influence on their ruler.

Shoulders squared, Quin forced her smile solid and unwavering as she stopped at the base of the stage and bowed to the Sultana. As she rose, the little girl piped up, voice pitched so only Quin, Atesh, and Ilyas could hear, “Lady Quinta Sabia, is it not?”

It was almost comical to hear such a formal mode of address coming from such a little girl, but long years of practice allowed Quin to keep the amusement from her face. “It is, indeed,” she said. “I’m honoured your Majesty is even aware of who I am, being nothing but a new visitor to your city.”

“Uncle Atesh has mentioned you,” she said, giving Atesh a bright smile.

His brows shot up, and a flush rose on his cheeks. Shaking his head, he half-sighed, half-laughed and lifted a shoulder.

“You’ve been revealed, Sire,” Quin said, shooting a grin from the Sultana to Atesh. With any girl on the Gutter Street, Quin would have winked, and they’d have shared in the laughter, but this wasn’t any girl on the Gutter Street. Still, Safira’s pointed face, so like her mother’s, lit in amusement and she stifled a little giggle.

“It appears so,” Atesh said softly, shaking his head, “and betrayed by my own cousin and Sultana, no less.”

Quin smiled to Ilyas as she rose from bowing to him, but he didn’t join in their amusement and said nothing. He merely nodded his acknowledgement. But then he was a new widower, so that should be no surprise. She nodded stiffly and went to Atesh to bow.

Now she was close, his gaze roved over her face. A faint frown between his brows, he leant forward and murmured, “I’ve not seen you in days, and I hate to say it, but you look like you haven’t slept well without me. Are you” – he sighed – “but I suppose now is not the time to ask, is it?” He glanced at the people lined up behind her. “I’ll be here an age; will you meet me at five o’clock in the library?”

Time alone with Atesh, where they could cast off this formality. Perfect. She took a long breath, nodded, and walked away down the central aisle.

Every pair of eyes in the room were upon her. Some came with smiles, some with raised eyebrows, others with whispers behind hands or fans.

A quick breath dried her throat. Only her mother’s training kept her pace from faltering under the shock and weight of all those gazes.

Near the door, talking to another woman, Prima’s dark eyes narrowed at Quin in a cold gaze, her lips thinning. Quin knew that look – sizing her up.

And she wasn’t the only one casting judgment and close attention.

Hundreds waited in this chamber to swear fealty to their new Co-Regents, but the attention of hundreds of thousands, millions even, would be upon Atesh now. If she’d thought it a struggle to walk with him through a ballroom without interruption before, what would his life be like after this day?

Not his own.

Now his duty was to his cousin, to his country, not to his own whims or Quin’s. He’d gained something today, but he’d also given something up. Did he even realise that?

He certainly didn’t know the risk of her secrets to him, now. There was no way he could understand the severity of everything she kept from him. Hadn’t she asked him to trust her? Now, keeping him close and keeping her secrets, well, it risked more than raised eyebrows and a little scandal for him. To be embroiled in her crimes could damage his position, his chance to go on discovering a life with direction, his opportunity to better Arianople and wider Thanatolia.

He could trust her no longer, and she couldn’t ask it of him, not when he didn’t know the full weight of her secrets.

She clasped her hands before her, fingers tense, even as she walked with practised calmness. It had been so abstract before today, but now, seeing all this, it was too real to ignore.

There was only one way she could help Atesh.

She had to leave Arianople.

20

No

Quin sighed, blinking and tearing her gaze from the flickering fire. The library’s walls were lined with books, gold lettering on the spines glinting in the dim light. Shaking her head, she frowned at the book in her hands. She’d come to the library as Atesh had asked, plucked a book at random from the shelf, and sank onto a chaise longue by the fire. Its blue velvet cupped her, warm and welcoming.

But she’d barely managed two pages before her attention had drifted. She had to leave Arianople. There it was. The truth of it was a sword to the gut, piercing, solid, sharp.

Even worse, she needed to tell Atesh. He knew it was a possibility, but the way he’d reacted when she’d told him, he clearly didn’t believe it likely.

She wouldn’t tell him today, though. Becoming Co-Regent was a significant step for him, and she wouldn’t be the one to ruin his day. It’s not as though she needed to leave quite yet.

Leaving had always been the plan, anyway. Exactly as they’d done before. They were meant to con and go. And when he’d, well, been him, so tempting – too tempting – she’d brought those plans forward to leave after the Dying Summer Festival’s masquerade ball. But the Sultana’s murder, his arrest, and her involvement in the investigation had stalled that.

And now she was involved in another murder investigation.

Ela.

The red room surfaced again, and her throat closed. That spray of blood upon the ceiling, its pattern like the Cyclades Islands. The image was burned in her retina – she’d heard that could happen if a person looked directly at the sun, but for her, it was that little detail of that room. Every time she shut her eyes, there it was and the longer they stayed closed, the more of the room swam into view.

Would she never be free of it?

Ela would never be free of that room. She would never be anything.

Quin grimaced and covered her face with the book.

“I’ll get you justice, Ela,” she said, “I promise.”

And then she would leave. But until then, she would try to enjoy her time with Atesh.

There was the soft click of the door opening, then another as it closed. She forced a smile. That had to be him, and he was exactly the distraction she needed.

Hundred, he was more than a distraction. Although he didn’t know her secrets, he knew she had them, and that gave her some freedom to be herself. From their first meeting, he’d liked her more the more she’d been herself. That was a heady drug, thicker than opium smoke.

As much as he was kind, passionate, and strong yet vulnerable, he was as dangerous to her as any drug. Or perhaps it was because of those things. She craved him and yet feared him – no, not him, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t what had made her quake that first time they’d stood naked together in his chambers. He wasn’t what she feared.

She feared how damn much she yearned for him. She feared how much he saw of her. And, worse of all, she feared the inevitability that he would turn away when he’d seen too much, when he knew the truth.

Strong, heavy hands fell on her shoulders, massaging them. Of course, he knew this was what she needed – he’d picked up on her exhaustion, her sorrow. Gods, did she really have to leave him?

She inhaled to sigh, but the breath caught in her throat.

The wrong smell. That wasn’t orange and bergamot. It was sweet nargile smoke and honeyed whisky.

She froze as a stubbly cheek scraped her own. “That’s it, just relax,” a man’s voice – not Atesh’s – purred in her ear, “I’m not selfish; we can both enjoy this.”

No. But the word wouldn’t come, her mouth wouldn’t work, however much she swallowed or worked her tongue behind her teeth.

His hands crept lower, over her collarbones, towards the neckline of her gown.

No. She shook her head. She couldn’t speak, but she could move. Thank the bloody Hundred. She leapt to her feet, wrenching out of his grasp.

Spinning to face him, she found herself face to face with Terzo Ozdemir Pasha. It wasn’t an unpleasant face – his white teeth, perfect and even, dazzled as he smiled at her, angular features animated. He’d recently returned to Arianople from his grand tour, and they’d been introduced at the Sultana’s funeral.

She forced a polite smile. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” He must have mistaken her for someone else. She managed a strangled laugh.

“Oh, very good,” he said softly, dark eyes hooding as he advanced.

“What – what are you doing?” she choked on the words, forcing them past the knot in her throat.

He watched her every movement as she retreated, matching her step for step. He wasn’t backing down. Why wasn’t he backing down? Why wasn’t he explaining himself, apologising and begging her forgiveness for the misunderstanding?

“Very good, indeed,” he murmured. “Quite the convincing coquette.” Still he stalked towards her, his square shoulders crowding into her space, blocking her route to the exit.

She shook her head, heart slamming against the cage of her ribs like it was as eager to escape as the rest of her. What was he thinking? “What” – but the word was cut short as the backs of her legs hit something, and she stumbled, biting her tongue. With a huff, she landed on her back on the chaise longue.

Before she could right herself, he was there, angular face in hers. “Ah yes, that’s a much better position,” he said, lowering his weight onto her. “I knew you were only playing coy.”

His breath on her face – he stank wrong, all wrong. Where was Atesh? What did Terzo think he was doing?

She shook her head and squirmed against his weight, but he was heavy and so strong – a young man in his prime. “No,” she said again and again, but it didn’t stop his hands fumbling for her chest, pressing against her stays, tugging at the neck of her gown. “Get off me,” she gasped.

“Don’t worry yourself about payment,” he breathed, voice heavy and low. He pushed her hands out of the way with horrific ease, his skin clammy and hot against hers. “I know you’re not cheap and you’ll be handsomely rewarded for my pleasure. Besides, I’m quite a proficient lover – you’ll get pleasure as well as payment from this, too.”

“What?” Lover? Payment? She twisted her wrists from his grasp, but however hard she shoved, her hands were ineffectual as butterflies in a hurricane.

Her breath fluttered, his weight and her panic crushing her lungs.

This wasn’t happening. But she couldn’t get rid of him.

With a grunt, he rose enough to reach for the hem of her skirts, lifting them over her calves, now her knees.

Shaking her head, she gasped for breath. But he didn’t care – he didn’t bloody care how much she shook her head or said no.

It was nothing to him.

As he bared her thighs, her hand shot to her pocket, fingers wriggling against the creased fabric, searching.

His hot fingertips trailed the top edge of her silk stocking, and she let out a yelp.

Pathetic sound. And who was even nearby to help?

She was her only hope.

With one hand, she drew her fan; the other reached for his face, his stubble rasping her fingertips. With a flick, she managed to open the fan enough to reveal the steel blades glinting. “Get the bloody hells off me,” she choked, close to a sob. “Bloody get off!” The Gutter Streets had taken over from the gentlewoman – they knew survival.

But he was watching his hands upon her thighs, squeezing her flesh – he must not have seen the blade. With a vague grunt of questioning, he tried to pull her legs apart.

She’d bloody make him see.

“Off,” she shouted, clawing at his face, trying to point it at the bladed fan in her other hand.

“Damn it, woman, you’ve –”

But his eyes bulged, at last seeing the glint of steel. With a jolt, he rolled off her and thudded to the floor.

Free. She clutched her chest, now able to breathe, drawing in gasps tainted by the whisky-smoky stink of him.

She leapt to her feet. Upright was better, less open, less powerless. She stared down at him, eyes wide, breath wild, hand shaking, gripping the fan as if it were a life raft in a storm.

“I don’t understand,” he said, fingers probing the thin lines of blood on his cheek. “You’ve made me bleed!” He looked down at the blood on his fingers, apparently as shocked by that as by her reaction. “Do you draw your blade on every client or did you simply not like the look of me? When we were introduced the other day, you smiled well enough, and I know I’m not painful on the eye.”

Quin shook her head, trying to make some sense of his words through the roaring in her ears. “What – client? What are you on about?” Some part of her prodded her, pointing out she wasn’t speaking as a gentlewoman, but the rest of her didn’t care and cursed her wobbling legs.

“Your clients.” He daubed at his face with a handkerchief. “I was assured you were a gentlewoman of discretion and pleasure and that you used that to supplement your inheritance. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, in Venetia –”

“I’m nothing of the sort!” She turned on her heel and ran for the door, ashamed at the tears in her eyes and the sob escaping her lips.

* * *

Damnation, he was late.

Atesh winced, hurrying out of the gardens, sparing a nod for the janissaries stationed at the doors. He continued along the corridor towards the palace library as quickly as he could without running and drawing attention. Even so, guests watched, drifting from the gardens and into the hall, eyes alight with curiosity. Gods, is this what a Co-Regent had to expect wherever he went? He’d thought the attention bad enough as an unmarried member of the Shahin family.

Scowling at anyone who met his gaze and made to approach, he strode on. He was late enough as it was.

The giving of homage had taken even longer than he’d expected. It lacked the one person he most wished to see there: Mother. What would she have been thinking, standing at the front of the crowd, watching him take his oath to assist his little cousin? Would she have murmured something to him in her soft voice as she paid homage? Would she have been proud?

It had grown so hard to picture her face that he’d started a painting of her using existing portraits as reference. That would fix her in his mind. He couldn’t let her fade and blur like an ink drawing splashed with water.

Even once the homage had finished, his duties hadn’t been over. A major general had practically pounced on him the moment he’d entered the courtyard where the festivities had already started. Standing by a too-hot brazier, he’d been forced to chat briefly about the military stationed at the borders before he could make his excuses and leave.

He clenched his hands.

At some point, he planned to speak to Quin about building a school in the Gutter Streets. She’d mentioned education as one of the things the nobility enjoyed that the Gutter folk lacked, something that might make a difference for them. Well, a school would surely help on that front.

But something was troubling Quin. She’d smiled and joined in Safira’s gentle teasing of him in the ballroom, but her eyes had been red-rimmed and haunted, and she looked so tired. At any other social event, it would have been a challenge, but he’d have made some excuse to slip away with her then and there so they could talk.

But his investiture as Co-Regent was not merely any social event.

He sighed.

With a bang, the library door flew open, and a figure barrelled out and into him.

“Quin?” He caught her shoulders, but she flinched as if burned by his touch.

Her face shot up – tear-stained? – eyes widening when they landed on him. With a shuddering breath, she sagged into his arms. He frowned in confusion but pulled her tight all the same. “Quin,” he murmured against her hair, “what’s wrong?”

As if he’d broken the spell, she recoiled, pulling out of his hold. “I need to go home.” She shook her head, angling away. A curl had escaped her elaborate hairstyle and tumbled over her face. Her arms folded in a way that looked more like she was hugging herself.

What the hells had happened?

A murmur of voices behind him – clusters of guests studded the corridor, drinking and feigning disinterested conversation. But far too many pairs of eyes flashed towards them for disinterest.

He gritted his teeth – he couldn’t ask her anything here.

“Fine, then I’ll come with you,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. She flinched again. “Have the chamberlain fetch my town coach to the front – tell him I’m feeling unwell. My driver knows you; he’ll let you in. I’ll meet you there.”

Eyes wide, she opened her mouth and drew a breath, as if to speak, but then closed it again and shook her head, eyes screwed shut. “But your – this whole affair is for you, it’s your –”

“It’s nothing without you. Do you think I could function effectively knowing you were in such distress?”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but a discreet clearing of the throat came from behind, and she stiffened, silent.

“Sire,” a man’s voice, low, “is there a problem?”

A burly, middle-aged janissary stood close by, hands clasped behind his back, leaving the hilts of his dagger and yatagan exposed. His hazel eyes flicked to Quin and back, full of meaning.

Atesh clenched his jaw against the shudder tugging on his muscles at the sight of an armed janissary so close. There was nothing he could do to prevent the cold that flashed through him, though.

This had to be the threatened bodyguard or at least one they’d assigned temporarily for the investiture. This wouldn’t do – he couldn’t spend his life with a janissary on his tail. With his lined face and stern brow, this one didn’t look familiar – he couldn’t have been one of the janissaries from the fortress – but he would always be a reminder of that time.

He needed to find his own bodyguard.

“Sire?”

Atesh blinked and shook his head. Here and now. He wasn’t at the fortress. He was safe. But perhaps Quin wasn’t. He frowned at her – she stood rigid, just out of his grasp, lips pale, nostrils flaring. “Kindly escort Lady Sabia to my carriage. I’ll be joining her there shortly.”

“Sire.” The janissary nodded and turned, then gestured ahead. “Madam.”

Quin bit her lip, giving him a last glance, before slipping away down the corridor.

As well as the janissary, gazes followed her. Whispers rose in her wake, half-hidden behind fans and glasses of wine.

“I won’t be long,” he called after her. She gave no indication she’d heard, but eyebrows raised in their audience. He clenched his jaw and swept them with a glare.

He shook his head and turned to the door that she’d slammed shut. What could have caused such a reaction?

As he started for the library, his foot struck a long, thin object. He stooped to pick it up. Quin’s fan – the cygnet grey guard sticks were unmistakable. Heavy for a fan and cold beneath his fingertips. “Metal,” he murmured, dropping it in his pocket. Why on earth would a fan be made of metal? He frowned, but the mystery of the library was more pressing than a lady’s accessory.

Shouldering open the door, he immediately spotted a man by the large fireplace, brushing himself down. Terzo Ozdemir, a Pasha of the second order.

Atesh’s heart echoed in his ears, loud and painful. What was this? What had he done to make Quin cry? And what had happened that he needed to brush himself down?

Terzo looked up, brows rising. On his stubbled cheek, crimson lines stood out. He sketched a hasty bow.

Atesh’s hands clenched into fists. “What happened here?” he asked, voice loud in the cosy quiet of the library. Covering the floor in a stiff march, he held his hands behind his back, not trusting the shaking in them.

The lines on Terzo’s face looked suspiciously like scratches, fresh and bright with blood. A little had smeared his cheek. If Quin had hurt him, then she’d have only done so with good reason.

Damn good reason.

Like defending herself.

The urge to grab Terzo by his damned throat was overwhelming, sending his fingers into spasms, painful and shocking with intensity. He clenched his jaw, teeth creaking.

Gods, this man. What the hells had he done? Quin hadn’t looked injured, but if he’d…

“Your Highness,” Terzo said, “I think perhaps a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstandings don’t ordinarily draw blood.”

Terzo touched his cheek and examined his fingertips, shaking his head with a scoff. “That’s true. This – well, she’s a wild one, it seems.” A thin, rakish smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

She’s a wild one. He was talking about Quin. And he was talking about her as though she were a misbehaving sabrecat.

Atesh’s jaw ached with tension, but he didn’t trust himself to speak or even move. There was a reasonable chance that if he did, he would throw the man against the damn fireplace and crush him and his words. Then he wouldn’t be able to say anything about Quin.

Ever.

One brow arching, Terzo pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out. “I don’t mind wild, it can be a great deal of fun, but I draw the line at having a damn blade drawn on me.” He wiped the tips of his fingers clean. “You went to the late Sultana’s funeral with her, didn’t you? Man-to-man, you ought to be careful, Sire. There’s no telling what one like that might do.” He dabbed his cheek, narrowing his eyes at Atesh, then he chuckled. “Unless that’s what you like – tame the little she-beast, eh?”

Pounding in his ears, in his chest, in every inch of his clenched body, so powerful that something would surely break.

He took a breath through his nose and unknotted his jaw, exhaling long and slow. He worked his tongue around his mouth and swallowed. “What did you say?” he asked, voice low.

Terzo looked him over from head to toe, a quick frown creasing between his brows before he took half a step backwards. “When I saw her with you, I thought you’d simply paid to have her on your arm for the evening.” He shrugged as though this were a normal assumption, a normal conversation. “I didn’t think she was yours – after all, you’re not married.”

Paid? Paid?

“My marital status is none of your business, and neither is Quin’s,” he bit out, barely able to get the words past his throat. He took a long breath. What the hells was he talking about? “What precisely made you think she was for sale?”

The man cleared his throat and had the good grace to drop his gaze, making a show of inspecting his cuffs. “Aren’t all courtesans? Or at least they were when I was in Venetia. Quite exquisite ladies, really, and so convenient that pleasure can be had in return for cash or jewels. None of that tedium of dancing and idle flirtation when all you really want is to take the damn woman over the nearest desk.”

Atesh stared. The words didn’t make sense. He didn’t make sense.

Courtesan. Pleasure in exchange for cash or jewels. Take the damn woman …

He thought Quin was a courtesan. Wasn’t that what Miss Tiryaki had also insinuated?

This had gone beyond nasty gossip. What had this man done to Quin in his misguided belief she was, of all things, a courtesan? Who’d planted that belief in his head? And were there other ears they’d dripped that lie into?

For a long while, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and the taste of blood where he bit his cheek so hard.

Terzo huffed a sigh, stuffing the handkerchief back in his inside pocket. “Look,” he said, “I didn’t do anything to her – she pulled that damn bladed fan on me and scratched my face with her claws. And even if I had, I didn’t realise you had an exclusive claim on her. I’d never have gone near her if I’d known. But I didn’t take her, so no harm done, eh?”

He couldn’t rip the man’s throat out. Not in the palace. And not as Co-Regent. It would cause an awful mess – the blood and the scandal and the murder on his hands.

But Hundred help him, those hands were only too ready and willing to do it, nails biting into his palms, just to shut the cad up.

Another long breath in and out.

“I can very much assure you, Terzo, that you’ve been deceived,” he managed to say at last. “Lady Sabia is no courtesan. And if you touched her without her permission, then there is definite harm done.” He took a step forward – he had a couple of inches on the younger man, and he used them to crowd his space. Let him be afraid, as Quin must have been in here with him, alone. “Incidentally, definite harm is what will come to you if you keep speaking in this way about her. Now tell me where you heard this – this outrageous, disgusting, foul lie.” His voice rose with each word. None of them did justice to the rage simmering in his veins.

Hundred, how was Quin feeling? No wonder she’d flinched away from his touch. Gods, the tears made sense now. Had Terzo hurt her? She hadn’t seemed injured, but there had been fear in her eyes and – and shame? As though she’d done something wrong.

But she’d done nothing. Someone else had spread a grotesque lie about her, and a foolish newcomer had believed it. Terzo had been in the wrong – to earn those scratches; he’d clearly done more than make a casual enquiry.

Atesh ground his teeth. He needed this conversation to be over so he could get back to Quin. “Who. Said. It?”

“I’m not so sure it’s a lie,” Terzo said, “considering who told me.” His head cocked. “Perhaps Your Highness has been deceived and should consider this might well be the truth.”

“If I have to ask again …”

Terzo sighed as though he’d offered a friend a piece of advice for his own good, but he refused to take it. “I had it from the Sultana Valide – ah, I suppose the Sultana Dowager now.”

No. He blinked. Surely he’d misheard that. “The Sultana Dowager?” He shook his head. “Let us be clear about this. The Sultana Dowager, Prima, told you that Lady Quinta Sabia would exchange money for sexual intercourse? She said that?”

Terzo’s eyes widened, his eyebrows rising. Affronted by Atesh’s blunt words? The hypocrisy. Terzo cleared his throat. “Well, not only” – he gave a delicate cough – “the act of sex, but also –”

“That’s not the important part. The claim came from the Dowager, Prima?”

“Indeed, it did. And what’s more, she said she had it first hand from a close friend who had experienced such services.”

Atesh inhaled, the breath harsh and cold in his throat. If this came from Aunt Prima and she claimed she had it first hand, then either she or her source must be the originator of the tale. This wasn’t a debutante spreading lies about her competition – it could be Prima herself.

No, surely not. Someone else must have fed her the lie to spread it further and make it more credible. There was something bigger at play here, but what?

Quin had an enemy, that was for certain.

Atesh glared into the fire.

She didn’t need to know, at least not until he had helpful information. She’d been upset enough by this cad, and something else had been haunting her before that – he wouldn’t add to her distress if he didn’t have to.

Terzo cleared his throat, a deliberate reminder of his presence, as though he needed permission to leave.

Atesh gave a grim smile – he must have looked as full of rage as he felt, sweeping into the room and squaring up to the man.

“You’re dismissed.”

Terzo’s shoulders sagged. “Sire,” he said, edging from between Atesh and the fireplace.

“But, Terzo?” Atesh said, forcing the younger man to stop a pace away and turn to face him. “There are two things you need to know. The first is that if you touch Quin again, I am in no doubt she will use that blade she threatened you with, and you’ll have much more than a few scratches on your face to worry about.”

Terzo’s lips pursed, and his fingers went to those cuts. He raised an eyebrow. “And the second, Sire?”

“If you utter even a syllable of these foul lies, I will hear of it, and I will not hesitate to come to you that very instant. Be it lunchtime or the middle of the night, while you’re at the bathhouse or in some other unfortunate woman’s bed, I will find you, and I will call you out then and there.” Atesh smiled without warmth. “And I will not lose.”

21

Dolls

Here, jewels surrounded him. On fingers, at throats, dripping from hair clips and earlobes. Sparkling, they were everywhere, with their spiteful winking, saying he didn’t belong. Even on her, a hornet pin at the front of her bodice watched him, pointed sting glinting.

This wasn’t a place for people like him.

He scowled.

“Now, now, my dear artist,” said the woman, “you can’t already dislike the theatre, surely?”

He eyed her. “It’s not the theatre I don’t like. Not yet, anyway.” His scowl deepened at the milling crowd in their sparkles and frothy clothes. What did they look like? A bunch of fools in flounces.

Looking down, he grimaced even more – and what did he look like? Not for the first time, he tugged at his collar. The stupid silk cravat she’d tied around his neck was too tight. At least it was blood red – that did look good against the black suit and the white shirt. When she’d pulled up at their meeting place in a carriage and invited him in, he’d assumed it was so they could speak alone. But then she’d given him a fancy silk suit, and they’d arrived at, of all places, a sodding theatre.

It was too bright here – too many candles, all reflecting on polished silver candlesticks and the large mirrors on each wall. He had to avoid his own reflection in them or else he would swear at how much of a bloody fool he looked. And swearing was forbidden somewhere like this, around people like this.

She’d told him so before they’d left her carriage, as she’d held out a black velvet pouch. “Now, cursing aside, you need a calling card,” she said, “something that will tell people these ladies are yours.”

People had been saying maybe his women hadn’t been done by the same person, that maybe it was a few people, that maybe it was all just coincidence.

Bloody snobby bitch, he had to give it to her – she was right on this one. He needed to claim them and leave a mark to say they belonged to him, like a sabrecat spraying its territory.

He’d taken the pouch, the fabric soft against his fingertips and beneath that something hard. He raised his eyebrows, and she nodded for him to look inside. “Coins?” He frowned at the glinting copper inside the bag. Not even a lot of money. All little copper things. All the same. He fished one out and peered at it, but it wasn’t an akche.

“They’re from Venetia,” she’d said. “Not likely to be found in Arianople, so they’ll know that it’s all the same person, that it’s deliberate. Find creative ways to leave them at each crime scene, you’ll build a name for yourself, and it will be undeniable that this is all your work.”

He clenched his hands at his sides, scowling at some woman laughing as she leant on a man’s arm. He’d been irritated when the posho had given him this outfit, but she was right – there was no way he’d have been able to walk through the theatre amongst these people in his usual clothes.

“Not here, again,” his companion sighed, glancing at the clock. She shrugged. “No matter. Let’s go to our box, shall we? The play starts soon.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in her eyes, only her sizing him up and ...

There was something familiar about her, something they shared; she’d had that right the first time they’d met. There was something … animal in her. He almost nodded at the thought.

As he followed, he realised there were times when her expression reminded him of a hungry dog he’d once cornered in an alley. The dog had watched him, not lashing out – not yet – just deciding, weighing up whether he had food, was food, or whether it could take him down. In the end, he’d thrown stones at it until there was blood and the animal slowed, then he’d caught it, and they’d eaten well at home that night.

“Isn’t this nice?” She plopped into her seat in the private box she’d led him to. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to prop herself on the arms of the chair, but when he sat and tried to copy the motion, it was more uncomfortable than it looked. The arms were too low for him, so he had to stoop to grind his elbows into the wood.

He sat up and placed his hands on his legs – he’d leave sitting fancy for the poshos.

“You made me come here to watch some show?” He scowled over the edge of the box at the crowd filing into the seats below. “You said you’d give me another tip, not flash me around on your arm, all equipt like some bloody peacock.”

“Now, now, my artist,” she said, leaning closer with a smile, “patience.” She cocked her head at him, eyes narrow. “But, no, I suppose patience isn’t in your repertoire, is it?” She sighed. “Very well. I have brought you here for two reasons.”

So, she did have a reason then. He raised his eyebrows at her, finger tapping on his thigh. Let her get an idea of what his impatience could be like. Not pretty.

“First,” she said, glancing down at the crowd, “did I not promise to help you get closer to ladies of quality?” Her hand waved in a smooth gesture, first to the seats below, then towards him. “And aren’t you close to them? And aren’t you dressed in a manner appropriate to be in their company? If you maintain the level of decorum I’ve shown you tonight, perhaps shave, and definitely keep that gutter mouth of yours shut, no one will spare you a second glance walking through even the First District.” She smiled sweetly, sitting back in her chair. “You have access to any lady of Arianople you wish. Is that not worth a little discomfort?”

Ladies of quality. He frowned out over the crowd – they wore feathers and jewels in their hair, and it shone in the lamplight. Chokers and ribbons at their throats. He could trace the lines with his razorblade, watch their life spill out over their heaving tits, staining the lace ruffled there.

Gods.

He swallowed, breaths coming heavy and thick.

Damn the woman, but she was right. No one had looked twice at him or asked him to leave.

He snorted. “Fine. And the other thing?”

“To watch the show – every artist needs a little inspiration.” Her dark eyes glittered as she smiled, and the lamps dimmed. “Watch and see.”

He sighed, sinking back in his seat. This was going to be a long and boring evening. Why had he even bothered coming?

He scowled and crossed his arms. Maybe he could sneak out if he couldn’t take the boredom – he had the outfit, now he could walk through any district and pick off any woman he wanted. The posho might not even notice him escaping. He glanced out the corner of his eye. She seemed absorbed in the stage, even though it was covered by thick velvet curtain at the moment. But like that dog in the alley, it would be a mistake to take his attention off her or think that she wasn’t similarly aware of him.

The orchestra struck up a trembling hum, and he leant over the barrier of their box to see the men and women in front of the stage seesawing the wooden instruments that looked like fiddles of all different sizes. Far above them, a pair of exaggerated masks looked down upon the audience, one smiling, the other crying, both with gaping mouths. Something about the unseeing holes of their eyes held his attention for a long time.

Until, that is, the maroon velvet curtain rose. He gasped and craned forward. Below, the stage had become a ship, complete with ropes, masts, and white sales. Waves that didn’t quite look like water surged against the hull and, above, a midnight sky glowered.

When someone spoke, he realised the little shapes moving the deck were men. Two friends talked: the captain was very sick and needed help right away, but the nearest island was a penal colony, and they’d be shot if they tried to approach. They argued over what to do.

When he’d gone mudlarking as a kid, he’d watched boats sail past, but he’d never been on one – not a big one, anyway – but even he knew the captain was important.

It was obvious – they should risk the island, but were they going to?

He watched the exchange, leaning on the box’s rail. At last, they made the decision, and he found himself holding his breath as they sailed to land. Would the guards shoot them?

He chewed a nail, watching the action unfold. For once he forgot the dull ache between his legs.

One of the friends betrayed the other and married his fiancée, while the betrayed one rotted in prison for ten years, forgotten.

He was on his feet when the prisoner escaped with a map showing the way to treasure. When they opened the chest of gold, he found himself reaching out, snatching his hands away when he realised.

His stare stayed on the stage, and he sighed when the prisoner became the Baron of Monte Alba and glowered when the Baron came face-to-face with his former fiancée and even smiled each time another part of the Baron’s plan for revenge came together.

Somehow they created storms on the stage and balls and even once a theatre, and so many battles with swords swishing and blood splashing and death and drama. And at last, the Baron had his revenge, and it tasted sweet in his mouth as he watched. The Baron destroyed that so-called best friend and his treacherous fiancée and their bodies lay at his feet.

That was how it should be.

The curtain dropped.

He stared until he could breathe normally again, then he collapsed back into his chair.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said, eyelids drooping. She yawned. “This is quite an exhausting business, isn’t it?”

He nodded. The real world seeped back in – no more adventures, no more ships, no more vengeance. Well, maybe one of those remained.

“But – I don’t get it,” he said with a frown. “It was fun, I suppose, but you said this would help me with my work, and I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”

Her teeth gleamed.

He’d had it wrong. She wasn’t like that hungry dog at all. She was a sabrecat; her smile was the baring of teeth when it spotted its prey. “My dear artist – perhaps this is the problem – you have no imagination.” She laughed and examined her nails. “Don’t be quick to anger that’s not an insult; I merely want to help you.”

He could lock his hands around that scrawny throat of hers.

“Your most recent two,” she went on, “well, you’ve proven the potential I saw in you. And I’m guessing you contacted me again because the advice I gave you helped. The Destroyer has certainly made his mark in the papers. But” – she held up a hand – “professionals found in alleyways or even their homes don’t make headlines for long. And neither does it terrify a city. Your work is barely known outside the Gutter Streets.”

“The Gutter Streets is a big place,” he muttered.

“Of course it is, but the city is even bigger, isn’t it? You’ve made an excellent start, and now you have your calling cards, you’ll leave no doubt that this is the work of one terrifying man – the Destroyer. But there is more … I brought you here tonight to mix among gentlefolk and, more importantly, to show you the power of the theatrical, the strength of a story. I saw you tremble with excitement while you watched. I bet that’s how you look when you take them, isn’t it?”

Her look settled on him a long while without disgust. She looked … curious. No one had ever looked at him with curiosity before. “I think you can be even bolder, more ambitious – you can tell a story with your blade. Then your work will be on the front pages of every newspaper not only in the city but the entire country. You’d have the people in a state of terror, wondering whom you’ll take next.” She stood, looking down over the emptying theatre, as she leant upon the barrier. He could push her over if he wanted. “You would hold the city in your hands.”

He stood. He could so easily give her a good shove, and she’d fall onto the seats below. She might not die, but she probably would. A broken neck or broken head. But instead, he found himself joining her, leaning on the rail and looking down at the audience. He watched them leave, milling along the rows of chairs, strolling out into the night. They followed each other, like factory workers filing in and out of the bleak buildings where they spent their days.

“Think of what might be,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

Squinting, he made himself see more, see things that weren’t there.

At first, the floor, covered with blood. It seeped up into the skirts of the women, sticky and warm.

He scowled. Blood pleased him, but because they feared it, because he controlled it, not because he particularly loved it.

No, there was more he could do.

Their faces creased, afraid. The women screamed, holding up their skirts in an attempt to escape the blood.

But the blood didn’t stop. He wouldn’t let it.

They climbed onto the theatre seats, chests heaving with terror.

No, that wasn’t good enough.

He walked along the aisles, not caring about the blood up to his ankles, soaking his shoes, and the women froze. They were his. They’d only move as he wished, as he posed them. Their skin set stiff as porcelain, like the face of a doll he’d once pulled out of the mud. He’d sold the dirty little thing for a whole zeri.

But these dolls were worth so much more. And they would all stay his – no one else’s.

They stood still, watching him, eyes wide and so afraid.

He swallowed, their powerlessness so sweet it knotted in his chest and twitched between his legs.

Hundred, how could he make it happen? What could he do? How could he make the city fear him?

The vision vanished – no dolls, only those two masks, their exaggerated emotions and empty eyes and mouths making him shudder. He’d let his concentration slip, like taking his attention away from a Card as he snuck past a janissary.

If he could make it real, it would never vanish. Every woman in Arianople would be one of those powerless dolls, silly little toys in his hands.

He left in silence, walking at the posho’s side. She didn’t ask if she could put her hand in the crook of his arm; she just did it. He’d endure her touch, for now, but only for now. Once he had the city, he wouldn’t need her. He could give her one of those masks. The smiling one – a replacement for that cat-like smile she so loved, that said she thought herself so bloody superior.

But first, he would use his new suit to walk the aristos’ streets and find his next job. Soft skin, clean hair, silk and lace. And he would make her his own piece of art.

Pretty as porcelain.

22

Autumn Fruit

Quin shivered as the cab drew up to the Watergardens. She’d never seen a single park in Arianople closed during daylight hours and yet the entrance was blocked by a dozen janissaries, bottle green jackets blending with the greenery of the park beyond. Among them stood Porto, hands raised as he spoke to an animated man dressed in bark-brown coat and trousers, the hems tattered at the back as if they’d once dragged on the ground when he walked and over time had worn away.

She paused inside the carriage, fingertips on the handle, watching through the window. The man in brown pointed at the other janissaries, mouth opening wide – he must have been speaking loudly, if not shouting, practically in Porto’s face. His finger wagged back and forth, and then he gestured to one side.

Quin flicked the carriage’s curtain away to see what he was pointing to – half a dozen more men and women stood together, four more janissaries keeping them away from the Watergardens’ gates. They were dressed similarly, hems too short, elbows patched, edges frayed.

Gutter folk.

She frowned. What were they doing here in the Third District? Janissaries aside, they weren’t welcomed by the locals at the best of times.

The animated man lowered his arms now, head shaking as Porto spoke to him. The sergeant nodded, calm, in control, mouth downturned, brows drawn together.

With a roll of his eyes, the animated man turned away from Porto and went to the other Gutter folk.

Porto sighed, shaking his head, and his gaze fell upon Quin. Brows rising, he nodded to her.

No more stalling.

Pulling her hood up, she opened the carriage door and glanced up and down the street as she paid the driver. The usual well-dressed men and women of the upper districts hurried past, heads down as if that would protect them from what had happened. A low rumble of talk came from the knot of Gutter folk, but she couldn’t make out the words.

She sighed into the crisp afternoon air, clutching the front edge of her hood as she stepped crossed the cobbles and approached Porto. Lady Sabia shouldn’t be seen here. It was bad enough the gossip columns had reported her early exit from Atesh’s investiture as Lady S— escorted from the palace by janissaries. They claimed she’d caused a scene when told his new position might set his marriage sights elsewhere. Ridiculous didn’t even cover it.

With a shudder, the image of Terzo’s face came to mind. She gritted her teeth. Atesh had spent that night erasing the feel of him from her body, the smell of him, but nothing so far had managed to wipe the leer of his angular face.

Under any other circumstances, coming to the Watergardens would have been a welcome distraction. But these weren’t any other circumstances.

At least the sky was clear, no sign of coming rain, though her mood would have matched rain better. The note had arrived half an hour ago, and her stomach had churned ever since.

His neat handwriting had only said:

The Watergardens, as soon as you can.

Yours & C,

Sergeant Porto

The Watergardens. Gutter Street women rarely went there, professional or otherwise. If this was a Destroyer murder – and why would Porto be calling upon her if it wasn’t? – then he’d struck outside his usual territory. Did that mean he’d also struck outside his typical social class with this victim? With heavy feet, she’d obeyed Porto’s summons, reminding herself that this was her own doing – she’d made him agree to bring her to the next murder. Steeling herself, she’d hailed a cab, as both Ariston and Derry were out. Thankfully, Mrs Tepe had been happy to stay with Livia.

Her feet were as leaden now as she reached Porto. They nodded to one another, and he gestured at the janissaries blocking the entrance. They parted, and she and Porto entered, side-by-side.

“I would suggest you prepare yourself, madam,” he said, chin high, gaze in the distance, “but you’ve seen worse already.”

As if her coat were made of ice, her body dropped in temperature. The specks of blood like the Cyclades Islands. The red room. Ela. She swallowed and ran a hand over her face. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

He stopped and angled towards her. “You don’t have to come –”

“I do. I need to help.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “I can’t unsee that room. Some would say it’s because she can’t rest until she has justice. I’m not sure I believe that, but I do believe that I can’t rest until she has justice. And maybe that will banish that room from my nightmares, both waking and sleeping.”

Porto’s gaze rested upon her, level, penetrating. He nodded once. “Then I’ll apologise for putting you through this again.” He walked on, steering left when the path forked.

“At least I’m forewarned this time.” She swallowed. Would that make it any easier? There was no answer to be had now – she’d only know once she arrived at the scene. Until then, it would be best to think of something, anything else. “What was that about at the gates?”

They entered a small copse of trees, dappled shadows flickering, tinted red and brown by the autumn leaves above. Some crunched underfoot.

“Frustration.”

Quin shot him a look, raising an eyebrow.

“You must have seen how many officers were at the gates?”

“Over a dozen.”

“Well, it hadn’t escaped their notice, either.” He sighed, breath misting. “They’re from the Gutter Streets.” As if she didn’t know that. “And they’re frustrated so few officers came when the killings were in their district. Yes, there are more officers here, but the Watergardens are huge – it would be impossible to secure the area with only a handful of men.”

Quin arched a brow. “We both know that’s not the reason there are so many janissaries here.” There had to be more at the numerous other gates to the park.

His shoulders sagged, and his gaze sank to the ground. “I – I admit, I’ve been given greater resources today.” His brow creased, and he pushed his spectacles up his face. “Understand this, madam, these killings are important to me, wherever the victim lives. You speak of being haunted day and night by that room above the pawnbrokers, well, don’t believe that because murder is my daily work, I’m unaffected.”

They emerged from the copse, bright autumn light warm on her skin and glistening in Porto’s eyes. She nodded. He’d cared about Atesh when he’d faced death despite his innocence. He cared about these women and wanted their killer caught enough to risk calling upon her. His superiors must not know – a civilian involved in a murder investigation had to go against all procedure and must break janissary rules. Never mind the fact she was a gentlewoman he’d had dealings with already – dealings involving her blade at his neck and the ‘borrowing’ of evidence from janissary coffers.

“Understood.” She gave him a tight smile. “I take it your phrasing means this victim isn’t from the Gutter Streets, then?”

Porto nodded. “A very wealthy lady, and yet … he left her with a pocketbook full of cash and some expensive jewellery.” He frowned as he led the way along the left path. “I’d have expected that he was going after a wealthier victim as a way to get money.”

She frowned. Even faced with a wealthy woman and expensive items that were easily transported, the Destroyer wasn’t driven by cash in the slightest. Did that mean Porto’s previous deduction that the killer was from the Gutter Streets was wrong? Was he some rich man preying on the poor? Or was it that something else drove him, something that for him was more important than money?

They approached an archway so long and so covered in ancient akebia vines that it had become a low tunnel full of diffused light. A janissary stood at its entrance.

Years ago, she’d visited here in the spring when plum-coloured flowers cascaded from the ceiling and walls, filling the air with the delicious vanilla-chocolate scent that gave the plant its other name: chocolate vine.

Now the bright green hand-shaped leaves had started darkening to purple in the cooling autumn. Large oval fruits dangled amongst the foliage, pale and swollen.

When she drew closer, she wrinkled her nose. Some of those fruits were white, others tinged purple. Many had split open, revealing moist white flesh mottled and full of seeds.

She gripped her hands before her, stomach roiling, bile at the back of her throat. Rotting flesh, that was what it looked like. How could such a beautiful flower become something so reminiscent of death?

“In here?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the grotesque fruit.

Porto nodded and took a lantern from the stern-faced janissary guarding the entrance.

A sharp smell made her wrinkle her nose. Piss? Here? And the aristos considered themselves so civilised.

“We’ve looked for any little clues in the area,” he said as they crept in, as though entering a monster’s den, “dropped belongings, footprints, and the like, but haven’t found anything of use.” He glanced at her, the akebia casting one side of his face a ghastly lilac, while the lamp bathed the other in yellow light.

“Yet.” She surveyed the floor. She’d persuaded him to let her help. Hundred willing, she’d spot something. Beneath their feet, fallen fruit and leaves wove a slick carpet over the paving – more than once they slipped and had to catch each other with apologetic smiles.

They reached the blood first, some spattered on the pale fruit, some pooled beneath.

She wrinkled her nose at the now-familiar smell of death and something else. Not the akebia. Something sharp. She frowned as they stopped beside a sheet covering a low mound that had to be a body.

It was a smell she knew.

Alleys. The red room.

Piss. She swallowed and pinched her nose but breathing through her mouth only brought the taste of it, acrid, together with the tang of blood and sickly death. She bent over, gagging, sweat cool on her brow.

She had to get a hold of herself, or she’d be no help to anyone. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled her cloak over her nose. The faint scent of rose, floral, familiar. That was better.

Standing straight, she nodded to herself, then to Porto. Hundred bless the man, but he didn’t say a word, and his expression remained neutral.

Glancing back the way they’d come, she pictured herself here in the dark of night. Street lamps lined the paths. Had the woman been walking through the archway, perhaps meeting a lover for a tryst? Had she looked up to see a tall man silhouetted against the lamplight like the stern-faced janissary was silhouetted now against the bright daylight? Had she thought it her lover come to meet her? Had she called to him with a smile on her face? Or perhaps she’d immediately feared it was someone with darker intent and called out in fear to a faceless man. Maybe he’d toyed with her, approaching slowly through the dimness, relying on fear to paralyse her, taking his time to kill and disassemble.

A dramatic choice of location by the murderer. Private, too, hidden by the tunnel of akebia. This was a well-known landmark in the Watergardens, and by killing here, he’d claimed it as his own.

“Such a beautiful place,” Porto sighed, drawing Quin back from her thoughts with a shudder. Lifting his lamp, he walked around the body.

“Not anymore.” Amongst the leaf litter and fallen blooms lay irregular little shapes, glossy and red. When Porto’s lamp lit them, she understood. The Destroyer had cut them out of the victim.

A wave of dizziness crushed her, and for a moment, she had to stop and close her eyes. But that only took her back to the red room. No, not there again.

Opening her eyes wasn’t much better. Was her life destined to be full of horror from now on? Would she ever be able to close her eyes without seeing either the red room or, now, this green and purple tunnel?

She took a long breath against nausea. Every inch of her skin crawled. Gods, she hadn’t even seen the body yet, but it was clear he’d cut the poor woman apart. She’d have to look, but there might still something revealed by the location.

“This choice of setting” – she gestured around them – “it’s a statement. Dramatic, almost. And by striking in another district … it’s not only the Gutter Streets anymore, is it? He’s violating the safety of all the women of Arianople by striking here. Because it is about women, isn’t it? He hasn’t done this to any men.”

Porto’s brows drew together. “Not that we’re aware of, no.”

“Is it because he hates women, especially or is it that women are easier for him to overpower?”

He shook his head, grimacing. “He’s strong enough to overpower many men, I think. It’s women he’s after, specifically. And not just any women – he gives special attention to professionals and, well, now to a young woman of society. Why?”

She took a long breath. Despite being from opposite ends of the city, there was something they had in common. “They’re available, or at least they should be available to him. Professionals – anyone with coin can have them for a time, and they’re out on the streets in the dark. And her” – she frowned down at the white sheet stained red – “I suppose she’s an unmarried young gentlewoman, isn’t she?”

Porto nodded. “A debutante.”

“Is there something particular about her? Or is she the start of a new pattern for him and there will be more?” Please, no.

“Have they perhaps rejected him, and he’s seeking revenge?”

“All the professionals and her too?” Quin frowned, chewing her lip. The professionals he’d killed were the poorest kind who walked the streets, not the ones who worked from establishments like The Pearl where even gentlemen visited. That would make a strange combination of women for a man to know.

“No, that doesn’t seem likely, does it?” Porto lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps not all of them, but I think some were women he knew and maybe they did reject him, but it – it’s gone past that now … Maybe to all women of a certain type – young, available, as you put it – who symbolise those who rejected him?”

She shivered and pulled her cloak closer. “Because even if he’s killed the ones who directly hurt him, it’s not as if the hurt’s going to suddenly disappear, is it? It’s not as though he can do this and then stop.”

“I think we’re onto something.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “Maybe there’s even some commonality between the victims we’ve not yet understood. It would help if their families talked to me.” He sighed.

Nodding, she drew a long breath, but the sharp stink of piss choked her. She near doubled over coughing. Again, she pulled the hem of her cloak over her mouth and nose, catching her breath, eyes watering. “Have you noticed that smell before?”

He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “Ah yes, the urban ambience of Arianople.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not only the alleys or little private spots like this where a man might go if he finds himself short. I noticed it at Ela’s too, on the staircase, even.”

He cocked his head, eyebrows raising. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? I’d originally assumed it was from the victim at the moment she ... But why would it be on the stairs?”

She drew a sharp breath, rose and clean wool barely overpowering the stench of this place. “Could it be a clue?”

“Maybe.” He dipped into a crouch next to the covered mound that could only be a body. “Are you ready?”

She swallowed and nodded. As ready as it was possible to be to face this. She forced herself to watch as he peeled the sheet back.

The woman was mostly naked, sodden gown and petticoats tangled beneath her, stays cut open and –

She covered her mouth, blinking away tears. Gods, her belly open, too, hand resting below. A pink mark on her finger.

She gritted her teeth and bent closer, trying to ignore the rest. An indent on the middle finger of her right hand – she regularly wore a ring there. Probably every day.

“She’s missing a ring,” she murmured, pointing the mark out to Porto.

“I think you’re right.” He took a tiny notepad from his pocket and wrote in it.

Swallowing, Quin shook her head and forced herself to take in the rest of the body. This time there was less blood, no yawning red slit across her neck, but the woman’s head was at an unnatural angle, and something small rested in the hollow of her throat, above a ruby necklace. Fiery copper, round. A coin? She pointed.

Porto nodded. “A Venetian soldo. Left by the killer.”

And her face …

Skin cut away. Mouth sliced. Grotesque, strange, like an exaggerated laughing face.

Quin shuddered, her whole body wracked by it. Stumbling, she turned away, covering her face. “Put the sheet back, please. I’ve seen enough.” There was a rustle of cloth as he obeyed.

How could someone do this to another human being? She’d been angry before, she’d hated people who’d hurt her and the people she cared about, Prima in particular, but she could never – not this. She reached for understanding, but there was nothing there.

“I – I don’t …” She shook her head, wide eyes seeking Porto – let him explain, he had to understand. It was his job.

He’d turned ashen, and his hand shook as he adjusted his glasses. “Me either.” Turning towards the entrance of the tunnel, he offered his arm.

From the pallor of his skin, he was as shaken as she was.

He frowned. “So, he’s left cash in her pockets, and a gold and ruby necklace, but has taken a ring. Surely the –”

“Yes, that necklace would be worth a great deal of money, indeed.” At least 500 zeri, from that quick look, perhaps more. She sighed and took his arm.

“His trophy.”

“I was thinking, maybe he isn’t from the Gutter Streets after all.”

“Which means many more possible suspects.”

She nodded. Gods, he could be from anywhere. “And what about her? What’s her name?”

“Aurelia Tiryaki,” he said, and the words shook through Quin’s body. “I believe she’s –”

“Aurelia?” She stared at him.

He nodded slowly. “You know her?”

“I met her a few weeks ago.” Gods. Aurelia had been nasty at the Sultana’s funeral, but she didn’t deserve this. No one did, however unpleasant, however cruel. Had she been here meeting a lover or attending a private event with friends? Many a party, ball, and midnight picnic was held here late in the night, and many a couple came to tryst away from servants, parents, or cuckolded spouses. Surely the place would be quieter after dark now.

Poor Aurelia. She hadn’t even been recognisable with her face like that. At least a broken neck was quick.

Quin’s hand went to her own throat. The rise and fall of swallowing, the throb of her pulse, the warmth of her flesh. She was alive, and behind her, mere feet away, Aurelia was not. “What kind of force does it take to do that to a person?”

“A lot,” Porto murmured, as they started back towards the light and the silhouetted janissary. “I couldn’t do it, and I don’t just mean morally – it would take someone with sheer brute strength. That’s how I know he could overpower most men, too.”

She chewed her lip. “I – I heard that a figure was seen nearby shortly after some of the other murders. A tall man, over six-foot tall and almost as broad. I thought people were making up tales to feel important, but now I’ve seen that ...”

He nodded.

They walked on in silence for a few paces. She kept her gaze fixed on the janissary guarding the end of the tunnel. The akebia fruit had been disturbing before she’d seen Aurelia’s body, now the thought of the pale swollen flesh split open was unbearable.

“And we still don’t have much to go on, do we?”

“For now, madam.” He offered the lamp back to the guard as they emerged into the autumn sunlight. “For now.”

23

Oleander Blooming

The clean scent of the morning’s rain and green growth filled Atesh’s nose as he approached the patio. Hushing trees still dripped from the earlier showers. Large, showy dahlias exploded in hot orange and deep crimson. Fat black grapes with their waxy purple bloom dangled from the pergola overhead, the woody vines echoing the swirling shapes of the wrought iron table and chairs. Pots and pots of little chrysanthemums were dotted between the chairs, hot pink, regal purple, and pure white.

In the midst of them all sat a false flower folded out of silk. He clenched his fist.

No, he was being unfair. Aunt Prima was involved in spreading lies about Quin, that didn’t mean she necessarily knew they were lies.

She sat with fuchsia pink blankets pooled around her shoulders and puddled in her lap, blending with her silk gown in the same tone. Her dark eyes fixed upon him as she smiled, carving lines either side of her mouth. All that, together with the grey hair piled on top of her head and the porcelain tea set on the table – she was no false flower. Hundred, she looked like nothing worse than a harmless middle-aged lady. He’d been unfair to judge her before hearing what she had to say. Likely she’d been lied to by someone else.

“My dearest nephew,” she cooed as he arrived at her table, “my favourite nephew. So good of you to visit your poor aunt.” She held out her hand for him to kiss – when he’d been a child, she’d always insisted that he kiss her hand. Her movement sent a powerful waft of lilies over him. “It’s been too long since you last came.”

“I’ve been somewhat indisposed, Aunt.” He took her cool, fleshy hand, awkwardly patting it.

The hand that had stabbed her colleagues and sisters in their backs, metaphorically and, so darker rumours had it, literally. The hand that had banned the harem, throwing them out onto the streets with their children. The hand that had erased her own history, rewriting it with one that made no mention of her ever being part of the harem. People remembered, of course, but they made sure to only ever mention it out of her earshot. But then was half of that even true?

Then there was the Night of the Innocents.

The floors of the Evengate Palace harem quarters had been stained with blood or flooded with it, depending on who told the tale. There was no denying it had been a massacre, but surely that order hadn’t come from Prima. It had merely been overzealous janissaries thinking they were preserving the heirs to the Tulip Throne. An unfortunate misunderstanding.

But what threat could children and babies have been to anyone?

“You’re scowling,” she said, voice cutting through his thoughts. She raised the teapot, and he nodded. “Why do I get the impression,” she said as she poured dark green peppermint tea into a cup, “you’ve not come for tea and a turn about the garden with your dear aunt?” Cup perched on a saucer, she held it out to him. The fresh peppermint smell clashed with her overpowering lily perfume, blocking his throat.

He smiled stiffly, accepting the cup and backing out of the miasma of her fragrance. Blessed fresh air. He gulped it in.

How to broach this? He took his time, placing his cup on the table, then pulling out a seat from the wrought iron patio set, angling it towards her, and at last sitting. “I’m concerned.” Perhaps bluntness would reveal the truth through her reaction. “I heard a rather unpleasant lie about a friend of mine recently. When I poked and prodded deeper, imagine my surprise when I discovered the origin of the tale – my own, dear aunt!”

“An unpleasant lie?” She raised one grey eyebrow. “About a friend? Now, what could that be? Whom could that be?” The corner of her mouth twitched.

She wasn’t shocked. That expression – mocking. Perhaps she wasn’t so harmless.

“So, you know exactly why I’m here.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Yes, but I’d very much like to hear you say it.”

“Why have you spread that awful rumour about Lady Sabia?”

“Lady Sabia?” She threw her head back, with a cascade of laughter. “Is that what you call the strumpet when she’s between your sheets?”

A sharp breath in. How did she know? And to speak so openly about it …

He’d always felt a vague unease about her and the way she pawed him and insisted on the kisses to her hand or cheeks, but it was easy to dismiss. Just an overly affectionate aunt, after all her husband was dead and she had little family left. Especially after Fehim had gone and now Zeynab, too.

But this. The way she spoke, there was a cruelty, a sharpness to her. Was that sharpness the edge of truth to those rumours about her?

He cleared his throat. “Why are you telling these lies about her?”

“My dear boy, what makes you so sure they’re lies?”

He hid his white knuckles in his lap, clasping his hands so tightly the joints popped. “I’ll humour you. Lie or not, why are you telling all and sundry such a cruel thing?”

“And why not?” She cocked her head at him, looking like a parrot with too much plumage. Her hands appeared from the folds of her blankets, spreading as if all innocence. “Why shouldn’t I tell the world exactly what sort of woman my nephew, next in line to the throne, the Pasha Regent, in case you’d forgotten, has taken into his bed?”

He drew a long breath in through his nose. He wouldn’t let her bait him if that’s what she was attempting. He blew out slowly. “I didn’t have you as the type to spread rumours before. There’s something different here. And I think you even doubt its truth.”

Her lips pursed, and her gaze shifted from him to the vase of dahlias on the table. “There’s something about the girl I dislike. She reminds me of” – a sneer puckered her face, gone in a second – “an unpleasant stench. And yet you insist on bringing her to state events. I’ll not have her in society or my house. I certainly won’t have you marry her and bring her into my family.”

He scoffed. “What makes you think you have any say in that?”

A small, pointed smile thinned her lips. It didn’t crease her face as the earlier one had when she’d welcomed him. “Because you may be Co-Regent, but you still need the family’s permission to marry, and I am the heart of this family. To whom do you think our poor Little Sultana will listen – her dear grandmama who was ever there for her? Or her cousin, the man accused of her beloved mother’s murder?”

His mouth dropped open. This woman. She wasn’t a false flower; she was a poisonous one. His judgment, irritated as he’d been, had been far from unfair. Blood burning, he leant forward, spreading his hands flat on the table, the coolness of the wrought iron a relief. “I didn’t do that, as well you know. My innocence was proven beyond all doubt.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Her head tilted, a patronising smirk on her lips. “And yet – what is it they say on the Gutter Streets? Oh, it’s such a quaint phrase and so apropos – shit sticks. You walk free and, certainly, have been proven innocent, but there will always be a stench about you, a suspicion that you had some involvement. There will always be the question of whether you see yourself on that gold-canopied throne instead of my inconvenient little granddaughter.”

He grimaced. The woman wasn’t wrong. Hadn’t Ilyas said as much when he’d offered the position?

Prima’s dark eyes glittered as they narrowed. “And that’s where we come back to your dear friend – the best lies contain a grain of truth. People were so ready to believe you’d killed my daughter because they knew the pair of you had quarrelled and because you are so close in the line of succession.” She picked up her cup of tea and took a sip. “I wonder why they’re so ready to believe your paramour is a dirty, filthy little whore.” She smiled at him over the teacup.

His blood boiled. Whore. How dare she? He dragged his fingers over the rough pattern of the tabletop until his hands formed fists, scuffing the backs of his fingers. He swallowed down the desire to shove the table over, breaking her precious tea set. Anger would spell victory for her. He had to beat her at her own cruel game.

And he damn well would.

His lifted his chin and took his teacup from the table. “A whore?” He cocked his head. “Tell me, dear aunt, all those concubines in the harem – when did we start calling them whores? And why is it there’s one left whom everyone only calls a whore behind her back?”

Her expression stilled. Despite the powder on her cheeks, she paled two shades. A vein pulsed at her temple.

A hit.

He smiled sweetly at her, then sipped his tea, the peppermint fresh and hot and all the sweeter for the blow he’d landed against her. She was the one who’d branded them whores. Let her feel the cut of her own blade.

Her jaw worked side to side, and her nostrils flared. With a toss of her head, she upended her cup, pouring the rest of her tea onto the pot of little pink chrysanthemums beside her. “I think our tea is finished now. Run back to your paintings, just like you always have, just like your mother always did.”

Eyes narrowing, he nodded. “Almost.” Not a moment too soon. How had he ever borne the company of this woman? How had she hidden such venom for so long? His cup clinked as he dropped it onto its saucer and stood. “It’s over once you agree to say nothing further about Lady Sabia.”

“You know,” she said, jowls trembling as she looked up at him, that vein still throbbing, “there’s something unsavoury about that woman, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. As ungrateful as you are, you’re still family, so I’ll say nothing more to anyone about that woman of yours, and I’ll give you this one warning, nephew – Sabia has enemies, so a little wasp tells me. Don’t let them become yours – cast her off while you still can, and your reputation might survive intact.”

A little wasp. An odd saying, but so appropriate for her – after all, wasn’t she a nasty, stinging little creature?

He gave a theatrical sigh and lifted his hand to his chest. “Your sudden concern about my reputation is touching, dear old aunt, but I think it’s rather the family’s reputation that so worries you.” He leant on the table, peering down at her. How had he ever thought she looked like an innocent middle-aged woman? “And well it should, with such a conniving snake at its heart. I will do exactly as I please, marry whom I please, and not give a solitary damn what you think. Quin might have enemies, but she also has friends. And they might prove stronger than yours.”

Her eyes widened, the lines in her forehead deepening as her brows raised. He wasn’t exactly sure what allies Quin had, but the bluff was worth it for that half-shocked, half-worried expression on Prima’s face. He had her rattled.

He smiled, nodded, and walked away through the garden.

Well, it wasn’t entirely a bluff – after all, if Quin could save him from the gallows and prove his innocence, she certainly was not to be trifled with.

But then neither, it turned out, was Prima. Was the Night of the Innocents really a terrible misunderstanding?

As a boy, he’d once overheard two servants speaking in hushed tones after they’d been reprimanded, saying that night when the harem had been banned wasn’t the first time Prima had killed babies. He’d dismissed it as rebuked servants venting. But what if there was more to it than that? After all, it was strange that Ibril Sultan, with his harem of over a dozen wives, had left only ten surviving children when he died. Previous harems had produced dozens of children who’d survived to adulthood. And now Ibril’s family stood so small – just Atesh and Safira.

Had Prima played a part in that?

Atesh swallowed, ducking through an archway covered in rambling roses, the flowers fading, bruised brown petals slick beneath his feet. The sickening sweet smell of rot filled his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose.

It was possible.

Even if the worst rumours about Prima were true, he and Quin together could overcome her. She could try to sway Safira against Quin, but he’d defeat her machinations and get his cousin’s permission to marry. For now, he had all he needed – Prima had agreed to say no more about Quin. He’d solved the problem without having to worry Quin with it.

With time the lies would fade, and she’d be safe in both body and reputation.

24

#113

On the ride home, the conversation played through Atesh’s mind. Prima was not the person he’d always thought; however, one thing she’d said might prove useful.

Run back to your paintings, just like you always have, just like your mother always did.

His paintings. His mother’s. There was one place their work sat side-by-side: a box of old notebooks and sketches, which he kept in his study. As a teen he’d put them in there, wanting to stay close to her. Perhaps it was a silly, childish notion, but it was a small comfort, and small comforts were all he had left of her.

He’d gone through the studio last week, sure that was where he’d put the logbooks, but he’d turned the room upside down with no sign of them. That box – of course they were in there. His teenage self had pored over them, desperate to learn from her as an artist and as his mother. Inside one of those logbooks, he’d find out more about the painting from Quin’s hallway.

He arrived home and gave Atil a good scratch behind the ears, grinning. Prima thought she’d riled him, but in fact, she’d been a great help. He greeted the stable girl who ran up and took Atil around to the yard. With a bounce in his stride, he went to the house, greeting Nald and then dismissing him. He didn’t need help with this task.

He hurried to his study. Shelves lined three walls of the comfortably proportioned room, with three large windows dominating the fourth aspect. The combined scent of linseed oil and leather filled his nose, and he took two long breaths – it was a familiar smell, a comforting one. It erased Prima’s cloying lily perfume.

The tension in his arms and up the back of his neck eased, and he rolled his shoulders. Much better.

High on a shelf behind his desk stood the rosewood box, gleaming warm burnt umber in the afternoon sun. How could he have forgotten the logbooks were in there? He carefully lowered the box to his desk and opened it.

The inside smelled dry and old, of paper and charcoal, then that warm, thick scent of linseed oil rose, stronger than the general smell in the room. He smiled and lowered his face to the box, closing his eyes and inhaling.

Likely most children associated their mothers with a certain perfume or a particular flavour of tea she always liked to drink, like smoky lapsang souchong or deep, malty Assam.

But not him.

Oil paint and pencil and paper and canvas and charcoal and the dry powdery touch in the air of pastels – those were the things that always took him right back to his mother. He opened his eyes and sighed, sinking to his desk chair.

And now he’d find out more about this painting and get another little glimpse of her. Smiling, he rifled through the papers and books in the large rosewood box.

Here they were, at last, the logbooks – a stack of half a dozen thin volumes, all bound in black leather. He flicked open the top one. Inside the front cover, was written 1 – 39. From her teenage years, then, when she’d first started keeping the meticulous logs of every work she’d created. He checked the others. He had most of them, but there were stretches of numbers missing.

There. 84 – 136. He puffed out a long breath. Thank the Hundred he had it.

He flicked through, heart clenching at the sight of her handwriting after so long. Each piece of work started with a number and a title or a brief description. 88 – Sketch of fountain. 94 – Charcoal of sabrecat. 101 – Watercolour showing sunset on the Golden Horn. And so on.

Some entries then had longer notes: a brief idea of the day she’d done the work, how long she’d spent in a place, whether she’d asked the subject to sit or they’d commissioned her, perhaps some information about the subject. If it was a person, for instance, she sometimes noted information about her relationship with them.

Had she ever painted his father? His real father. He would have to come back and check through all the logs he had looking for Dastan. What might she have written about him? Would there be some clue about their relationship that he’d never seen before, as he hadn’t known to look for it?

Many of the larger works, primarily the oil paintings, included a tiny thumbnail sketch of the work, often showing the light and dark. When he was younger, he’d assumed she’d completed them after the paintings, as part of her record-keeping. However, as he’d developed in his own artistic practice, he’d started drawing little thumbnails before working on the canvas to test out the composition and the balance of light and shadow. This thumbnail of a light-coated sabrecat napping in a tree’s shade – it was the same. She’d tested out her idea before committing paint to canvas. If she’d lived long enough to teach him more, she likely would have shown him the technique. He took a long breath running fingertips across the page. Perhaps he’d remembered these little thumbnails and some part of his subconscious had worked out their use before he consciously had. He was her son, after all. How much more wisdom had been lost with her?

Frowning, he carried on flipping through the pages. 110 … 111 … 112.

113. Livia Guldan. Envied rose of the harem, wife of Ibril Sultan.

A harem wife? He frowned at the little thumbnail sketch. The woman was all sinuous lines and dark hair, light catching on her parure of jewellery. It matched the painting. Did Quin know she had a portrait of a harem woman hanging in her home? At least that explained why the landlord had hidden it in the attic.

If it was the landlord’s.

This Livia woman looked strikingly like Quin. Or rather, if Livia was from the harem, gone for over twenty years, then Quin looked like her. Perhaps the likeness explained Prima’s dislike of Quin – if Quin reminded her of an old rival from the harem, it could lead to an instinctive, immediate dislike. She’d referred to Quin as a whore, hadn’t she?

But what if it wasn’t a coincidental likeness? Could Prima be onto something, even if she didn’t realise? Were Quin and this Livia Guldan related? The painting could be hers rather than her landlord’s.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, blinking at the window. That would explain why she wouldn’t part with it when he’d offered to buy it.

He closed his eyes and visualised the portrait. They had the same eyes – large and amber – and even the curve of their lips was identical.

It was possible.

Opening his eyes, he blew out a shaking breath and turned the page, but it went on to the next entry. This was all the information on this painting.

Livia Guldan.

Gods, he’d expected to find out more about his mother and her art, not about Quin and her secrets … and her mother? Was that the secret she was keeping – her mother was from the harem? If so, it was monumental. He scrubbed his hands over his face, a tremor running through them.

What did this piece of the puzzle mean?

Logic. He could be jumping to conclusions. What were the possibilities?

That Quin and Derry had told him the truth and the painting belonged to the landlord. The likeness between Quin and Livia Guldan was pure coincidence.

Or that Quin was related to Livia Guldan, once a wife of the harem. That would explain her secrecy and the mystery of where she was from. He’d asked her about it at the picnic before the elephant had attacked. She’d claimed to be from Umbria, but she spoke Thanatolian like a native.

If she she’d come into society admitting she was from Thanatolia, everyone would want to know her family – who was her father? And her mother? If she lied, she’d be found out – enough people knew the great families of Thanatolia to realise she wasn’t a member of any of them. But who here knew the families of Umbria well enough to say she was lying?

He gulped a breath. Gods. Hadn’t she said in that very conversation that she got her amber eyes from her Thanatolian mother? Shivers chased across his skin.

If she was 23, almost 24, that meant she’d been born several months, perhaps even a year after the end of the harem. Uncle Ibril had been impotent for the last six months or so of his life, not long after Fehim had been conceived, so, family rumour went and as Malos loved to tease him. Don’t want to end up like him, do you? So, Ibril couldn’t be her father.

But this Livia Guldan had to be her amber-eyed, Thanatolian mother.

This was it – it had to be. He laughed, shaking his head.

He’d worked it out. He’d actually worked it out – the great secret of Quinta Sabia.

Daughter of a harem wife.

And it didn’t matter. It didn’t damn well matter. Not to him.

As long as no one else found out, it was of no consequence. And with him helping keep the secret, how would they?

She thought it meant she had to leave but, bless her mistaken fears, it didn’t. She could stay, and they could marry and be together properly if she’d have him. Surely once she knew he knew her secret and still loved her, her walls would come tumbling down and she’d let him propose properly, and she’d say yes.

Springing to his feet, he shoved the logbook in his inside pocket. He’d go to her now. Tell her. And she’d be so relieved. It would be a weight off her shoulders. Her secret was safe, and he knew what it was and didn’t give a solitary damn.

“Quinta Shahin.” Gods, it sounded good.

He ran to the front door, feet light as air. When Nald caught him near the front door, Atesh laughed and waved him away, breathless and giddy. “I have to see a lady about a secret,” he called as he left.

The poor stable girl was closing the door to Atil’s enclosure when Atesh came running up. Her eyes widened as he approached and called the big sabrecat. Within minutes, he had Atil tacked up, shooing away the stable girl’s help with a smile and a zeri. “Buy yourself some Anatol delight.” He leapt onto Atil’s back and scoffed. “Hundred, buy yourself all the Anatol delight! Life is short and precious and beautiful. Do with it and with that coin whatever you truly wish to do.” He waved and rode onto the street, threading through traffic in the most direct route to Quin’s house.

In minutes he’d relieve her burden. He knew her secret, and it wasn’t so terrible. This thing she’d carried so long, probably all her life, well, she didn’t have to shoulder it alone anymore.

Gods, what had that life been like? It seemed unlikely her mother had found a wealthy home immediately after escaping the Night of the Innocents and its horrors, so where had she found safety from Prima? What life had she brought Quin into?

Had Livia returned to the relatives who’d let the harem scouts take her away or had she sought shelter with friends? Had she fled to the countryside and made do or perhaps claimed to be a widow and found a new husband, a respectable man with money and manners who took pity on her and helped raise Quin?

Where had they lived? Somewhere in Thanatolia, surely. Even with a Thanatolian mother, Quin’s accent and manner of speech were so impeccable; she must have grown up amongst native-speakers.

He grinned fiercely, steering Atil onto Neorion Square. His heart surged, and his hands felt effervescent. In minutes, he would tell her.

Ariston raised his eyebrows when he answered the door but greeted him and showed him to the drawing room. Quin was in her chambers next door, bathing, but he’d have her come through as soon as she was suited to company.

Despite the wait, he smiled to himself. This was the room they’d first kissed in. And earlier that same day, he’d been waiting for Quin, ready to confront her about her performance during the elephant attack. He’d searched for signs of her, of who she was, of her secret. But the room had been frustratingly devoid of personal effects or even hints.

No wonder. It all made sense now – of course she had to hide who and what she was.

The daughter of a harem wife.

After all, hadn’t he joined Prima in referring to the harem women as whores?

He stopped at the fireplace, frowning at a small mother of pearl box there. He’d checked it during his search weeks ago – empty.

When he’d said whore, he’d been turning Prima’s words back against her. He’d worked with professionals for years now, painted them, chatted to them, even befriended some in a way. They were simply people; what did it matter if they earned their money standing, sitting, or lying down?

But that wasn’t how others saw them. It certainly wasn’t how people saw the women who’d once been harem wives – they were harem whores. If the truth came out, they’d undoubtedly call Quin the same. She’d be tarred by that same brush.

He scoffed, tilting the mother of pearl box. Hadn’t Prima said there was a grain of truth in the best lies?

No wonder Quin had been so distraught when Terzo had believed her a courtesan – it must have felt terrifyingly close to the truth. That night, she’d… she’d been distressed, yes, but not only that. She’d hunched in on herself, hiding behind her hair, avoiding his gaze until he’d at last been able to comfort her.

But he knew that look all right. He’d worn it enough as a child after Ferros had hit him and told him it was his fault Mama was dead. The bastard had been wrong, but that hadn’t stopped Atesh feeling that he’d caused her death, questioning what he could have done to prevent it. Had he left a toy at the top of the stairs that she’d tripped over? Had she not loved him enough to stay, because he wasn’t a good boy?

He huffed a sigh. They were questions a little boy had tortured himself with. Now he knew the truth.

But that was the same look Quin had worn. Did she think she’d done something to bring on Terzo’s attack? And the tears when he’d first found her fleeing the library, the closed eyes, the red in her cheeks. She’d been ashamed. At what Terzo had done, but had she also felt it all the more keenly because a courtesan wasn’t so far removed from the kept women of the harem?

That grain of truth in the lie.

And was she ashamed of that grain of truth?

He closed his eyes, pressing his fist to his mouth. No, please don’t let her feel ashamed. She had no reason for it. The harem women, from the little he’d heard, had been cheated out of their lives by Prima. And even if they were professionals, what did it damn well matter?

With a sigh deep as a well, he bent over to lean his head on his hands, resting on the mantlepiece.

He’d been so wrapped up in the puzzle, so pleased with himself for solving the mystery that he hadn’t stopped to think of how she felt about her secret or about him knowing it.

She’d expect him to think differently of her. Perhaps that hateful word would lance through her thoughts, sharp and cruel. Whore.

He pushed away from the mantlepiece, pacing again, long strides swift.

There had to be a way he could tell her that wouldn’t make her feel ashamed or worried, that wouldn’t hurt her.

There had to be.

But hadn’t he already confronted her in this very room about her secret? And she’d been afraid. It had been as easy to read as his own handwriting. So desperate to keep her secret that it had warred with her desire for him. If the thing that drew her to him was anything like what he felt for her, it was a natural, irresistible chemistry, as difficult to resist as magnets pulling together.

And of course she was afraid.

Because if anyone discovered her secret, anyone who cared about it, it wouldn’t be whispers in ballrooms or even a man attacking her in a library.

Prima and her janissaries had murdered the women of the harem, even if a few had escaped. And the threat hadn’t ended on the Night of the Innocents.

Oh no, that threat had still been very real only last year. He’d read it in the newspapers, a great scandal in Angora to the south-east. They’d discovered a woman from Ibril Sultan’s harem. She’d married a merchant many years ago, but at last her secret had come out. The newspaper reports had lingered on salacious details of supposed activities she’d engaged in during her time as a merchant’s wife, though her husband had denied all knowledge. No one had claimed she’d done anything scandalous with other men until they’d realised she was a harem wife. Odd that. The janissaries had arrested her for the fraud of keeping her identity hidden and lying to her husband. A week later they’d hanged her.

He swallowed.

This went far beyond reputation.

If Quin was Livia’s daughter, then she risked execution, whether official or otherwise. Much as he’d mocked Prima earlier, her reputation as the architect of the Night of the Innocents looked like it might be well-deserved and she still had threads of influence. It wasn’t beyond imagining that some of those threads weaved into the janissary order and perhaps to darker places where quiet blades could be hired.

Quin was playing a dangerous game by coming back to Arianople. No wonder she’d considered leaving. What the hells had brought her back here?

He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair.

The door opened, and he froze.

Quin. In a simple blue gown, hair wet and swept over one shoulder. She smiled. “Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

He stared, mouth open. What was he supposed to say? After all, he’d come here to give her what he now realised was a deeply unpleasant surprise.

What a fool he’d been. He’d been so intent on uncovering her secrets, prying into her affairs, he hadn’t even considered that she had damn good reason to keep it quiet. All he’d thought about was his own desire to know – because however much the curiosity gnawed at him, it was only a want, not a need. How selfish.

She needed to be safe – to feel safe in life and heart.

Well, he’d damn well protect her, even if that was from himself and his knowledge.

“Atesh,” she said, approaching slowly, her head cocked, “is something wrong?”

He managed a rictus smile.

Foolish man, he was. It had never been his burden to stride in and take from her shoulders.

What was it she’d said about Ariston keeping what he knew about Ferros and Mama from her? It’s not his secret to tell. As far as he’s concerned, it’s for you to tell me if and when you so choose.

This was her secret to tell, not his to rip from her.

If and when she wished, she would come to him with the truth and she’d be ready. Ready to bare her throat to him. Ready to trust him with it. Ready to be vulnerable and face the consequences.

But that was not his decision to make.

He sighed and covered the ground between them, sweeping her up into his arms, squeezing her tight, like she might disappear as those poor women and their children had on the Night of the Innocents. “I’m fine.” The clean smell of her filled his nose and mouth, almost a flavour as much as a scent. “I just wanted to see you and couldn’t bear to wait until Thursday.”

A chuckle rippled through her, as he slowly turned with her, her feet hanging in the air. “You had me worried then – the look you gave me.” She looked up at him, her smile shining in her eyes, lighting her face.

“Ah, but you have the power to strike a man into silence – or make him a blathering idiot.” He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Now, what do you say to a ride? I have a strong desire to be seen in public at the side of the most impressive woman in Arianople. We’ll see what the gossips have to say then.” He arched an eyebrow.

“For a blathering idiot, you do have some really quite good ideas, you know.” Her teeth flashed in a quick grin, and she lifted her lips to his for a moment. “It’s a sunny day, let’s go and enjoy it.”

“But first …” He held her close and spun again, burying his face in her damp hair, letting the moisture bathe his skin. With a long sigh, he breathed her in.

The things she’d been through – he couldn’t imagine. But if and when she was ready, he would be right here. It was more than just knowing her mother’s identity; it was her life and, whatever she’d done in it, that was her story to tell.

And if she ever trusted him with it, he would listen.

25

The Grand Bazaar

Floral sweetness filled Derry’s mouth and nose. She closed her eyes, enjoying the flavour and chewy texture.

“Mmm, this is good,” Quin said, licking powdered sugar off her lips.

Derry nodded and caught the eye of the merchant, who bowed and opened his arms in greeting. For a man who ran a shop full of sweets and pastries, he was surprisingly slim.

Never trust a skinny baker, that’s what her mother had always said. They must not say the same in Thanatolia about slim sweet-sellers.

“Ladies, how can I help you this afternoon?”

Derry raised her eyebrows at Quin – she loved to haggle, and she loved Anatol delight even more. After Ela’s murder, Aurelia’s body in the Watergardens, and the library incident – no, she’d call it what it was – Terzo’s attack. After all those things, Quin was in definite need of cheering up. And that was precisely why Derry had brought her to the Grand Bazaar.

When Quin had told her about visiting the Watergardens with Porto, she’d been scant on detail. It was obvious she was holding back, was avoiding thinking about it too much. Had it brought back the image of Ela’s body?

Quin hadn’t responded to the merchant. Derry frowned and gave a subtle nudge, but Quin’s eyes stayed dull, and she gave the man a slight shake of her head. “No, thank you,” she said and backed away, arm slipping from Derry’s.

So much for Anatol delight.

Derry gave the merchant an apologetic smile and hurried out of the stall.

The vaulted ceilings overhead sent the cries of a hundred merchants back at them – lamps and carpets and fine silk and tailors and slippers and stockings and bright spices and sultry incense. If you believed them, all the best of everything could be bought here.

“Quin.” She slipped her arm through Quin’s and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, I thought this might cheer –”

“No,” Quin said, shaking her head, red paste earrings shimmering as they twisted, “I’m sorry. I’m terrible company at the moment, aren’t I?” She rubbed her shadowed eyes. “At risk of sounding all woe is me, it feels like so many horrible things have happened at once. Ela” – her eyebrows drew together and her gaze skittered away from Derry’s – “Aurelia, Terzo, and more selfishly …” She glanced at a shopper examining a stall’s brightly-coloured glassware.

Close enough to hear them.

Derry nodded. “Come on.”

She cast them off into the passages of the bazaar, the tide of shoppers drawing them along. The hubbub of chatter and bartering combined with their movement meant at best strangers might catch a few words of their conversation, but nothing more.

Stroking the back of Quin’s hand, she raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Quin’s shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “And I realised that we do need to leave.” She frowned, gaze upon a stall where a crowd had gathered to see little mechanical marionettes, but it was obvious that wasn’t what she was seeing.

Leaving. That meant …

Derry’s stomach dipped. That meant leaving Tacita when she’d just found her. They’d spent yesterday afternoon together playing cards, chatting, and had even sat in the garden a while, surrounded by flowers and leaves in the glow of the afternoon sun. And, gods, in the warmth of Tacita’s regard and touch and lengthy kisses.

After their conversation with Ariston about finances, it had been clear Quin wouldn’t even entertain the thought of a new mark. It seemed she’d started considering the prospect of staying in Arianople permanently, so what had changed? Surely Atesh’s power and influence would be enough to keep them safe if she kept him in the dark about her crimes.

And, as for their finances, he had plenty of money. Even if they didn’t marry, a Pasha Regent’s mistress would want for nothing.

Derry bit her lip. Perhaps Quin could be persuaded. She cleared her throat. “That’s a bit rash, isn’t it? What brought about this sudden realisation?”

“Hardly rash – it’s what I do, isn’t it?” She shrugged. “I realised days ago – I’ve been trying not to think about it but at the ceremony …” She trailed off, pausing at a stall where long swathes of silk hung from the vaulted ceiling, all different colours, some with two tones running through the fabric, making the colour change as it moved. The deep teal folds of one piece rustled as she pulled it out, catching gold, then teal again as they rippled. “Look at this – gods I love shot silk.”

Stalling. Derry bit back a sigh and fingered the silk. Crisp and smooth. “At the ceremony?”

Quin’s mouth flattened, and she exhaled sharply through her nose. “It all – it was real. He’s now” – she glanced at the merchant, a middle-aged woman helping another customer – “well, he has his new position, and I knew it was coming, but seeing it was different. I understand now. It’s not simply that he’s Sire now. What he does brings more attention and more risk.”

She dropped the length of teal-gold silk and lifted another piece, vibrant sky blue that shifted to silver as it moved.

“You’ll give us – him some warning first, though, won’t you? We can’t just disappear.” She couldn’t just disappear, leaving Tacita wondering and abandoning the Gutter folk who came to her for medicine.

But Quin’s gaze was distant, and she didn’t seem to have heard.

As Derry’s scowled at the silver-blue fabric, something tugged at her attention. She locked eyes with a tall man a few stalls away. Instantly, his gaze flicked away, but he’d definitely been watching them. That’s what had pulled on her instinct. His hooded eyes and thick beard – they were familiar. From recently … in the sunshine, not indoors like this …

She frowned, alternating her attention from the fabric to the man. He was now apparently examining a pair of shoes. Eyebrows and lips flat in concentration – that was –

Yes – he’d been contemplating a dinner-plate sized dahlia, that exact expression on his face moments after she’d felt eyes upon them. Last week, at Valens Park. She swallowed.

“It’s such a risk,” Quin went on, “not only to us, but to him, and I’d never be able to forgive myself if he –”

“Quin,” she murmured, bending as if to look closely at the fabric’s weave, but actually using it to get close enough that no one else would hear her words, “without being obvious, take a look at the man at the shoe stall and tell me if you recognise him.”

The consummate actress, Quin’s only reaction was the movement of her throat as she swallowed. “And I think the blue and silver for you,” she said, lifting the fabric higher so it caught the light and would allow her to look past its edge at the shoe stall. “Yes, I think it will bring out your eyes.” Quin met her gaze and nodded.

Derry made a show of running her hands over the silver-blue silk, nodding enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, that is beautiful.”

Quin leant close. “Saw him when we were tasting the Anatol delight,” she breathed, rubbing the fabric between her fingers as if testing its weight.

So he was following them, but why? Who was he? And what had he seen?

“I saw him at Valens Park the other day.” She raised her eyebrows at Quin. “Shall we make enquiries?” An innocent enough comment – anyone would assume she meant they should ask about the fabrics, but Quin wasn’t anyone.

Quin nodded, and together they ducked into the cave-like shop, with its walls lined in shade upon shade of taffeta and satin, heavy moire and sheer gauze. Fishing a mask from her pocket, she glanced about – the merchant’s attention was still on the other customer who was asking a wealth of questions about white batiste. No one was watching them. She jerked her head at Quin and tied the mask in place while Quin did the same with hers. It would give some protection to their reputation – better than confronting a man in the middle of the bazaar with bare faces.

Together they strode from the stall. Their tail was still by the shoes, but his gaze rested on the entrance of the draper’s booth, rather than the shoe in his hand, and his eyes widened when he spotted them, approaching. In a heartbeat, he was off, pushing into the crowd.

As one, she and Quin dove after him.

Craning over people’s heads, Derry fought to keep her eyes on his dark brown hair, unremarkable, blending. The perfect spy.

Clutching her skirts, she ran, turning left, right, left again. This was a quieter, older part of the bazaar. Fewer people to dodge, but the walkways were narrow and crowded with pillars. She frowned, not daring to take her eyes off him for even an instant.

Rounding a corner, she searched left and right – shoppers and stall owners, all walking or standing. No one running.

“Lost him,” Quin panted at her side.

But then that familiar face glanced back. His eyes widened – clearly, he’d not expected gentlewomen to give chase. With more space, there was nothing to stop him surging into a full run.

Derry burst after him, Quin on her heels – slightly shorter and so a little slower. A few looks of half-interest followed them, but the bazaar was a hunting ground for cutpurses, and it wasn’t uncommon to see them chased through the labyrinthine walkways.

Rounding another corner, she skidded to a halt, barely avoiding a tumbled basket of pomegranates, the orange-red fruit rolling across the floor.

Darting between pillars, their tail was still in sight. Huffing hard against her stays, Derry pushed onward, picking out a route between the pomegranates. How many secrets did he have about them and who might he pass them to?

A grunt from behind – Quin leapt clear over the basket and fallen fruit, nodding Derry onwards.

That cap of brown hair dodged around a stall with low-hanging bunches of glass lamps, their cut metal frames casting patterned shadows. Derry followed, and Quin cut through, barely having to duck the clustered lamps. Clever idea. It gained her a few paces, bringing her level with Derry, but their tail was still some distance ahead, disappearing around another corner to the left.

Gesturing for Quin to carry on ahead, Derry skidded to a halt by a carpet shop she’d visited the first time she’d ever been to the Grand Bazaar. It was the place to see the best of Thanatolia’s famous carpets, and it ran right through this block of the bazaar and out the other side.

She dived in, past the carpets rolled and stacked on either side – ahead, the stall opened to another passage. She raced on, legs burning now, but if this shortcut paid off …

Breaths heaving, she burst out onto the main thoroughfare and sped right. The route he’d taken should come out –

With a sharp gasp, he belted around the corner, eyes widening at Derry right in his path. He slipped to a halt, hitting the floor with a grunt. She grinned in triumph as Quin drew up behind him and rested her hands on her thighs, panting.

Derry stood over him, catching her breath. “You’re surrounded, so I’d recommend you tell us why you’re following us.”

His eyes darted from Derry to Quin and back again. He scrabbled to his feet, and Quin’s hand went to her side. He followed the movement, and the way he flinched said he understood what it meant, even if Quin wore no rapier today.

“I’m sorry,” he puffed, raising his hands, showing he held no weapons. “I was asked to follow your lady, stay out of sight, but not to hurt either of you. No one needs to get hurt here.”

“Asked to follow me?” Quin shared a glance with Derry, mouth set in a straight line. She put her hands on her hips. “And you did this out of the kindness of your heart, as a favour to a dear old friend?”

“Well,” he sighed, “paid to follow you.”

Derry raised an eyebrow. “By?”

His only answer was a scowl and folded arms.

“You don’t want to hurt me, and I don’t want to hurt you,” Quin said, smiling sweetly up at him, batting her lashes, “but I’m not sure the janissaries will feel the same when I cry for help to subdue the nasty man whose light fingers I found on my watch chain.”

“But I never –”

Quin raised her eyebrows.

“They don’t need to know that,” Derry said, voice low. “Who do you think people would believe – a good gentlewoman out to sample the bazaar on a Wednesday afternoon or you?” She gave him a pointed look up and down. Black shirt, trousers, and boots – not poor, but not aristocratic finery, either.

His jaw knotted. “Fine,” he said and sighed, “fine. I could do with not getting the janissaries’ attention. The one who paid me said he was working for a pasha but wouldn’t say who. I only have his name – Nald.”

Derry gasped, and Quin’s eyebrows shot up. They shared a look – Atesh’s valet.

“Nald?” Quin said, voice strangled. “And he said he works for a pasha?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Chest heaving, Derry widened her eyes at Quin. What now? Why would Atesh have someone follow Quin if not because he had suspicions she was up to no good? Yes, he knew she had secrets, but he’d seemed to accept them as part and parcel of being with Quin. They had a truce. Bloody hells, Atesh – he was about to force them to flee before she’d had a chance to persuade Quin to stay.

And she did want to stay. She belonged with Quin and Ariston, but now Tacita and Reyhan tethered her to Arianople. Belonging wasn’t as simple as it had been a few months ago. And what about her work? Helping the families left behind by the Destroyer’s murders with money and medicine had loosened her knot of guilt and failure a fraction, but it was the lightest she’d felt in years.

But she couldn’t say anything, not yet. Quin’s face was a storm – lowered brows, tight jaw, mouth set in a grim line. To speak now would risk lighting the touchpaper on that anger and then she might make a rash decision, like leaving right away.

At the right moment, she’d have to remind Quin of Ela and justice. The Destroyer needed to be caught. With a little luck, she’d have calmed down by then and would see that staying was not only possible but would make her happy for once.

Quin’s nostrils flared. “Get out of here,” she spat at their tail and strode away.

Derry started after her, pausing close to their tail. “Count yourself lucky she didn’t have her rapier today – you saw the gesture” – she gave him a thin smile, and he blanched – “if she sees you again, you might not be so lucky.” That ought to scare him out of following them anymore.

She caught up with Quin, lifting her hand to touch her shoulder, but the trembling tension in Quin’s hands and marching gait made her leave it in mid-air. She swallowed. “What are you going to do?”

“Get some bloody answers.”

* * *

Blood bubbling, Quin leapt to the ground outside Atesh’s house before the cab driver had the chance to fold out the steps. Guards at the gate had recognised her and let her through right away. She marched up the stairs to the main entrance and yanked the bell pull, then hammered on the door. Derry could take care of the cab bill.

Spying on her! If he didn’t trust her, he should have at least had the decency to tell her, rather than lying and then paying some man to follow her.

She glowered and rapped on the door again. What had he seen? What had he reported back to Atesh?

Her stomach had roiled all the way here. The thought of all her secrets so carelessly spilt by a hired tail made it so much worse. She swallowed back bile. If Atesh had to find out, let it be from her, at least then she could explain, make him understand.

But no, that was a stupid idea. He’d never understand. How could he? How could someone born with everything ever understand what she did?

She clenched her jaw and shook her head. This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for herself or question her work. This was for anger. Hot, consuming, balling up all the energy in her body and burning through it. She let it scald her thoughts clean and hammered on the door all the harder.

The look on her face must have carried her rage hot and bright, because when he opened the door, the tall butler took a step back, retreating behind the door.

“Where is he?” she bit out.

“I – ahem – His Highness is indisposed, madam.”

“So he’s in,” she said and barged in, taking advantage of the butler’s shock.

His splutter followed her into the grand entrance hall as she opened one door, then another – no sign of Atesh.

“Madam, please,” the butler cried, and Derry slipped past him, apologising.

Quin checked another room. “Atesh,” she shouted.

“If madam would leave a message,” the butler said, pitch rising, “I’ll ensure sir contacts her post-haste.”

“Quin,” Derry said, “perhaps we should –”

“I’ll give him the message myself,” Quin said. “Atesh?” She stomped up the sweeping staircase. This would have been a lot easier if Nald had answered the door – he knew her well enough to not stand in her way. He’d have told her where Atesh was immediately. Hells, he might even have given her answers, since he’d been the one to do the dirty work of hiring the spy.

A footman appeared at the top of the stairs, glancing a question at the butler. She refused to waver, continuing up with a glower. His eyes widened, frozen on her, and when she was within arm’s reach with no sign of slowing or stopping, he backed away.

“Atesh?”

This time a distant response – Atesh’s voice, maybe calling her name from his chambers. She flung open the door.

“Quin?” Yes, that was him, in the dressing room connected to his bedroom.

“Quin, wait,” Derry called from behind, light footsteps catching up.

If Derry thought she could calm her down, well, she had another thought coming. Quin threw the dressing room door open.

Atesh sat in a copper bath, arms braced on its edges as he rose, hair tousled, wet skin glistening, entirely naked.

Nald froze, towel in hand, staring at Quin in the doorway.

She took long deep breaths, glaring from one to the other. Nald had played a part in this, too, even if it were on Atesh’s orders. He wasn’t off the hook.

Footsteps approached from behind, then came Derry’s gasp. She squeaked an apology, and the tap of her running footsteps faded to the hall.

Quin clenched her jaw until the ache reached around the back of her head and down her neck. “You’ve been spying on me.”

Atesh’s brows rose, but slowly – not in shock, more in acknowledgement of an inevitability. “Nald, would you excuse us, please,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off Quin, as if she were a wild animal that would attack at the slightest sign of weakness.

Too bloody right she was – that forest elephant they’d faced had nothing on her. Just let him try to talk her down. Let him try.

Nald dropped the towel, bowed and bolted, the door closing behind him.

Atesh opened his mouth to reply, but she shook her head.

“We spotted your friend following us,” she said. “When we caught up with him, he told me how Nald had paid him to follow me – I’m sure he didn’t do that for his own purposes, so it had to be under your instruction. How dare you? I know – there are things I can’t tell you, but you know that, and you said you trusted me, that the truth I could give you was enough, that you respected my privacy, but now you’ve done this.” She shook her head, a bitter laugh huffing out. “I was the damn fool for trusting you.”

Atesh watched her for long seconds, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest and the droplets of water working their way down his body. “And did you ask him why he was following you?”

Quin’s jaw felt as though it had fused shut. She tossed her head. What did it bloody matter if she’d asked – wasn’t it obvious?

Atesh sighed, the water around his calves sloshing as his stance shifted. Shaking his head, he ran his wet hands over his face, eyes closed.

Steam rose around him. Water beaded on his broad shoulders, running in a rivulet down his taut chest, its course disrupted by his movement.

She forced her eyes away to a point over one of those damn shoulders. She wasn’t going to think about his lean muscles or how firm they were under her hands when she held him.

“He’s not a spy, Quin,” he said, voice soft. “He’s a bodyguard.”

A bodyguard? What – that didn’t…

She opened her mouth and shook her head, but no words came.

“I should have told you,” he went on, opening his jade eyes at last, “but I was sure you’d decline the offer, and I – I hate the thought of you being out there when someone is killing, torturing women for fun. He killed Miss Tiryaki – someone we knew. When I heard, all I could think was how easily it could have been you. I needed to make sure you were safe.” He pushed his dark hair back. “I asked him to follow you, but I promise I gave him strict instructions not to tell me anything about what you did or where you went. I don’t want to know. You see, I do trust you, Quin, and I respect your privacy, but I’m also afraid. I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Those poor women.” He shook his head. “If someone did that to you …”

The lines in his face made him look so much older. She’d seen those lines before. In her childhood, on Livia’s face when they’d battled to survive hungry winters in the Gutter Streets. Recently in the Gutter Streets on the faces of professionals and the loved ones at their sides. When they’d gone to Red to ask her about the murders, and she’d looked at Ela, she’d feared it happening to her. And it had.

Those lines said worry. Fear. Anguish.

They laced through her body, shattering the crystalline tension that had been there since the man had said Nald’s name in the bazaar.

She sighed out the shards of her rage and shook her head. “Atesh,” she sighed. “I – I understand.” What wouldn’t she give to go back and keep Ela safe? What rule wouldn’t she break? “But if you trust me, you also need to trust me to keep myself safe.” The all-consuming heat of her rage had faded, but her heart still raced, and she crossed her arms to hide the trembling in her hands. His fear at the thought of losing her was all too understandable. Hadn’t it been that same fear that had driven her to make such rash decisions as climbing the scaffold to save his life not so long ago?

“So, you’re allowed to save me, protect me” – he also folded his arms – “but I’m not allowed to do the same for you?”

“Yes” – she sighed – “I mean no. I mean – I don’t know.” She frowned. The situations were different, but how to explain that? “All the times I’ve helped you, there was actual danger, visible and clear and I was there to see it, I wasn’t – I wasn’t a parent running after a bumbling toddler, waiting for them to fall. I wasn’t following you in case something happened or because I thought you weren’t able to look after yourself. The elephant – we were both in the thick of that, working together. Either of us could have got the killing blow, and neither of us would have got it if not for the other.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And in the square?”

“You were arrested for something you didn’t do.” That was the easy part to explain. “When I saw the law wasn’t going to serve justice, I stepped in, because you were in jail and couldn’t do much about it from there and because otherwise, you’d have died. And at the scaffold, you also saved my life, if you recall. But again, it was because you were there, you saw it happen, you stepped in in the nick of time, not because you were keeping a worried eye on me and what trouble I might get myself into.”

Atesh’s eyes glinted, and a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “But you make such a habit of flinging yourself into trouble.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. Damn him – her anger had felt good, righteous, cleansing, and now he had her bloody well laughing. “Yes, trouble like you.” She arched an eyebrow. “But seriously, you can’t step in and try to rescue me when I don’t need rescuing, and you certainly can’t make decisions for me. If I feel unsafe, I’ll get my own bodyguard – did that cross your mind?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, biting his lip. His gaze lowered.

She cocked her head. “Go on, I can see there’s something you don’t want to say.”

“It had crossed my mind,” he murmured, still not looking at her, “but I thought you’d be too proud to accept someone guarding you.”

“Like I was too proud to have you fight alongside me with the elephant? Or like I was too proud to thank you for saving me from Erdem?” She sighed. “I might be proud, but I’m not stupid, and I value my life considerably. I’ve paid people to look after me and the people I care for when I’ve needed to.”

“Good,” he said, nodding, “I’m relieved to hear it.” He lifted his gaze to hers, all laughter gone now, replaced with an intensity that jolted through her. “Just, please don’t take any foolish risks, for your sake and mine.”

Gods, that intensity was too much to bear. She took a long breath and plastered a bright smile on her face. “But, Atesh, if I didn’t take foolish risks, I’d never have proven your innocence, and I certainly wouldn’t have shared your bed. Perhaps I should immediately cease all such foolish risks.”

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary.”

She grinned and turned, opening the door back out into his chambers.

“Aren’t you going to stay?” he asked, sounding so forlorn she had to pause in the doorway and look at him. “I mean, here I am.” He gestured at his naked body, glorious sight that it was. “Here you are ...” The way his eyebrow raised filled in everything he didn’t say.

It would be easy to stay, to hold him, to slide her hands across that taut body of his, to kiss those damned kissable lips of his, to let him strip her clothes away and sink into the bath with him. She swallowed.

So easy.

But that man – that bodyguard. She’d so readily believed he was Atesh’s spy, that Atesh would do that to her after all his assurances. But he’d been true to his word. This time, at least.

“I’m busy,” she said, though her throat ached to say yes. “And I’m still a bit angry at you. It’ll be better for us both if I cool off a little.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow.” She nodded. “Come to mine in the evening.”

“Hopefully you won’t have cooled off entirely.” A little smirk played around his lips.

She shook her head, sticking her tongue in her cheek, and turned away.

Never in her life had she expected to find a man who was her match when it came to seduction. After all, she’d been trained in precisely that. And yet he seemed to know every little gesture that called to her, heating her blood, tensing her thighs until they ached for him. A touch of a smirk, like that one. The little bite of his lip he did. The way his gaze would linger on her mouth, a second too long for politeness.

She walked away, refusing to look back.

That was exactly what she needed to do. Not only today but more permanently. Because he hadn’t spied on her this time, but he’d always want to know her secrets. He’d always have to wonder, at least.

And even if he never did try to find out, she couldn’t trust him not to pry, and that wasn’t fair on him.

She’d already decided to protect him, but even without the external threats of her crimes and past, her secrets alone would tear them apart. It was inevitable.

Leaving was looking more sensible by the day, however much it blocked her throat, as though her heart were trying to flee her body.

But before she could go, she needed to find the man responsible for the Destroyer murders.

Ela would have justice, no matter what.

26

Under the Dome

A knot of anxiety had tied itself in Atesh’s belly, even though he’d been in the Second Courtyard of the Evengate Palace hundreds of times. With Zeynab, Fehim, and Erdem, he’d run through here, splashed in the fountains, been told off beneath the tall, slender cypress trees, hidden amongst the rose bushes, no matter their thorns. He was the only one left now, and he wasn’t here to play.

Today, he’d start making a difference.

He rolled his shoulders and strode along the left-hand path, straight for the Divan Council chambers. Beneath the colonnade lining the courtyard, a pair of janissaries guarded the door, their bottle-green jackets a rich contrast with the brass screens shielding the rooms from prying eyes and bright sun. They bowed as he approached, and he gave them a quick nod.

How many times had he and his cousins tried to sneak into these chambers and been turned away? It was a game they’d never won – the janissaries were far too dedicated and denied even children of the royal family. But now he simply walked in.

The air was cool and smoky, scented with pastry and bread – someone was having breakfast – and aromatic myrrh and frankincense, the incense drifting down from a censer hanging from the domed ceiling. Every inch of that ceiling and the walls were covered in patterned tiles, painted designs, and decorative moulding, in gold, white, and ultramarine, with scarlet accents. Old-fashioned and opulent.

“Sire.” A young man with wide eyes bowed from behind a desk and directed him through a door to the left.

Seven men sat on the low crimson bench lining the chamber, chatting and laughing and eating little rolled pastries, washing them down with glasses of peppermint tea. Their laughter died down as each pair of eyes landed on him, leaving only the sound of a low fountain at the centre of the room, its black basin gleaming in the lamplight.

“Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes.” A lean man in naval uniform rose, a smile breaking over the curves of his face, cheeks still rounded despite being in his late twenties. Since Atesh had last seen him, he’d grown a neat beard, the hair coming through red along his jaw and sideburns, but his dark-shining eyes and easy smile were unmistakable.

“I might say the same to you, Septimus Sadik,” Atesh said with a grin. Thank the gods for a friendly face.

“Or should I say, Sire?” Septimus winked before he bowed, each movement steady and assured.

Sire? It sounded ridiculous coming from someone he’d known since he was old enough to walk, but they were Under the Dome now. This was state business. “And am I to call you Kapudan Pasha?” The tales he could tell about the nation’s Grand Admiral. “Anyway, I thought you were still caught up in all that business with pirates in the west?”

Septimus shook his head, sighing. “Just back yesterday. Let me tell you, though, that Lady Vice, she’s – well” – he glanced back at the other men, now all on their feet – “perhaps that’s a story for another time. We’ll catch up soon, yes?”

“An excellent plan. You can tell me how Octavius and the rest of the family are, too. We’ll arrange it after this.” He raised his eyebrows and glanced at the other men, inviting Septimus to make formal introductions. He knew most of them by reputation or sight only.

There was the Grand Vizier, a middle-aged man whose hawkish eyes and greying hair reminded him of Ariston. The Chief Treasurer was another middle-aged man, with a round belly and glinting jewels on each finger. The Vizier of the Interior – early forties and nondescript, in contrast with the Vizier of the Exterior, likely a little older, but whose fierce black brows, straight nose, and angular jaw rendered him striking, the effect only heightened by the warmth of his smile as he turned its full force upon Atesh.

The pinched-faced Grand Agha of the janissaries greeted him with a bow and only a cool smile. No surprise there – his being proven innocent at the gallows couldn’t have done much for the janissaries’ reputation. And finally, the Chief Scribe, shocking in his youth against all these men in their forties and fifties – he must have been a few years younger than Atesh, even. His lean fingers tapped on his thighs as he bowed, his smile measured and quick.

“Sire,” the Grand Vizier, Hasan, said, smoothing his embroidered waistcoat, “it is our pleasure to see Your Highness; however, please be assured that your allowance as Co-Regent has been signed off. Should you need additional funds to improve your grounds or build a new summer palace, perhaps, Mehmet here and his office will be only too pleased to help.” He gestured to the Chief Treasurer. Opposite Atesh, the corner of Septimus’s mouth twitched. “There’s no need for you to come to the Dome yourself, especially not so early in the morning.”

Early. It was almost nine o’clock. Atesh shook his head. “Allowance?” He raised his brows, glancing at Septimus who gave a tiny nod. They wanted to give him – one of the richest men in the country – money for being Co-Regent and they thought he’d come here to request more. “No, no, you misunderstand – I – an allowance won’t be necessary. I have everything I need – more than I need, in fact. Far more …” He sighed. “Although Zeynab Sultana never availed herself of it, I understand the ruling monarch has a seat on the council. I trust you gentlemen can accommodate change because as Pasha Regent, I’m here to take my place.”

Raised eyebrows, open mouths, and shared glances. Only Septimus looked unfazed with his broad smile as he met Atesh’s eye and gave another small nod. “Indeed, the Pasha Regent is more than welcome, isn’t he, gentlemen?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Hasan’s smile was wide, too wide and brittle in the way it barely wrinkled the skin around his eyes.

Perhaps that brittleness should be no surprise. As Grand Vizier, he reported directly to the Sultana, but Atesh taking his seat in the Sultana’s place meant he was no longer the highest-ranking person here. That was, undoubtedly, not how he’d expected his morning to go.

Hasan bowed his head. “Of course, Your Highness. Of course.” He took a step back, gesturing at the velvet-covered benching.

The Chief Scribe wrung his hands. “But – the allowance.” He stared at Hasan, face so drawn for someone so young. His throat bobbed. “It – it’s already been processed. The paperwork.” He said paperwork as if that explained everything.

“Well, yes, Hilarion,” Hasan said, patting his shoulder companionably, “the allowance can still go ahead, can’t it?” His tone was that of a parent calming a fractious child – Atesh had heard Zeynab use it with Safira when she was temperamental. “I’m sure His Highness will find a use for it.”

“Indeed,” the Chief Treasurer said with a sparkling wave of his hand, “the payment was made yesterday.” He edged towards the benches, glancing at the steaming food. “If Your Highness would take a seat …”

Atesh sat, and they joined him and offered him breakfast – platters of pastries and bread and pickles and fruits – which he declined. He’d eaten at home, expecting to get straight to work when he arrived. Instead, he had to smile politely and chat with the others while they ate.

It was close to ten o’clock by the time the Chief Scribe cleared his throat and recited the order of business. “The construction of a new bridge to Galata. An increase in the Valide Sultan’s clothing allowance …”

Septimus leant over. “New gloves, I’d wager,” he murmured in Atesh’s ear.

Atesh bit back a grin. He hadn’t ever seen Ilyas wear the same pair twice, so Septimus had a point.

“… The construction of ships at Galata and Gallipoli over the winter months. A petition to change the ink supplier for the Chief Scribe’s office. A petition for the Sultana to be allowed to learn to fence.” Raised eyebrows at that one. “Reports from the Silk Road of a new silk production method …”

Atesh held his breath against the groan pushing on his throat. The bridge and the ships, he could see that they were important. Even the silk – if they could get an exclusive trade agreement with the producers that would be a great coup against Venetia’s inroads on Thanatolia’s trading supremacy. But Ilyas’s allowance? Whether or not Safira should be allowed to fence? And ink? Ink.

No wonder Ilyas hadn’t bothered to attend.

“… Overtures from Parthia, Attica, and Aegyptus requesting diplomatic visits –”

“Already they vie for the Sultana’s hand,” Septimus said, rolling his eyes.

Atesh raised his eyebrows. “Marriage? So young?”

“Zeynab Sultana was promised officially at the age of thirteen,” the Vizier of the Exterior, Titus, said, shrugging. As if Atesh didn’t know that – he’d been at the engagement ceremony, but he’d never realised the overtures had started so far in advance. “These things take years to arrange. We don’t have to be hasty, but it would be helpful to have a few possibilities lined up. It would be preferable to give Her Majesty options when she’s old enough – this isn’t the Dark Ages, we won’t force a match upon her – but she’ll need to marry someday, and she can’t very well choose any gentleman who comes across her path. There’s much to consider.”

Hasan cleared his throat. “With such a young monarch, there are some who might consider the Tulip Throne weak, Your Highness. We would do well to make alliances where we can.” He raised an eyebrow, meeting Atesh’s gaze.

“Indeed” – Titus leant upon the table, fingers steepled – “and marriage is such a reliable bond between royal lines.”

Royal lines. Hasan’s raised eyebrow. They didn’t only mean to make alliances through Safira’s marriage.

Atesh swallowed. Maybe he’d been wrong to dismiss the gossip columns and their speculation about his marriage prospects after the investiture. “I thought a Shahin only needed the ruling monarch’s permission to marry.”

In his vows, he’d said Safira had the right of veto in matters of marriage, but she’d never deny her Uncle Atesh, and it seemed she’d already taken a shine to Quin – Safira had asked about her every time he’d seen her since their introduction. Asking Safira’s permission was only a matter of timing and formality. Besides, as Co-Regent he was, with Ilyas, the ruling monarch for all intents and purposes. The Divan Council certainly had no say in whom he married.

“Oh, yes, yes,” Titus said, parting his fingertips, “when the time comes, you will need to request the Sultana’s permission. But –”

“Now, now, Titus,” Septimus said, clapping Atesh on the shoulder with a squeeze, “I’m sure His Highness can make his own decisions when it comes to whom he desires permission to marry – and I’m sure the Sultana will be only too pleased to approve a love match for such a beloved cousin, even if a contessa doesn’t offer her nation’s alliance on a platter.” He shot Atesh a raised eyebrow.

Septimus might have only returned last night, but apparently, he hadn’t wasted time in catching up on at least a little gossip. He turned his easy smile around the council. “We have the Sultana’s marriage to gain allies, and we can leave that question open for some years, stringing along at least a few nations. They’ll remain our allies while they think they have a prospect. Then there’s the Valide Sultan. He’s now a Shahin, even if through marriage, and young enough to be a likely prospect – for a second daughter, perhaps. I believe one of Aryavarta’s princesses was widowed last year – someone like that would be ideal once he’s recovered from his loss. There’s the opportunity for courting other alliances there.” His teeth flashed white against his russet-edged beard, the expression too fierce to be a smile. “And for anyone who chooses not to be amongst our friends, we have my ships.”

Thank the Hundred for old friends.

“Or diplomacy,” Titus said with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, yes” – Septimus gave a theatrical sigh, rolling his eyes – “or diplomacy, I suppose, if you want to be boring.”

Atesh shot a glance at Titus – the Vizier of the Exterior was known as a skilled diplomat, how would he react at that slight?

Titus chuckled, shaking his head. “I wish I could say I miss you while you’re off sailing, Septimus …”

“But I hate to lie,” Septimus said in unison with Titus.

Atesh scoffed. There were complex relationships here Under the Dome – something he’d have to grill Septimus about when they were alone. Perhaps he could come for dinner later in the week. And he’d introduce him to Quin soon – watching them trying to one-up each other would make for an entertaining evening.

In fact, Septimus could be a great help beyond a briefing on the council – he must have some young naval lad keen to prove himself, someone trustworthy. Someone who’d make a good bodyguard. He’d ask after the meeting – Ilyas had brought it up yet again the last time they’d met. He was running out of time to make his own choice in the matter, and it had been made clear he couldn’t hire a common sellsword, as he had to guard Quin.

“You see,” Septimus went on, “you say that every time I return, so I’m beginning to think you really do miss me.”

The Chief Scribe cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, the matter of the diplomatic visits is eleventh on the agenda, and royal marriages isn’t on there at all.” He smoothed his sheaf of papers flat, eyebrows raised.

A change of subject from his marital status – thank the gods for that. Atesh cleared his throat. “And where are the Destroyer murders on the agenda?”

Shuffling through the papers, the Chief Scribed frowned.

“The what?” The Vizier of the Interior wrinkled his face in confusion, giving a questioning look to Hasan, who shook his head.

The Grand Agha lifted his chin. “Your Highness, a simple crime, however horrifying, isn’t a matter for the council. My officers are dealing with it.”

“With all respect, sir, it isn’t just a simple crime – as I understand it, this is the tenth woman killed in the same manner.”

Hasan frowned at the Grand Agha. “Tenth?”

“Some professionals,” he said, with a flick of his hand that made Atesh’s jaw ache with tension. The nine other women summarised with such a dismissive gesture. “It appears the recent murder in the Watergardens of that poor young lady wasn’t the first committed by this madman. However, Your Highness” – he turned the cool smile on Atesh again – “one crime or a dozen, it still isn’t a matter for the council. I’m sure the janissaries do appreciate your concern, though. Rest assured, they’re working tirelessly to investigate Miss Tiryaki’s tragic murder. I am positive we’ll have an arrest within the week.”

Miss Tiryaki’s murder. Not the nine others that had come before. As if they didn’t matter. But he was here to bring about change, and he wouldn’t do that by making an enemy of the Grand Agha. He bit his tongue and forced his mouth to curve in something like a smile. “Then I look forward to learning this madman’s identity once he’s safely locked away. I’m sure it will be a great relief to the people of every district of the city.” Including the Gutter Streets.

“Indeed,” Hasan said, smiling brightly at Atesh and then the Grand Agha. “Now, let us get back to the agenda, shall we?”

“Ah yes,” Atesh said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket. “And how do we get items added to the agenda?”

The Chief Scribe he sucked in a sharp breath. “Added to the agenda?” He looked at each of the others, eyes wide.

Titus scoffed, failing to hide it by rubbing his nose. The Chief Treasurer shuffled his papers, suddenly peering at them as if they were terribly exciting. Before this, he hadn’t glanced at them once since Atesh had arrived.

The Chief Scribe blinked at Atesh. “Oh, you’re planning to be here that long then?”

Atesh cocked his head. “Pardon?” There had to be a joke he’d missed.

“Only, getting something added to the agenda, well, if you do it now, it might be on there in time for spring equinox” – his delicate face screwed up – “actually, make that the summer solstice. We would almost definitely get to it before then.”

“Midsummer?” Atesh chuckled – they were teasing the new council member. Amusing. But when he glanced from one to the next, none of them were laughing. Septimus and Titus grimaced a little. They were serious. Eight months. He inhaled slowly and forced a smile across his face. “Well, I’d better get it added right away, hadn’t I?”

The Grand Agha nodded, leaning forward. A faint smile at the corner of his mouth together with the narrow-eyed glance he gave the Chief Scribe made Atesh cock his head. It seemed like he at least might be glad of change, even if he’d been so cool about Atesh’s arrival.

“And what item is it you wish to add?” the Chief Scribe asked, dipping his pen into the ink well.

Atesh read out from the sheet of paper in front of him: “Taxation. Sewer and water pipes across the city. Safety checks of buildings in the Gutter Streets. The construction and running of a free school in that district, and” – he let his gaze settle on each member of the council in turn – “a review of capital punishment.”

The Chief Scribe, open-mouthed, stared at Atesh. He’d started writing, but now his pen hovered over the page.

The Chief Treasurer and the Vizier of the Interior both sat back, glancing at each other.

Septimus wore a slight smile, head cocked, and a handful of nuts halfway to his mouth. “My,” he breathed, “you weren’t joking about wanting to change things, were you?” He shook his head, smile growing broader before he threw an almond in his mouth.

“Is that not what we’re here to do?” Atesh lifted his chin. “Fulfil our duty to the country and its subjects?”

“The Sultana’s subjects. Not the country’s. They are subjects, after all, not citizens.” The Vizier of the Interior smiled at the Chief Scribe.

The Chief Scribe nodded. “They don’t belong to the country and the country doesn’t belong to them. It is all the Sultana’s.”

Atesh swallowed the sigh before it erupted. So, this is what he’d have to deal with. He’d reviewed the legislation of the Divan Council, and it had seemed relatively straightforward, but seeming and reality were two different things. It might not be quick, but he would have change. After all, Quin had said she had no doubt that he’d help and that was precisely what he meant to do.

Another forced smile. “I’m glad to have your attention to detail on the council, Hilarion,” Atesh said, smiling at the Chief Scribe. “If you would kindly extend it to noting down the items I’ve raised, I would greatly appreciate it.”

The Chief Scribe opened his mouth, almost certainly to argue, but Hasan leant forward and beat him to it. “What Hilarion means to say is there’s a process for doing these things. I am sure he’ll add your items to the ongoing agenda immediately. And with that in mind, let’s get to our first item, or else that agenda will grow unending.”

“It already is never-ending,” the Chief Treasurer said, as the Chief Scribe dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote with practised speed. “We’ve worked on this list for all time, and it’s never empty.”

The Grand Agha shrugged. “Such is the nature of ruling a country.”

Ruling, not leading. Atesh had never considered that distinction before. He pursed his lips. “Then we best get to it and continue through our unending list.”

The council settled into what was clearly a familiar conversation: the subject of a new bridge between the main body of the city and Galata. They went on as if they’d stopped mid-conversation, but Atesh was quickly able to pick up that there was some argument about whether the people of Galata should foot the bill solely through additional taxes or whether it should come under the regular budget of the city as a whole. The Chief Treasurer argued for Galata to pick up the bill – a major new construction like that would cost a great deal. Titus and Septimus believed it should be spread across the city. The Grand Agha pointed out that easy passage between all districts was a logistical necessity for all and so the entire city should pay.

Atesh was minded to agree and added his voice to the conversation. The people of Galata were able to trade and offer goods not easily found elsewhere. Everyone benefited from their presence, even if they weren’t allowed to settle in the city proper. He noted that as something else to address. The laws against foreigners settling on the city’s mainland were outdated, even if they didn’t include those with titles, like contessas. He barely suppressed a sigh before it passed his lips – rather a lot of the rules of the city and, indeed, their nation, seemed outdated now he looked more closely.

Well, he was here now, and he would do all he could.

He’d planned out the necessary steps. The people of the Gutter Streets did indeed commit a high proportion of the city’s crime, but was that any surprise considering their desperation? If he could improve their financial and living conditions, such as through charging them less tax and improving the water and sewage provisions in the area, then with any help from the Blind Lady, he’d be able to show a decrease in crime rates.

And when crime decreased, that would be his route into arguing against capital punishment. If crime rates improved as living conditions did, then perhaps the council would start to understand that capital punishment was no deterrent when stealing a loaf of bread could be the difference between life and death for a family.

The conversation about the new Galata bridge stretched on until a bell rang and attendants trooped in carrying yet more platters of food. Midday? He’d been here three hours already? Atesh rolled his shoulders, barely covering a yawn. How had they wasted so much time on a damn bridge?

Hundred help him, he might have a plan, but at this rate, it would take an age to put even the first step in place. He rose and stretched, then grabbed a few pastries. The smell of spiced meat, onion, and parsley set his mouth watering. He nodded to the other council members saying he was going to stretch his legs. Smile fixed in place, he stalked out of the room, leaving them behind picking at delicate pastries, saffron rice, and stewed lamb.

The sunlight peeking through clouds made him squint. Scoffing one pastry, he strolled left along a path, passing through the Gate of Felicity to the Third Courtyard. The second pastry didn’t survive to the Fourth Courtyard. He veered north, past a pool of vermillion koi, his shoes clicking on the marble terrace until he reached the end of the path and a gilded pavilion overlooking the sea.

The Strait of Arianople glinted in the early afternoon sun, small boats scooting across on a brisk wind. To the east, beyond the sea, the coast stood as a dark line, and to the north-west rose Galata. The rest of Arianople stood behind him.

Here he was on the edge of the city.

Hundred, it felt as though he were on the edge of his own life.

He’d never expected to end up in this position. Yes, he was a member of the royal family, had grown up close to Zeynab in the line of succession. But even as a child he’d been aware that Zeynab and Fehim stood between him and the throne and both would be expected to marry and produce heirs. He’d been only too glad of that fact. Never had he dreamed they’d both die, leaving behind one child between the two of them.

And here he was, Co-Regent for that child.

He shook his head, sighing. This wasn’t the life he’d prepared for, a role he’d practised for as Zeynab and Fehim had. His education, excellent as it had been, suddenly felt woefully inadequate or inappropriate, at least.

What if he couldn’t push through the changes the country so sorely needed? What if it wouldn’t only take a long time, but would never happen?

He frowned and bit his lip. It was only his first day. There would be obstacles – that was clear after this morning – but he was worrying prematurely. All he could do was try.

He’d bowed to Zeynab once before, letting her have her way and graciously retreating, but she wasn’t here anymore and much as he missed her, this was an opportunity. As Co-Regent there wasn’t truly anyone higher than him, only Ilyas on the same rung, and Safira with some veto powers. But no young monarch of Thanatolia had ever used their veto – it was little more than a tradition. As long as he learned to play the game and adhered to the rules of the Divan Council, he’d be able to get these changes through.

Amongst all their speculation on marriage, the council had got one thing right – the importance of allies. He needed some Under the Dome. He had Septimus on side, that was a start. And after Septimus had briefed him over dinner, he’d know how to win the others over.

A bird passed overhead with a piercing kiy-ya, something small and furry in its talons. Not just any bird, a falcon. The front edge of its wings swept like a recurve bow, and its underside was a pale buff colour banded deep sienna-brown – the only warm thing in the grey sky.

He touched the pin on his lapel. His family’s sigil on a successful hunting trip right at the moment he was starting on a new path.

That could only be a sign.

He nodded to himself, squaring his shoulders, and threw the last pastry in his mouth, before turning and striding back to the Divan Council chambers.

27

The Concubine & the Djinni

The cards slid together in Atesh’s hands, fluttering from one to the other. One elbow leaning on the mantlepiece, he had only half his mind on the cards, but his hands knew what to do. The familiarity was a relief after the alien experience of today’s council meeting. Gods, were they all going to be so ineffective?

He sighed. No, he wouldn’t let them. It would simply take time – he’d already raised some eyebrows and ruffled some feathers today. Just wait until he’d had a few months to push things.

At least he’d had a chance to speak to Septimus about a bodyguard – his friend was confident he had the ideal man and had promised to bring the fellow over by the end of the week. One problem solved.

Nodding to himself, he frowned at the drawing room door. It wasn’t like Quin to keep him waiting when she’d invited him – yesterday evening she’d been sat waiting when he’d arrived.

“Just a minute,” she called from the hall, her words punctuated by footsteps. Two pairs. Her face poked around the door. “My aunt, she’s – I’m taking her up to” – she disappeared back into the hallway. A muttered conversation drifted in.

“... but you can’t” – her voice rose – “Livia!”

Livia?

His eyes widened, and another face appeared at the door: a middle-aged woman, her gauntness exaggerating her strong bone structure. He’d seen that bone structure before in the portrait of Livia Guldan.

But she was much changed and not only in the hollowness of her face. Silvery scars marked her bronze skin, one making the corner of her lip turn up as if she were permanently amused. The marks of long sickness were upon her, and those luminous amber eyes, captured so well by his mother’s brush strokes seemed veiled somehow like a light diffused. Even so, there was something animated in her that made him smile at once.

So she was alive. And gods, she had to be Quin’s mother. Even aged, even ill, the resemblance was all the more striking in person.

The scars, the frailty, it had to be his uncle’s illness, passed on because he was too selfish or too ignorant to stay away from his wives when he had lesions. This was the Livia Guldan of the harem.

His heart crumbled. Oh, Quin. Not only did she live with the fear of this secret getting out, but with whatever difficulties Livia’s illness must bring.

He clamped his tongue between his teeth against the wish to go to Quin and tell her right this instant. He knew. He knew her secret and didn’t care, damn it.

Livia examined him from hem to hair and then she met his gaze. The other corner of her mouth turned to make a full smile and the veil lifted, a spark lighting in her eyes.

Quin appeared next to her, sighing. “It would appear m – my aunt,” she paused and gave the woman a sidelong look, “wishes to be introduced.” She turned to Atesh, a smile tinged with a wince on her face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He shook his head as emphatically as possible, taking a second before he trusted himself to say something safe. “Of course not,” he said, a hairline crack in his voice.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Livia said. Quin’s brows shot up, and she stared at Livia. Surely the comment wasn’t so shocking?

Unaware of or ignoring Quin’s look, Livia approached him, her gait slow and not entirely steady.

“This is Mrs Livia Chichek,” Quin said, catching up and slipping a hand under her elbow, “technically my mother’s cousin, but I’ve always called her aunt. “Livia, this is Atesh Shahin Pasha.” She cleared her throat. “The Co – the Sultana’s cousin.”

Atesh bowed, lowering his head to hide the frown at Quin’s stumble on her introduction. What was that about? “It is my absolute pleasure to meet you, madam.” When he rose, Livia offered her hand, which he took at once. It was cool, soft and small as if it would disappear or crush in too strong a grip. “You must forgive me, Mrs Chichek, for not calling on you sooner.” He shot Quin a look. “If I’d known Quin had surviving family, I’d have visited long ago.”

Livia smiled up at him, eyes glistening, hand still clutching at his fingers. “Livia – please call me Livia.”

Quin gave a tight smile. “I didn’t tell you, did I?” She smoothed stray hairs from Livia’s face and looked back at him. “Aunt Livia is my only surviving family member. You’re not very well, though, are you, Livia?” The woman didn’t respond, merely smiled at Atesh’s hand. Quin sighed. “Her home was damaged in the storm.”

“Ah.” Atesh patted Livia’s hand. “The friend you mentioned the other night?”

Quin nodded. “She’s come to live with me, now, so we can keep her safe.” A soft smile pulled at the corners of her lips. A sad smile. She gently pulled at Livia’s arm. “Come, Livia, you were going up to bed, remember?”

Livia’s grip on his hand tightened – tighter than he’d expected from such a frail lady.

“Livia?” No response. Quin gave a rueful smile. “I think she’s taken a liking to you.”

Livia’s eyes lingered on the cards, still in his other hand. “It would be unfair to leave you to play against my girl alone.”

He chuckled. She wasn’t wrong. How many people had Quin left with lighter pockets at the gaming tables since she’d arrived in Arianople? “She does have quite the reputation on that front.” He flashed a grin.

The smile Quin returned was only a faint flicker at the corners of her lips. She opened her mouth, then sighed and closed it. “Well.” She shook her head. “If that’s what you two think, then we’d best see if your combined efforts can beat me. Derry’s out somewhere” – a frown flashed across her face – “and Ariston’s busy tinkering, otherwise you’d have extra help.” She manoeuvred Livia into a well-padded armchair next to the card table and gestured for him to take the neighbouring seat. Sitting opposite, she brushed her hand over the surface, as if it were dusty. “Come along then, let’s play.”

The trio settled into widow’s run – Quin had graciously given him the choice of game, claiming she wanted to give him every chance of winning. She let him deal first, so there could be no ugly accusations of fixing the deck, as she put it with a wink. Livia laughed at that, a deep, throaty chuckle that made him smile.

The first game, Livia watched. As well as the physical signs of illness, she was clearly unwell in other ways – her mind seemed to wander, and she would occasionally mutter quiet words to herself with no reference to the current conversation. Other times she’d remain silent and stare away into nothingness. Quin would ask her a question as if to rouse her, but when no reply came, Quin’s smile fell, and she looked away.

Yet another reason for her to keep Livia hidden. Even if they kept her identity secret, with her scars and mental difficulties, she couldn’t chaperone Quin, bring her out into society, ensure she was married well, and keep her from public shame, as any gentlewoman’s mother would. Even worse would be society’s reaction to a woman related to someone with such a disease.

He lowered his gaze in an attempt to hide his wince at that thought, lest it give away his weak hand. Seeing them together, the similarity, but also the tenderness in Quin’s treatment of Livia, he was positive they were mother and daughter. How must Quin feel? Was she torn between pride for her mother and shame or fear for what would happen if her identity was ever revealed?

“You’re just delaying the inevitable,” Quin said into the silence, one eyebrow raised. “Are you going to pick one of those terrible cards to play? Because I’d rather win this game before midnight.”

He scowled and threw a card on the table. He’d already lost this one, but that wasn’t the only thing that made him frown. Hundred damn it, were her words a horrible foreshadowing – were they delaying the inevitable? Was this relationship doomed?

No. To the hells with Prima and what anyone else thought of the harem. He loved Quin, and although her secret was potentially dangerous to her, it wasn’t anything actually bad. She’d only lied about her identity to protect herself and her mother. He was Thanatolia’s Co-Regent now and although he had every intention of using that to help the people of their country, couldn’t he also use his position to help Quin? Just this one little thing for her and by extension for himself? She’d already bent the rules to save his life from the scaffold. He’d twist whatever rules it took to keep her safe.

He glanced at Livia from the corner of his eye. She watched his cards, seeming more present now. He gave her a quick smile. Perhaps her mind came and went. After all, she’d seemed quite alert earlier.

As expected, Quin won that first game, but as they played the second, Livia awakened further. Her eyes followed the game throughout. She leant over and peered at his cards. At several points, she put her cool hand on his when he went to play one card and, instead, she pointed to another. He played it and won that trick. A few times, she whispered in his ear, telling him what tactic Quin was using or speculating about what cards were in her hand and suggesting counter-tactics.

Her help turned the game until the strangest thing happened. Quin lost. She scowled, mostly at Livia.

Livia waved a finger at Quin and tapped the crease between her eyebrows. “Wrinkles.” As if a child leaping to attention, Quin jumped and smoothed her brow. Livia nodded and gathered up the cards, passing them to her daughter.

“I’ll shuffle,” Quin said, cocking her head at him, “you pour the wine.” She nodded to the crystal carafe on a side table, dark with ruby red wine. Her lips hung parted, the cards poised still in her hands, and apparently, she’d forgotten Livia’s admonishment for frowning, because the lines were back. “Actually, could you call for Ariston, please? I’ll have white.”

He nodded and obeyed.

When they settled for the third game, they had full glasses, his red, Quin and Livia’s white. They played on, Livia becoming more involved in the game, her silences shorter. She even laughed when they won a trick that Quin had expected to take. Even with Livia’s advice, they lost that third game but triumphed in the fourth. That left the fifth as the decider – a fact he took great pleasure in pointing out to Quin.

“Whatever you need to remind yourself of to feel better about your card skills,” Quin said with a shrug and a smirk, then offered him the deck to cut. As he did so, her gaze followed the cards, then drifted to his glass, settling on the crimson wine. She fell quiet and didn’t take the cards back right away. Her throat rose and fell as she swallowed.

“Quin?”

With a shudder, she closed her eyes in a long blink and turned from the glass. “So, the last game, then,” she said, taking the two halves of the deck from the table. With swift hands, she dealt the final round.

He frowned as he gathered his cards. He’d never known Quin to drink white wine rather than red unless it was sparkling. Every time she looked at the stuff, it was as though she was lost for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

She licked her lips and swallowed. “All this awfulness with” – she glanced at Livia – “with Aurelia and the other ladies.” Her chin wobbled, and her neck and shoulders tensed as if she fought for control. “All that blood …” Her gaze slipped from him and went off somewhere far away that made the breaths heave in her chest.

With a light touch, he covered her hand with his. “Quin?”

She inhaled, seeming to come back. Blinking, she gave a reassuring smile and turned her hand in his. “It’s so awful – the – the idea of it, I mean. I’m afraid I can’t bear the sight of red wine.”

Had the mere thought of the crimes distressed her so much? She’d slept poorly every night, and it had grown worse this past week: muttering in her sleep, whimpering, gasping for breath, then trembling as she woke. Each time, he pulled her close and stroked her hair, but she refused to talk about anything more than nightmares. Perhaps news of the murders on top of the fight with Erdem’s sister had been too much.

“Well, that I can help with.” He squeezed her hand, rose, and drained his glass, then hid the carafe of red wine in a cupboard. “There. And in today’s meeting, the Grand Agha seemed confident they’d make an arrest in the next week or so. Hopefully, the nightmare will be over soon.”

Her eyebrows rose. “In the next week – really?” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, it was your first meeting today, wasn’t it? I haven’t even asked you about it. How awful of me – I’m just so –”

“Not at all,” he said, resuming his seat, “I’ll tell you later.” He smiled and fanned his cards, showing them to Livia. “We’ve got a card game to win.”

Hunched shoulders lowering, Quin scoffed, and they resumed the game.

Again, Livia helped him, her attention only starting to wander towards the end of the game, as she stifled a few yawns behind her hand, but by then it was too late. He had six tricks, and Quin had only four.

He needed one more to be assured victory. His fingers paused over the queen of hearts and Livia’s head moved in the most minuscule nod he’d ever seen. Gods, this woman knew how to be subtle. He’d wager, in her day she could have played the greatest or worst hand without a tell.

Quin huffed a sigh as he took the trick. “You win, then.” She frowned at the cards on the table, as if to be sure, then threw her remaining hand down. “I suppose you’re going to remind me of this forever now, aren’t you?”

She might have been talking to him or Livia. He grinned in return.

“I think I’ve had enough of cards for one evening,” she said, gathering the deck.

“You mean you don’t want to try to win back your pride?” He chuckled. Quin rolled her eyes at that and carried on straightening the cards, returning them to their mother-of-pearl inlaid box. “Livia, you do seem to be getting tired.”

She gave a small smile, but no answer.

“You have a well-stocked bookshelf,” he said, rising, “what say you two gentlewomen relax and I read to you?”

“The chance to listen to your dulcet tones?” Quin raised an eyebrow. “How can I resist?”

Was she mocking him, or did she truly enjoy the sound of his voice? He narrowed his eyes, but before he could decide which, she laughed and shook her head. “Such confusion on your face.”

As soon as Livia stood, Quin took her chair and carried it to the fireplace.

“I” – he rose, useless, as she’d already done what she needed – “I would have done that.”

“Why?” She cocked her head at him, as she gestured for Livia to come to her.

“If you’d asked, I mean.”

Tucking a blanket around Livia’s legs, Quin shrugged. From how icy Livia’s hands were when they’d picked out cards with him, she must have felt the cold keenly. After all, she had little body fat to keep her warm. “I didn’t think to ask. I’m sure it would’ve taken me longer to ask than to do it myself.” She smoothed the blanket, hands quick and gentle. “You’re supposed to be choosing a book.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, squinting as if that would help him see or understand her better. He stalked to the bookcase. “My independent woman,” he murmured.

Perhaps some part of him should be offended that she hadn’t asked his help or should feel his masculinity slighted that she had taken that physical task upon herself, but he couldn’t summon the feeling. His chest filled. If anything, he was proud that she didn’t need him, but wanted him in her life. There was no doubt that if they’d never met, she’d still be striding forward, capably seeing to the things she needed, looking after her sickly mother, freeing Derry from slavery, saving innocents from the gallows, and gods knew what else. He lifted his head. It would be something to win the love of a capable woman.

He searched the bookshelves, settling on The Tale of the 1,001 Nights, a book of short stories he’d read years ago and had seen on the stage. When he returned to the fireplace, Quin had arranged another armchair and a settee beside Livia’s seat and was stoking up the fire against the gathering chill.

He glanced out the window – indigo sky and glittering stars. How long had he been here? “When did it get dark?”

“When you were beating me at cards, I believe,” she murmured, eyes catching the golden glow of the leaping flames. “Or perhaps that really was a sign of the end of the world.” She grinned suddenly and peered up at him.

He laughed, shaking his head and took the armchair, as it left the settee for Quin, closest to Livia. Quin took her seat and stretched her legs out, so her feet sat between his. They weren’t touching, but it put the hairs on the back of his neck on end – it was a connection between them, and it was improper that they shared space. And yes, they’d gone far past improper, but he still relished every glorious moment of it.

He cleared his throat. “Which story do you want?” He opened to the contents pages. Each story was a tale within a tale, given its own chapter, but framed as if told by the heroine of the broader story.

Quin waved to Livia, and he showed her the chapter names. She pointed to The Concubine and the Djinni, then tucked her hand beneath the blanket.

A story about a concubine, of course. He smothered any facial response and resisted the urge to glance at Quin for her reaction. “A fine choice,” he said with a sage nod. He found the right page. “Are you ready?” Both women nodded. “Then I’ll begin ...”

The Concubine and the Djinni told the story of a woman in the Sultan’s harem who’d fallen in love with a powerful – and handsome – creature of fire. Somehow the concubine had caught the djinni’s eye and rather than scorning the mortal, he returned her love, but feared consummating their relationship, for while he might appear to be a man, albeit one with fire in his eyes, he was still a being of the flame and who knew what might happen when such a being lay with a mortal? The djinni wouldn’t risk killing her. Instead, he helped her escape the harem, and the pair undertook a quest to appeal to the gods themselves to make her as immortal as he was; all the while their love remained chaste. At last, she gained immortality, and the pair could finally meet in the djinni’s grand bedchamber.

He squirmed at all the talk of bedchambers, lovers and remaining chaste in front of Livia. Gods, had she chosen this story for that reason? But when he looked up from the page, she had fallen into a peaceful slumber, a smile on her lips, perhaps dreaming of healthier times. When he looked to Quin, he found her eyes closed, too. Somewhere along the tale, she’d lifted her feet, putting them in his lap to warm. He’d been forced to adjust his position to hide how much that excited him. But now she seemed as fast asleep as Livia.

He turned back to the book in his hands, the leather grain soft on his fingers. He flipped a few pages ahead – there were still several pages more of the story, and all focused on the two lovers. Skimming one paragraph, it became clear the concubine had learned much from her time in the harem. This was indeed a different version of the story from the one he’d read before.

“You’ve stopped reading,” Quin murmured, nudging his thigh with her toe.

He jumped. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No.” One amber eye opened. “Listening with my eyes closed, letting the story play out in my mind. Enjoying your voice.”

She was mocking him. He opened his mouth to complain, but she held up a hand, silencing him, both eyes open now.

“Atesh,” she said, tone low and soft, like a particularly fine sandwashed silk, “I could listen to you talk forever.” She looked into his eyes, her smile honest.

“I could arrange that,” he murmured back, voice suddenly husky.

She stared at him a long while, chest rising and falling deeply. At last, her eyes flicked to Livia. “My – my aunt’s asleep,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “Should I leave her be or wake her, so she can go to bed?” She took her feet from his lap and bent towards Livia, chewing her lip. “It takes her so long to fall asleep sometimes, I hate to wake her, but she’ll be full of aches if she sleeps on there all night.”

“Perhaps you could have the best of both.” He rose and handed her the book. “I could carry her upstairs if you like? I’m sure she won’t wake.”

Her brows raised and her lips parted, something so delicate and vulnerable in the expression that, damn it, he longed to kiss her softly over and over. Did she think her mother’s illness might be off-putting to him or of her secret identity? He ached to tell her it didn’t matter.

She cleared her throat. “You’d do that?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” He cupped her face, thumb tracing a light line along her cheekbone. “Of course I would.”

She shut her eyes briefly. “Thank you.”

He gathered Livia up with the blanket. The poor woman was almost as light as Safira. Quin led the way, lamp in hand.

Everyone else must have gone to bed, as the hall and staircase were dim, with only a lamp by the front door. Quin ran down to snuff it out, checking the door was locked, then returned and lit their way upstairs.

Livia didn’t stir as they went upstairs or when he placed her in the bed. Quin tucked the blankets around her mother. The tenderness at once crushed his heart and pushed him away. It was something not meant for outsiders to see, something private. He retreated to the landing.

They must have been close before Livia’s illness. It was evident from the moments of clarity that Livia had been a clever, quick-witted woman, like her daughter. Gods, how hard it must have been for Quin to see her mother as a living ghost. Still here, but not entirely.

“Thank you,” she said, emerging and closing the door behind her. She bolted it and added, “I’m scared she’ll fall down the stairs or go out, not knowing where she is if –”

“You don’t need to explain.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, sudden sorrow lining her brow.

When she took a deep breath and opened them, it was as if she’d started afresh. The lamplight followed her as she turned and started downstairs towards her chambers. Her curved silhouette stood out against the lamp.

“I was enjoying that scene.” She held something up to the light. The book. “What the concubine and the djinni were about to get up to sounded quite interesting – won’t you finish reading it to me?” Light gleamed in the smile she gave him over her shoulder.

He followed, powerless to resist. “Your wish is my command.”

28

The Gaze Returned

“What have you got planned?” Quin asked, trailing after Atesh, his hand warm and implacable, leading her through Shahin House.

As she’d taken off her coat and gloves, he’d hurriedly introduced the young man in the entrance hall as his new bodyguard, Captain Decimus Sadik. He wore no uniform, but his neutral grey suit with black braid still gave him a military air. He stood inches taller and broader than Atesh – that would certainly be enough to give pause to anyone with violence in mind.

She’d swallowed and given a stiff greeting, but when he smiled, his round cheeks dimpled, softening his intimidating presence and making her smile in return. They spoke briefly, Atesh explaining their life-long acquaintance. Decimus was the younger brother of Septimus Sadik, the Kapudan Pasha of the Thanatolian fleet, and Octavius Sadik, of almost equally impressive rank in the military. Atesh had been close friends with the entire Sadik clan since he’d been old enough to wave a stick and play soldiers.

“Decimus knows what’s what,” Atesh had said, clapping him on the shoulder, “don’t you?”

“Discretion is my middle name, Sire,” he replied, face neutral as if to illustrate the fact.

She grinned at Decimus. The gossip columns and the palace would hear nothing about her and Atesh from him. If they’d been friends so long, his loyalty lay with Atesh – perhaps they could even rely on him to follow Atesh’s orders over his general mission brief, whatever that might be. Surely it was as simple as keep him alive. “An excellent quality in a bodyguard.” She raised an eyebrow at Atesh – he’d understand her reference to the man from the bazaar.

Atesh’s cheeks coloured, and he cleared his throat, gaze slipping from her to Decimus. “Well, you can go and relax, Decimus, I don’t think I need guarding from Lady Sabia” – he cocked his head at her – “do I?”

“Not today,” she said solemnly.

Atesh had barely finished dismissing Decimus when he’d grabbed her and pulled her through the corridors.

She smirked – there could only be one thing on his mind. Before returning to Arianople, if someone had told her that Atesh Shahin would be quite so insatiable, she’d have laughed in their face. Now she could laugh at her past self who’d bumped into him at Kedilier Square – she’d expected a wilting artist locked away in a studio, pale and perhaps faintly witty since so many spoke of how bloody charming he was. Of course, they had to be exaggerating to gain favour with a Shahin.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a smile playing on his lips.

How naïve she’d been. How wrong.

“We’re here now.” He opened a door and motioned her in.

A large room, high-ceilinged and bright, its white walls reflecting the sunlight coming through the wide windows. Before her sat a low chaise longue, then an assortment of boxes and chairs gathered in one corner. Off to the left stood an easel, with a small table absolutely covered with jars of blues, reds, yellows, greys, whites, browns, purples, oranges, greens in more shades than she could name. Amongst the paint pots were brushes of all sizes and shapes, jars of oils and gods knew what other substances, and a stack of wooden pallets.

She turned to him, arching a brow in question.

He closed the door and leant against it, hands behind his back, shyness in the small smile at the corner of his mouth. He drew a long breath through his nose, the slow motion of his chest rising almost hypnotic. “I was hoping you might allow me the great pleasure of painting you.”

She blinked. Painting her? And she thought his impatience was to have her alone for less artistic reasons. A faint laugh escaped her lips.

No one was allowed in his studio while he worked, only him and his subject. This was a private space, tucked at one end of the house, far from the rooms where he hosted guests on the rare occasion he did. And now he’d invited her in and wanted to spend gods knew how long looking at her.

He pushed off from the door and covered the few feet between them. “I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think it forward of me, it’s just …” Taking her hands in his, he pursed his lips, a shallow line between his brows.

She bit her lip against the laughter bubbling at the back of her throat – they were rather beyond forward, weren’t they? But … but this was more than sex. This was deeper. The twisting in her belly and the intense sincerity in his jade eyes said it was.

“Painting is a huge part of my life. Until fairly recently, other than my family, it was the thing that really mattered. But I want you to be – I want to bring you into that part of my life. And besides” – he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow before his gaze slipped away from hers – “I’ve wanted to paint you since the first time we met.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. Smugly.

So, she hadn’t been the only one who’d felt the attraction at the gallows party. It had been months ago, and yet the sparking energy between them was as fresh in her mind as in that moment he’d crouched at her feet and handed her back her winning hand, calling her out for throwing the game. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“You” – he cleared his throat – “you haven’t said anything. Surely my request isn’t so very shocking? I rather thought we were past that stage, all things considered.” A smirk laced his words, and his head cocked as he looked at her.

“I –”

She shook her head. Gods, what was she so afraid of? She’d already laid herself bare before him. His gaze had already roved over every inch of her body, had penetrated her mask and some of her lies. She had secrets, but he knew that and still he wanted to capture her upon the canvas.

It would give him something to remember her by when she left.

Her heart shrivelled, heavy and painful.

She swallowed and nodded. “Here?” She gestured to the chaise longue, not able to meet his gaze. That might make her back out.

“Thank you.” He went to a rack of canvases stretched over frames of different sizes, rattling through them and glancing up at her every so often. “Just settle down, get comfortable while we talk.” He lifted two boards in rectangles of difference proportions eyeing one, then the other, before glancing back at her, head cocked, eyes calculating and narrowed for a moment.

Settle down. Get comfortable. How on earth was a person meant to get comfortable when someone was about to spend gods knew how many hours staring right at them? She sat on the chaise longue and took a long breath, then blew it out entirely.

He peered around the easel at her. “Have you ever been painted before?” She shook her head. “Ah, I see.” He grinned, brimming with confidence. “You can relax – I promise you’re in safe hands.”

That was true – his work at the exhibition had been beautiful, indeed.

But relax? She scoffed, then rolled her shoulders and slipped off her shoes. She leant to one side, bringing her feet up next to her. Fresh air cooled them through the silk stockings, and she wriggled her toes.

He glanced to her from the canvas he’d selected and was now tightening into position on the easel. “Oh, yes, lovely.” He nodded, green gaze flowing across her for a moment. “Are you at all uncomfortable? Do you think your arm might become numb after a while?”

He was the expert, and indeed the arm tucked between her body and the chaise longue was a little squashed. She pulled it out and draped it over the armrest, letting her hand hang off the front. She stretched her legs out and nodded. “It turns out the artist knows of what he speaks.” She flashed him a quick grin, then settled into a neutral expression.

But he didn’t laugh or grin back at her, his gaze drifted over her again, and he nodded. “Perfect.” He snatched up a pencil and started scraping it across the canvas.

They carried on that way, with him sketching out a rough composition, she guessed, and her shifting until each limb, her head, and back were all in comfortable positions.

Although his eyes flicked to her frequently, after a while, it was as though he didn’t see her anymore. His gaze caressed her curves, perhaps only seeing light and dark or line and volume, rather than a human being.

At least that made it easier to relax – he wasn’t seeing into her soul, just the shape of her. Without that thought, she wouldn’t have been able to bear it. For him to look upon and see her with his observant gaze was disconcerting enough.

There was little for her to do, merely being was enough, apparently.

How novel. She didn’t need to steal or keep up an act or investigate. She wasn’t working a mark or eyeing a parure of jewellery and assessing whether its stones were paste or genuine rubies.

Just sitting here, under his gaze, that was all she needed to do right now.

Body still, breaths slow and deep, she could turn inward, rather than out.

Not that inward was much better. Inward was where all the problems, all the darkness waited.

That was why she’d barely slept since going to the scene of Aurelia’s murder. Fool that she was, she’d thought she could handle it, but that night when she’d closed her eyes, she’d realised her mistake: Aurelia’s desecrated face had awaited her. And Ela’s. And the akebia fruit, split and swollen and pale.

There was no respite from the bodies: yesterday morning they’d found a young heiress named Sexta only a couple of streets away from the Watergardens. There’d been another Venetian soldo left on her body, too. It seemed the Destroyer had developed a calling card. While the murders showed no sign of slowing down, Porto had confessed his investigation was going nowhere fast.

Quin hadn’t asked to go to that scene, not while Sexta was still there. She needed to preserve some corner of her mind. But she and Porto had discussed it, and he’d lent her the coin to take to Suheyla. She’d done that yesterday afternoon and, predictably, it had been no use – coins were even less specific than designs drawn on paper and had led nowhere helpful to the investigation.

Then there was Red. Although their friendship was strained now, they’d been as close as sisters once upon a time. She owed it to Red and to Ela to check on her and see if there was any way she could help. Food prices had risen even more: she might be struggling. But visiting her involved going to the shop.

The Cyclades Islands spattered in red. The blood. The smell. Ela.

She swallowed. She’d tried, but every time she’d reached Kahvesi Street, she’d frozen, and her breaths had come too fast and too hard, and she’d turned back before her lungs exploded.

A glass of wine appeared before her. She gasped, harder than warranted by something so innocuous. Swallowing, she blinked. Atesh crouched before her, tilting the glass, sending the honey-yellow liquid rippling. She shook her head. “Sorry, I…”

“You were away with the djinn, I think,” he said, smiling as she took the drink. “I’ve had people fall asleep before, but some go … away. They’re awake, their eyes are open, and they’re physically here, but their thoughts turn somewhere far, far away, somewhere I can’t see, however much I stare at them. It’s an interesting phenomenon to observe.” He took a sip from his own glass. “Are you – I can see something’s weighing on you. Can I help?”

She wriggled in an attempt to wake her body. “More nightmares – did you know they found another woman yesterday?” She winced – no, she didn’t want to get into that conversation. “Help me not think about it?” Her smile was tight, but thankfully the wine was oaky, dry, and crisp, cutting through the fug, bringing her back here and now.

Surely when Derry had insisted she take Atesh up on today’s invitation, she’d hoped he’d take her mind off Ela and Aurelia. Gods, Quin needed it: she had to admit she’d been tetchy as a sabrecat with a sore tooth since going to the akebia archway. No wonder she’d blown up at Atesh about the bodyguard.

He scrutinised her, still serious, but with a long sigh, he nodded.

She raised her eyebrows at him over the glass. “Is the painter allowed breaks for wine with his subjects?”

“Well,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the easel before leaning in conspiratorially, “my mistress is a jealous one, so strictly I shouldn’t, but she’s all paint and canvas, so sometimes I manage to sneak away.”

She tilted her head. “Your mistress, eh?”

“I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”

“I wasn’t until I heard you talk about her.”

“Oh dear.” He shook his head, eyebrows low and earnest. “Is there any way I can allay your fears? Prove that you are the one closest to my heart?”

She gave a theatrical sigh. “I’m not sure there’s anything you can say, but perhaps …”

“There’s something I can do?” He lifted the glass from her hands and placed it to one side with his own. “Now, what could that possibly be?” He cocked his head as if working on a great puzzle. He leant closer, hands resting either side of her, lips only inches from hers. “What could this poor artist possibly do” – feather-light, his lips touched her jaw – “to prove” – her throat – “to his muse” – the hollow of her neck – “that she” – her collarbone – “holds the key” – and the left swell of her breast – “to his heart?”

His kisses and the brush of his breath on her skin made her bite her lip. She swallowed with effort. “I think you may be on the right track,” she said softly.

He continued the rain of kisses upon her shoulders and back up her throat. His teasing trail set her skin ablaze, her breaths heavy with want. There was no more of the detached artist here – he was present and solid and sparking with desire.

And damn it, she needed to make memories while she was still here.

She shut her eyes as he finally claimed her lips. Masterful, he slipped his hands around her waist and wrenched her against him. Their breaths sounded as one, rough and gasping.

Her fingers slid into his hair, clinging to him. She would have to let go, but not yet. Just a little longer. Just until she absolutely had to leave.

The glide of his palm at her ankle and up her stockinged calf sent a shiver across her entire body. Her legs tensed in delicious anticipation. A little further and he’d reach bare skin.

Even amid her burning flesh, their shared air, a corner of her mind whispered that he was here only thanks to her deception, that this was wrong.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Then why the hells did it feel so damn good?

Besides, he knew she had secrets – wasn’t that a kind of honesty? And soon she’d be gone, and he could find a good wife who wouldn’t endanger him with her crimes.

And, gods, his hands, his mouth, the stroke of his tongue against hers – he was everywhere, everything, and that corner of her mind could shut up.

Her breath hitched as his fingertips reached the top edge of her stocking, about to touch her flesh. He stayed there for tantalising seconds. She pulled away from their kiss to frown askance, but he gave her the most wicked, the most delectable, the most thoroughly indecent look she’d ever seen, all hooded eyes, pupils blown wide, and a lop-sided smile.

Damn the man, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

With a slowness that made her tremble, his fingertips traced up, up, up, until at last, he drew a hiss from her lips unbidden, as he made contact with the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

A rap sounded on the door, and they both gasped, jumping as one.

Bloody hells, his servants had the worst timing in the world.

He huffed and sank onto the chaise longue beside her, shooting her a quick grin. “Enter.”

Her eyes widened. They couldn’t come in yet – her skirts were still pulled up on one side, showing the top of her stocking. She reached to push them down, but he placed his hand on hers, trapping it in place. When she shot him a furious glance, his fingers interlaced through hers, pressing against her thigh. “They won’t be able to see,” he murmured, “I’m blocking the view.”

Tall, slender Nald stood in the doorway, and, yes, at this angle, Atesh blocked the view as long as Nald didn’t move. The butler had his hands clasped behind his back, as though scared to encroach upon the studio.

Atesh sighed. “Nald? You know better than to interrupt me while I’m working. What is it?”

“Apologies, Sire.” His back was straight as ever. He glanced at Quin but quickly tore his eyes away and returned them to Atesh.

Gods, her hair must’ve been a mess. Or maybe it was her rosy cheeks from the heat Atesh brought out in her.

Nald cleared his throat delicately and straightened his cuff. “News from the palace.”

29

To Try

Atesh glanced at Quin as if she might have wind of whatever this urgent news was, but she shook her head. It had to be important for Nald to have interrupted. She held her breath.

“Well then,” Atesh said, “what is it?”

“It’s the Sultana.” Nald held out a folded piece of paper.

Atesh half-rose then sank next to her again, the movement so quick it must have been on instinct. She took the opportunity to straighten her skirts. “The Sultana?” he asked. “Has something …”

Her heart clenched for him – of course his mind went there first for his little cousin. The tension in his hand made her cover it with her own, squeezing.

“No, no,” Nald said, taking a few steps forward and lifting the paper as if it explained all, “nothing as bad as that. Nothing so permanent as that.”

Atesh’s shoulders sagged, and he took the paper. He unfolded it, and his gaze roved over the words. “Damn him, what the –”

Nald’s eyes widened, and he glanced at her.

Oh, of course, she was meant to react to Atesh swearing in front of her. But Nald knew she was at least involved with Atesh’s rescue from the scaffold and, surely, he must suspect she was the woman in grey who’d done the rescuing. For Atesh to so like the man, he couldn’t be a fool. Compared to all that, swearing was nothing, so she lifted one shoulder and gave him half a smile.

“Not the Sultana,” Atesh said, the crease between his brows deepening, “Ilyas. He’s blocking the school.”

“What?” She craned to see the paper – a note in clear, smooth handwriting. “Why would he – how?”

“Thank you, Nald, you were right to interrupt me with this.” He sighed and shook his head, then dismissed his valet. After the door had closed, he raked his hand through his hair. “The throne won’t allow the council to even consider building a school in the Gutter Streets. According to this, it’s because of an edict from the Sultana vetoing its addition to the agenda. But Safira could only do that under the coaching of her father – how would she even know about the school or understand what it is to stop it?”

“So, she’s refusing to even countenance it? Because Ilyas told her to?” Why the hells would he do such a thing?

Atesh sighed and dropped the paper in his lap, running his hands over his face. “There could be a million reasons. Perhaps he simply doesn’t want it to be built. Perhaps he sees the throne funding it as taking money from Safira – he is very protective of her.”

“Unsurprisingly.” She nodded. “But surely the throne has plenty to spare?”

“Compared to some, yes, but perhaps Ilyas doesn’t see it that way. Perhaps he’s even grown a bit, dare I say, paranoid since Zeynab’s …” His eyes closed, and he seemed to shrink into himself. “I’m not sure. He could generally be trying to prevent improvements to the Gutter Streets.” He rubbed his jaw. “Some might see building such a school as setting a dangerous precedent. Did you know that in Venetia, they introduce stricter laws every time they quash an uprising? I was reading about it the other day – there are rules about what books are allowed, which ones aren’t, who’s allowed into their schools and universities.”

Of course they did. Educate the poor, and they might start getting radical ideas about things like the right to access clean drinking water.

She frowned. “And who’s not.”

“Last time, they closed down all the libraries.” Lips pursed, he nodded, gaze going distant. “I’ll have to make some subtle enquiries at the palace. Perhaps the Divan Council might help me work it out. One of them must have had a scribe send this note. Who knows, perhaps it’s one of them who’s truly behind this. They could be trying to curry favour with Ilyas by protecting him and Safira from my radical ideas. I wager this is a precursor to all my other proposals being rejected out of hand.” He put his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

Whoever was behind this, damn them.

Damn them for taking this from Gutter folk. With food prices on the rise again, they were suffering – she’d already burned through this month’s budget for donations, and they were only halfway through. Word in the bazaar was that this harvest hadn’t been the best, and they’d not been able to completely refill the stock used last winter. Things were only set to get worse if autumn continued as dry as it had been. So far, the only significant rain had been a couple of storms: far less than expected this time of year.

And damn them for doing this to Atesh in his first attempt to do some good as Co-Regent.

She rose and circled the chaise longue to stand behind him. “Change never comes easily.” His shoulders were solid as the wood floor as she rubbed her hands across their planes. She ran her fingertips up his neck and into his hair, winning a gentle groan from the back of his throat. “But I believe in you.”

He lifted his head, pushing into her circling fingertips. “What if I can’t make a difference, though? What if every time I try, I’m blocked?”

“If anyone Under the Dome can make a difference, it’s you. You’re the kindest man I know and somehow still implacable.”

He scoffed softly. “That’s only because of the talking to you gave me in the fortress.”

“No, you were kind long before that. The way you are with people – attentive, genuine, friendly. I noticed it early on, and I realised it was your way of giving, of trying to make others feel welcome, of making what could be cold, formal high society a warm place. And, Hundred, the way people puff up when you turn that on them” – she smiled, shaking her head – “it’s a sight to behold. It’s a gift. So, you were always kind, you just needed a little encouragement to try to use it to make a wider difference.” She ran her fingertips down onto his forehead and between his eyebrows. The creases there dipped into deep crevasses.

“Perhaps.” He sighed. “I’m not implacable, though. I – I already backed down once …”

“The school isn’t –”

“No, not with the school.” He bowed his head, pulling out of her hands. “Years ago. With Zeynab. Hundred forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but … she – ha! Talk about deja vu … I tried this once before, you see? And I failed.”

When he’d told her about the Co-Regency, he’d mentioned trying to help before and getting blocked. He’d been worried then, and now his fears of someone trying to stop him were coming true. And not just anyone, but another sultana – someone with supreme power, but also someone he loved. No wonder he’d shrunk like that. A fear realised was a potent poison – it could unseat even the strongest. She certainly wasn’t immune to its power.

She winced for him. “What happened?”

“I was newly returned from my grand tour and thought myself ever so worldly – I persuaded Zeynab to let me pursue a project with funding from the throne. Help the city and all that. It was such a grand plan.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was doomed to fail, even if she hadn’t blocked it. I mean, refurbishing the entirety of the Gutter Streets – noble a dream as it was, it sounds quite ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

Refurbishing the Gutter Streets? The grand project that had started and so quickly stalled … She blinked. “You were behind that?”

His shoulders lifted and quickly fell. “It made no difference. Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?” She leant over the back of the chaise longue, craning alongside him, and turned his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “Atesh, it matters. Gods, it matters. And damn it, it made a difference. The – to the ...” How to explain without giving too much away, revealing that she knew too much of the Gutter Streets? “Even if it was only a few streets that saw the change, something like that spreads. It makes people feel that maybe – just maybe someone up on the First Hill gives a damn about them. I’d wager everything that you made a difference to at least some people. And, to them, what you did mattered.” It had mattered to her, even as word had reached her while she travelled Europa. It had given her hope that this battle to make Arianople a little fairer wasn’t one she waged alone.

She placed a hand on his cheek, pushing everything she couldn’t say into her eyes – maybe he would see some hint of it. “To me, that you did that, that you wanted to make your mark by helping them, rather than throwing a grand ball or launching some ridiculously large navy like most other young pashas would – well, to me that matters. More than I can say.”

His gaze searched hers, the frown on his brow softening from something angry and anguished to something more thoughtful or perhaps confused by her strange answer.

“Atesh,” she went on, “you were blocked once before, but has that stopped you from trying again?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “No, I suppose not.”

“Now you’ve chosen to build a school.” She smoothed his hair. He had to understand how important that was, how huge a difference it could make. She had to make him understand. “You said you’ve been reading about Venetia’s oppressive laws, and you did that because you understand and benefit from the power of education. You know knowledge is power. Children in the Gutter Streets can only read and write if they know someone who already can, maybe a parent or aunt or kind neighbour.” Mum had taught her, Red, and Ela, and even Talat for a while. She swallowed, heart sore at the thought of Ela.

Atesh cocked his head.

To the hells with how she knew this so well. She’d figure out a lie if he asked. “Without that skill,” she continued, “they can only ever know what someone chooses to tell them. What someone else wants them to know. They can only take the lowest-paid jobs. Then they have their own children, and it continues.” She clenched her jaw. “Will you let that cycle continue? Will you, my kind, kind man, give in and leave them to that fate?”

His chin lifted, and the frown faded. “No – no, I won’t. I backed down once before, but not this time.” He captured her hand in his and planted a kiss on her palm. “The only true failure is failing to try.” Her brows shot up – her own words from his carriage. “You’re right and damn it, it’s my duty to try. Even if it’s hard. Even if others act against me. I must at least try.”

Her throat felt thick, almost blocked, and her sight blurred. All she could do was nod and squeeze his hand. This wasn’t the man who’d given up in the Fortress of the Seven Towers – the one she’d called a coward. This wasn’t even the man who’d re-written his will to help the Gutter Streets. This was the man he was becoming.

He nodded slowly, jaw square, eyes flinty. “Whoever’s behind the Sultana’s edict, I won’t let them stop me.” He lifted his chin. “This school will still happen, even if I have to build it myself.”

30

Red

The hairs on the back of Quin’s neck prickled as soon as she stepped onto Kahvesi Street. They were close to the red room. She bit her lip and shoved her hands into the pockets of her sellsword coat. She and Derry had changed on their way to the Gutter Streets, both dressed as off-duty mercenaries come to Arianople to spend their coin and enjoy themselves between jobs. They wore black wool, sleekly tailored and adorned with gold braid and brass buttons.

“You know,” Derry said, “I could have given you the laudanum to pass to Red. You don’t need me to chaperone you and her.”

Quin pursed her lips. “True.” The brass spheres of the pawnbroker gleamed in the dull sunlight. Her step faltered.

Derry stopped at her side. “Quin?”

“I – I just” – she shook her head – “I’ve tried, but – but I’ve not been able to get past this point.”

Derry’s hand on her shoulder, tightening in a squeeze. “You’ve not visited at all? But you said …”

Wincing, Quin shook her head. She’d interviewed Gutter folk about what they’d seen on the nights the Destroyer had killed (not a great deal). She’d passed the scant information to Porto and asked how his investigation was going (not well). She’d visited the location of the other Destroyer murders, in case there was some hidden clue (there wasn’t).

In fact, she’d done everything but come here and speak to Red.

She closed her eyes. “I lied.” No wonder Red disliked her – she was a terrible friend.

“You can come back another day, you know,” Derry’s voice was soft, cajoling. “You don’t have to do this today, not on your –”

Cartwheels clattered on the cobbles. “Out the bloody way,” a woman shouted.

Quin’s eyes shot open, but Derry’s grip had already tightened. She pulled Quin to the edge of the road, clear of the passing traffic. Derry’s eyes were bluer than the sky today, and they searched Quin’s. “Atesh said you’d been having nightmares. They’re about Ela, aren’t they?”

“Her. Aurelia. Alora. The gallows. Everything.” She sighed. “But I want to go to Red, I just – I’ve lost my nerve every time. I thought you might help force me – stop me from turning back.” She’d have asked yesterday, but Derry had been with Reyhan all day.

Derry’s eyebrows rose, forehead and space between wrinkling. A look of pity.

Quin clenched her jaw and swallowed. Please, anything but pity. “Come on.” She frowned and started towards the shop.

A few seconds later, footsteps tapped behind and Derry appeared at her side. “I’ve told you this was a random act and yet you still feel responsible, don’t you?”

Quin opened her mouth to tell her she was wrong but was she? She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Maybe. A little.” She fixed her gaze on the cobblestones, grey granite with dirt between. Nothing that looked like blood or flesh. Safe. “You need to understand, Ela was … When we were younger, Ela was like a little sister to me. I spent so much time with them when Livia was unhappy, and they helped keep me safe in the Gutter Streets. We’d share money and food. Seeing her like that …” She shook her head.

Derry pulled her close gave her arm another squeeze.

Then they were at the shop door.

Quin fought to keep her feet from running far, far away. She had to do this – she couldn’t keep letting Red down. Ela would have wanted Quin to be there for her. And, so far, she’d failed at that. It had been two weeks. She’d been trying to avoid even thinking about Red, but there were always reminders. But, yesterday, seeing Atesh battle his own fears and come out so determined, he’d realised she couldn’t hide any longer: she had to face Red, and she had to face this building. She gritted her teeth and lifted her gaze from the floor.

The sign read open.

Derry raised her eyebrows. “Did she tell you she’d got help in?”

“No, but she can’t have opened up herself.”

They entered, but it wasn’t a helper behind the counter – it was Red. The halo of her hair caught the light, diffused it, so like Ela’s. No wonder she’d thought it Red she’d found upstairs in –

Quin caught her breath and shook her head. No.

Red looked up, terracotta eyes widening for a moment before she nodded. Her eyes were puffy, the whites a little pink, and her skin didn’t have its usual richness of colour, as if there were a grey cast over it.

“Afternoon,” Quin said eventually when no one else stepped into the silence. Derry shut the door and bolted it behind them, then turned the sign to closed.

“We thought you might need a break,” Derry said, lifting the basket she carried.

A good line. It made Red less helpless. They’d had no idea she was going to be working, of course, so couldn’t have known she might want a break. This way, the food and tea and coffee in the basket weren’t charity or pity, they were a well-earned break.

Quin gave Red a small, tight smile, as Red looked between her and Derry. “A break,” she said, throat husky. “I – maybe that’s a good idea.”

Red led them to the back office, and Quin forced her expression flat.

She was giving in far too easily. Maybe her mourning had pushed her past her gruff self-sufficiency. Maybe she really had softened to Quin. Maybe.

The trio sat around the desk, and Quin kept her eyes fixed on its surface. It, Derry, Red. They were safe things to look at.

The floor was not. Dethero. His still body in a pool of blood. His eyes going still and blank.

The staircase was not. Flesh and blood and horror and shock and violence up there – the unutterable violence and hate in that room. The worst discovery. The sorrow of –

“How are you feeling?” Derry asked, unpacking the basket and laying out baklava and bread and cold chicken wrapped in waxed paper.

Red watched her work, a small frown on her brow. “What a question.” She glanced at Quin, mouth tightening, but when her attention returned to Derry her expression softened. She leant forward ever so slightly, her back breaking contact with the back of her chair. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Quin licked her lips. Bloody hells, she should have left Derry to come on her own. Perhaps Red would open up without her around complicating things. All their history, their broken friendship, it was such a weight. Then on top of that, Quin was the one who’d found Ela. That alone would have been enough to make Red want to avoid her.

As she was about to rise and make some excuse to nip out, Red opened her mouth. “Tell you the truth, I still haven’t been sleeping,” she said and sighed. “Not since …” She frowned and glanced at the ceiling.

Quin shivered.

“I understand,” Derry said. She smiled softly, a wrapped pack of tea in her hand halfway out the basket. “I’m not surprised, especially staying right here.”

“I don’t want to leave though,” Red said suddenly, “and not just because of the funeral. It’s – she died here, but she was alive here, too. For a little while, at least. And she used to come here before, with Dethero. She used to borrow his books, you know?”

Quin nodded. And they were both dead. Her back itched with the desire to escape this place. She knew it wasn’t the building’s fault, but it certainly felt that way.

This shop was bad news.

Maybe she’d speak to Ariston about setting up somewhere else, a new part of the city. Not that they’d be able to afford that – for what they paid on this place, they’d be lucky to rent anything in one of the more expensive districts. The shop might be on the fringes, but it was still the Gutter Streets.

“Quin’s had trouble sleeping, too,” Derry said, her hand dipping back into the basket pulling out a small vial of brown glass. “I suspected you might, too, so I brought something to help. It’s laudanum, so you need to be careful, but a few drops will help you sleep. It’s quite bitter if you’ve not had it before, so I recommend trying it with peppermint tea, perhaps even with a little sugar or honey. Speaking of which …” She pulled out a small jar of honey, too.

Quin seized control of her brows before they shot up. That honey was out of their own cupboard and was intended for in case they needed to entertain, but Derry had chosen well. This was a good use of it. Maybe it would make Red smile a little. At the very least it would help make the laudanum more palatable.

“Thank you,” Red said, reaching for the jar, hand paused an inch from it. “You should – I mean I know laudanum and honey are expensive. Maybe you should –”

“No,” Quin said, as Derry said the same. They looked at each other and smiled. At Quin’s slight nod, they both turned those smiles back upon Red.

Quin nodded. “You see? We’re in agreement. I’d like you to – we’d like you to have both.”

A little crease formed between Red’s eyebrows, but she nodded and took the laudanum, then the honey, murmuring a thank you.

They ate bread scraped with butter, a piece of cheese each, and a little of the cooked chicken. At first, Red picked at the food, but as they haltingly talked about inconsequential things, like how business was going, gossip in the Gutter Streets, and the Canting King’s most recent meeting at the Hidden Court about gearing up for the winter and providing shelter, she began to eat between words, as if not realising she was doing so.

For her part, Quin tried to hang back in the conversation, letting Derry coax Red into talking. When she’d eventually taken the honey, her hands had touched Derry’s, and she’d given a soft gasp as if shocked, and now Quin watched the pair, that gesture took on greater meaning. Red angled her body towards Derry, and her gaze seldom left hers. A couple of times, her fingertips brushed her own lips as she looked at Derry. And the smiles she gave her, bright and unguarded – that was almost the Red who’d run with her through the Gutter Streets, giggling and clutching stolen pomegranates.

Interesting development. Quin smothered a smile and watched, adding the odd comment to the conversation.

During a companionable lull in the conversation, Red opened her mouth but frowned and closed it again, gaze dropping to the piece of baklava in her hand.

Quin hid her interest, brushing crumbs from her chest before glancing back. Red’s lips were pursed, and her eyes had gone distant.

There was a rap at the front door. Red shook her head, blinking, and rose. When she went to answer it, Derry leant close to Quin. “She’s holding back on something.”

Quin nodded. “I thought the same.”

“What shall we …” Derry worried her lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure what to do – maybe we should leave the poor woman alone.”

“She opened her mouth like she wanted to talk, but – I don’t know, maybe she’s scared or worried or can’t bring herself to say it. Like I couldn’t bring myself to come here, but – but I’m glad you helped me to.” She gave Derry a quick smile. “You ask her, you’re gentle, and she’s softer with you than she is me.”

As Red returned, Quin finished a morsel of cheese from her plate.

“Red,” Derry said, eyeing Quin then Red, “I – is there something you want to talk about? I – I noticed you seemed to be holding –”

“You noticed.” Red’s jaw hardened, and her eyes flashed at Quin.

So much for Derry softening her. “I –”

A breath snorted out of Red’s nostrils, and she shook her head, sucking in her cheeks. “You can’t just swan in here and suddenly decide you’re interested, Quin.”

“What?” Quin blinked – she hadn’t even said anything, and somehow Red was still pissed off at her. “Suddenly decide? I –”

“Yes, suddenly. You show up after how many years gone? And when you get here, you float around like you’re some actress in a play – waltzing into the Hidden Court for favours, like we’re your adoring fans.”

“Fans?” She scoffed. That was hardly fair. She’d tried to pay for that help – Red was the one who’d turned it down. “I’d hardly –”

“But this isn’t a stage. There’s no sodding audience. They aren’t going to clap for you when you piss off and leave us again. Because you’re going to. Because that’s what you do – leave. Because when you’re up there” – she waved a hand east, out of the Gutter Streets – “none of this is real to you, because it’s far away and because you’re not even bloody real yourself.”

Quin winced. She’d been right – Red needed to be angry at her. And she had to sit and take it.

“But, Quin,” Red went on, “I’m not a character, this is my life. It was Ela’s life, too. And … and …” Her face crumpled, the anger evaporating as she hung her head. “It’s my fault she’s gone.”

Quin bit her lip against the pressure behind her eyes. Of course Red felt guilty – she’d been Ela’s big sister, she’d been out that night with a lover. Hadn’t Quin felt guilty herself from having once been close to her? She swallowed, leaning forward. “It isn’t your fault, Red. It isn’t. You know that.”

“That’s just it.” Red’s hands pressed flat on the table, and she stared at them, tears streaking her cheeks. “It is. And I don’t mean in an I feel responsible because she – she was my sister way, but in an it was actually my fault, I could have done something way.” She closed her eyes, forcing out more tears.

Derry placed her hand on Red’s. “What do you mean?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “What could you have done?”

Red bowed her head and swallowed, eyes still closed. “I think I know who’s responsible.” The breath stilled in Quin’s chest. “And I think I made him do it.”

No, no one made a person kill. Maybe if it was in self-defence. Or was that what Quin had to tell herself to make her own murders more palatable?

How could Red know who’d done it? And why hadn’t she said anything? This had to be something she’d told herself, a way of coping. She couldn’t really know.

“He was going around the district.” Red opened her eyes, gaze fixed somewhere distant. “Going after women. Taking them, jumping out from the dark, finding them in their homes, and when he got them, he would …” She swallowed, shaking her head. “He did what he wanted with them. He’s always been … Well, for a long time he’d been not right. But in the past, maybe year or two, he got a lot worse. He must have taken over a dozen, and that’s the ones we knew about. He’d drag them away and leave them shocked, terrified, hurt, bleeding, bruised, and worse.”

Quin’s body felt like lead – cold and heavy and still. Even breathing was an effort. What was Red saying? Who was this man? And why hadn’t they told the janissaries, however much they mistrusted them? An unpleasant feeling, slow as a spider’s crawl unfurled across her skin, sending the hairs of her arms on end. There was more to this story.

“A group of us got together.” Red’s voice shook. “We were going to stop him. He’d almost killed the last girl – poor thing. She was cut up. And not with a knife. Bleeding …”

Quin’s throat was dry, and she struggled to move her tongue around her mouth. She stared at Red’s hands on the desk. Easier to look there than watch her stumble for the words to describe what this man had done.

“So we stalked him through the streets. We meant to scare him a bit, maybe hurt him a little, punches and kicks, no weapons. At least that was what I planned. Figured if it was a big group of us, then he’d be frightened of us for a change. But that’s not what happened. We found him pretty easily – we knew him well enough to know where to go. The green-jackets weren’t taking it seriously – a couple of them had wandered around, hadn’t been able to find him, and had shrugged and walked away. They’d assumed it was all different men – one-offs. Or maybe what we should expect living here. But this was all the same bloke. I spoke to enough of the girls to be sure who it was. Someone even saw him leaving a girl in a heap. So we found him.”

Red fell silent, and the moments ticked by.

Quin’s breaths were shallow, making her mouth even drier. She swallowed, though her throat felt like sandpaper. “And what happened when you found him?” How on earth could this relate to a man now killing women? He hadn’t raped them from what Porto had said. How could whatever they’d done to this man have made these murders begin? At least as far as Red was concerned.

“We cornered him. There were a lot of us, and some were pretty strong. Enough of a match for him – working together, anyway. We tried hitting him, but that didn’t make any difference. I think – I think the problem began when he laughed at them for punching him. I – I was angry with him for my own reasons, but what he’d done to these other women … It made my rage that much hotter.” She shook her head. “The ones who’d survived him or whose sisters and daughters had, I can’t get my head around how angry they must’ve been. So, after he laughed, we pinned him down. And then one of them pulled his trousers down. And then another one had a razor blade. She flicked it open, and I can still see its shine. I – I didn’t see it happen, but when I saw the blade again, it was red. And in her other hand, she had …”

Quin had stopped breathing. There was no noise, not the creaking of the shop, not the clatter of carts or carriages outside. Not neighbours shouting or kids playing in the narrow courtyard around the back.

“She was holding his cock. She held it up like it was some prize, and I don’t know if he’d been screaming all along, but it was only then that I could hear it, but … I’ve never heard a person make that noise. It was – it sounded like an animal being slaughtered. And the woman at the front who’d done it – well, she paraded off with her prize, holding it up, a bunch of them following after and cheering. They said it was done. He was never going to rape a woman again now, was he?” Red snorted and shook her head. “Most of them left, following to celebrate. But me and a few others stayed. We were only meant to teach him a lesson, not kill him, and he was bleeding so much. I’d only ever seen that much blood around a corpse. I made a few of them help me. We carried him to an apothecary, knocked on her door, and left him on the step.” She covered her face with her shaking hands. “So. You see now? It is my fault. I pissed him off and then I saved his life and now he’s back and killing.”

Quin raked her fingers through her hair to wake up her body, which had settled into a kind of horrified paralysis. That was appalling. But … “Red, how can you – how do you know – it might not be the same person. That was a terrible situation that got out of your control, but it wasn’t your fault. You probably saved the man’s life. And none of that means the Destroyer is the same person or his actions are your fault. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

“I tried to tell myself that, at least at the beginning. When you came before, I didn’t want to believe it. But the problem is … I know all the women involved that day and almost every one of them is now either dead or they’ve lost someone – their mum, their daughter, sister, lover … And now he’s killing more, but those first ones, they all had links to that day. I was there, and he’s taken Ela. That is how I know.”

She took a sharp breath and brushed her cheeks. “I know you’re trying to comfort me, but I’m really – I know it. I attacked him, but I also saved him, and now I’m regretting both. I’m not sure which one to regret more. And I was too much of a bloody coward to admit it before. Too much of a coward to believe it before. And that’s why I couldn’t tell anyone – even when you came here asking. I couldn’t believe it; I was too scared to even say – Hundred help me.” Her head bowed. “Ela, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

Quin shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. It was as though her tongue had stopped cooperating and no longer knew how to work. What a mess.

“Red,” Derry said, squeezing her hand, “I promise you it isn’t your fault. You don’t know he survived that injury, and even if he did, you didn’t make him do anything. He chose it himself. Whoever this man is, if he knew your name, he might blame you, but he’d be wrong and –”

“Oh, he knows my name. He’s known it for a long time.” Red raised her head and looked at Quin, the whites of her eyes pink and raw. “He knows your name too. And you know him.” Her voice broke on that last sentence.

Quin froze.

How could the Destroyer know her?

“He knows –” Derry looked from Red to Quin and back again – “how could he know Quin?”

“Hurting women isn’t a new thing for him. Quin, you remember that day …”

No. She couldn’t mean … And yet … That day – what other day could it be?

Years ago, when he’d almost strangled Quin in an alleyway. She’d only survived because Red had appeared behind him and smashed a bottle over his head.

Quin swallowed, fingertips brushing her throat, the memory of trying and failing to prize off his strong fingers as real and solid as the oak desk. “That day in the alley.” Her voice sounded remarkably level, even in her own ears.

Red nodded.

Talat. The boy they’d scoured the mudflats with. The bully. Red’s former pimp. With his sharp, cruel smirk and massive shoulders. Yes, he could easily overpower almost anyone. He could break a woman’s neck under an akebia archway.

“It’s Talat, isn’t it?” The sound of his name coming from her own lips made Quin shiver and a deep cold settle in her bones, no longer lead, but ice. Talat had attacked those women, and they’d cut his cock off in return, and Red believed that had turned him to murder.

Red’s throat bobbed in a swallow. Her jaw tensed, and her shoulders squared. She lifted her chin. “Talat is the Destroyer.”

31

Apothecarial Assistance

The place always made Quin’s skin prickle with claustrophobia. It wasn’t that it was small – the room was much larger than the one she’d shared with her mother all through her childhood – it just felt so full.

Full of the scent of herbs and spices and stranger ingredients she didn’t have names for. Full of glass bottles, clear, smoked, brown, and a few in vibrant cobalt blue, each labelled carefully and containing some concoction or component that could ease symptoms or save a life. Full of apparatus, the glass tubes and beakers held in place on metal stands, so it looked like some bizarre insect with many legs, creeping across the table and making her flesh crawl.

And full of Reyhan’s disapproval. It was palpable like a fog so thick it touched your face with cold droplets and misted in your hair, leaving you as dripping wet as if you’d walked through a rain shower.

For all that, though, here Reyhan sat, flexing Quin’s left hand and prodding it, as careful as if she were tending an injured bird.

Besides, Quin wasn’t here for approval. She’d left Derry with Red and come here under the pretence of asking Reyhan to check her injury. The truth was, she’d remembered something the apothecary had mentioned the day she’d stitched that same wound. Not long ago, she’d treated a young man whose cock had been cut off.

And he’d survived.

“Good.” Reyhan nodded, lips pursed thoughtfully. “It’s all closed up and healing well. Look.”

It was an ugly line across her palm, not far below her fingers, but, yes, it was a firm scar, closed, rather than a cut threatening to open. The redness had even faded, closer to pink now.

Reyhan cocked her head. “How’s the movement? Show me.”

“Stiff, but …” She flexed her hand and straightened it. The scarred skin was a little taut, and her fist wasn’t as tight as it had been, but she could form one. Each finger was still hers to command. That wasn’t much short of a miracle compared to her fears that she might lose movement in her hand altogether.

“Might be that you’ll always have some weakness in those fingers” – Reyhan bustled across the room and fetched a squat jar – “or it might be that you’ll have an interesting scar to explain away. But I’m sure you’ll manage that.”

Quin rolled her eyes. Always, a dig here, a slight there. As if she needed reminding of Reyhan’s disapproval.

“Right.” Reyhan resumed her seat, pulling Quin’s hand close. “Yes, it does look good if I do say so myself. Now it’s nicely closed up, you keep massaging it and doing those exercises I gave you. Carefully – and I mean carefully – add in these stretches, slowly pushing a bit harder with time. I’ll show you now, so you can do it yourself.”

She dolloped out some of the waxy, yellow salve, rubbing it between her hands. It thinned to oil in the warmth of her touch, so by the time she rubbed it into Quin’s palm, it was slippery and smooth. The smell of honey and greenery drifted up – not carefully coordinated like a perfume, but not unpleasant. It reminded her of Atesh’s cologne, earthier than a woman’s scent.

Quin swallowed. Now was the time to ask. But asking would make it real. She bit the inside of her cheek – no it was already real, as real as the pain of her teeth on her flesh, as real as the dead women she’d seen, as real as Ela’s unseeing eyes.

“That man,” she blurted.

Reyhan flinched, eyebrows rising. They never engaged in small talk. Reyhan only ever addressed Quin for necessary discussion. “That man?”

Swallowing, Quin shook her head. “Well, you called him a boy, actually. The day I came in with this, you mentioned a boy who’d been left on your doorstep, his –”

“His cock cut off?”

Quin nodded.

“Oh yes, I remember.”

“I think – I – I might know …” Her heart thundered fast and loud, making her words waver. “Was there – what did he look like?”

As she circled the pads of her thumbs over Quin’s knuckles, Reyhan’s lips pursed. “You know I can’t tell you things like that – my patients deserve their privacy. Like I wouldn’t discuss your business with anyone else.”

“Fine.” Quin sighed. “What about … you mentioned putting in a tube for him to piss through.” And hadn’t she noticed that smell outside Ela’s room and at the park? “Could that tube leak? Or stop him being able to control his bladder, maybe?”

Reyhan’s massage slowed. “Well, not leak, exactly – any urine would constantly dribble out.”

She swallowed. “Leaving a trail of piss behind?”

Reyhan’s hazel eyes rose to meet hers. “What’s this about?”

There was one way she could be sure, well, almost sure – another young man of that size who just so happened to have a chunk missing from his ear would be a mighty coincidence. “Was he very tall, over six-foot, and big and strong?”

“I told you I can’t –”

“And did he have a chunk missing from the top of his left ear, about half a zeri big?”

Her eyes widened. “Quin, I’ve told you. Please respect –”

“He’s the Destroyer.”

Reyhan’s mouth opened, and her chest stilled. She stared at Quin. “What …” She shook her head. “No, it … he … The Destroyer?”

“If he matches that description, yes. Someone I know left him on a doorstep, she said it was an apothecary around here, but it was dark, and she was terrified, so she wasn’t sure which one. She’s convinced he’s become the Destroyer. I remembered you mentioning your patient who’d survived those injuries and … that was too much of a coincidence. And I’ve been to two of the crime scenes – they smelled of urine, even away from the bodies.” She leant towards Reyhan. “Please. Tell me, is that the young man you treated?”

Unshed tears pooled in Reyhan’s eyes. She clamped her mouth shut and nodded.

The throb of Quin’s heart shook through her whole body, like the tremors after an earthquake. “And did he give you his name?”

Reyhan nodded again.

“Was it Talat?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

32

Informant

Quin shifted in her seat, glancing at the coffee shop’s door for at least the tenth time in the past minute. Sitting and waiting for a janissary was not normal, even if that janissary was Porto. She flicked open her pocket watch – was it really only an hour since she’d left him a message at Fortress of the Seven Towers? It felt more like an age, sitting here with the drumming of her fingertips on the table, the quiet chatter of a trio of young women by the window. One thought circled in her head: Talat is the Destroyer.

That and another revelation from Reyhan’s shop. As she’d stood in the doorway, about to leave, she’d told Reyhan not to keep Derry there so late, especially with a killer on the loose. On Saturday she hadn’t arrived home until gone midnight – Quin had stayed up worrying. But Reyhan had shaken her head. “I haven’t seen Derry since Thursday afternoon.”

Thursday afternoon.

After a quick discussion, they’d realised that wasn’t the only time Derry had lied about being with Reyhan. She hadn’t even been there yesterday. Where the hells had she been? And why would she lie about it?

The coffee shop’s door finally opened, jolting her upright. Porto. She gave him a quick, close-mouthed smile.

He threaded through the empty tables and sat opposite her, nodding. “Good afternoon, Lady –”

“No, not that here,” Quin murmured, reaching out, but not quite touching his hand, “call me Miss Chichek.”

“Of course.” He pulled his steamed glasses off, frowning at them and drawing a small white cloth from his pocket. “You asked to see me – I assume concerning our Destroyer problem?”

She nodded and placed a folded sheaf of papers on the table, wrapped with string. “I know who it is and have some evidence that helps prove it.”

The spectacles stilled in his hands, cloth mid-way through cleaning the lenses. His tongue darted out, moistening his lips. “You – you know the man’s identity? I – assuming it is a man, that is.”

“Oh yes, we were right on that front. It’s someone I – I know of.” She swallowed and met his gaze squarely. His brown eyes were wide, dark as the dregs of her coffee. To tell a janissary about a fellow mudlark would have been unthinkable to her ten years ago. Gods, to tell a janissary anything had been unthinkable weeks ago.

But how times had changed. How she had changed.

She took a long breath to steel herself to say the next words. “His name is Talat Demir, and until recently he lived in the Thirteenth District – his old address is in there. He’s recently moved away – in the past week or two, I think – but I don’t know exactly where. That’s where you come in – I haven’t been able to find him, but I know he’s the one.”

Porto’s fingers went to the bridge of his nose, but they found only air – the habitual motion of reaching for his spectacles, as she’d seen him do before. With a little shake of his head, he blinked, looking down where they already sat on the table. He blew out through his mouth, cheeks puffing out, then wiped the lenses, circular movements slow, repetitive. “And you even have the name.” He shook his head again and peered at her, deep lines between his eyebrows. How much did he see without his glasses? Could he see the tension in her shoulders and jaw? Or was she a blur to him? “I wasn’t expecting a name. I suppose it’s a waste of time and breath asking how you know it.” His raised brows were all the question needed.

Quin shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. He knew her well enough for that, at least.

He tilted his head. “Well, you can’t blame a janissary for trying. What can you tell me about him?”

She gave a description of Talat, as Red and Reyhan had described him, as he was now, complete with the chunk missing from his ear. In her mind, all she could see was the bulky nineteen-year-old who’d had his hands around her throat in that alley. “There’s – this one more… unusual thing about him.” She swallowed down the bile touching the back of her throat. “He – his, ahem, male member is … no longer…” Her fingers drummed on the table again. “Attached?”

Porto’s brows shot up, and his glasses stopped halfway to his face. “He’s – a eunuch, then?” He slid the glasses into place but peered over them at her anyway.

“Not an official one, at least,” she said. “It wasn’t done by the palace or by any official hand. I can’t tell you much about how it happened, but it is relatively recent, shall we say? And certainly not through his choice. I think – I think that …”

“That’s why he does it. Hence all the anger.” He nodded and sank back in his chair, gaze sliding away into the distance as he must have realised the ring of truth in that idea.

It fitted what they’d discussed at the archway in the Watergardens. They’d struggled to fathom the rage apparent in the actions there, but this would explain it all or at least could justify it for someone like Talat. He’d always been a wounded beast, so this could have turned him into a murderer who stalked the Gutter Streets and beyond.

“I think so,” she said, “the timing certainly seems to align with him recovering from that ordeal.”

“I see.” He looked at her for a long while, a curious tilt to his head. “Again, I would ask how you know these things, but if this leads to us catching him, you may well have saved … Well, who knows how many lives? The question, though, is whether the evidence you have will be enough to lock him away.” He tapped his fingertips on the folded paper, making a crinkling noise.

“I hope it’s enough. I think it’ll help you justify going after him, at least. I’m sure when you catch him, there’ll be more evidence wherever he is staying now. He might even have left some things behind at his mum’s – at his mother’s.”

Who was she fooling? Porto had to have some inkling she was not the gentlewoman she professed to be. He’d said as much the first time they’d met, or at least hinted. She’d worn this mask for almost seven years, and one visit to Arianople had put her in the path of two people who had managed to see through it. Gods, this charade was getting harder by the day.

All the more reason to leave. Atesh getting close to the truth was one thing, but a janissary? Inconceivable.

“Well.” She gave a tight smile. “His mother’s address is in there, as well as the details of two witnesses who’ll be able to give you more information. I’ve summarised what they told me, but they’ll be able to give you more detail and answer any questions.” Thankfully, Red and Reyhan had agreed to give statements.

While they discussed a little more of the evidence, Porto skimmed over her summary of what Red and Reyhan had told her, eyebrows raised the whole time.

“Do you” – she swallowed and leant towards him, hands on the table – “I know it’s not proof that would lock him away, but is it enough for you to justify looking for him?”

“It makes him a valid person of interest.” He folded her notes and slid them into his pocket.

She winced, fingertips tracing the line of the string left on the table. “Will they want to know how you got this information, though?”

“I’ll tell them it was an informant.” He shrugged. “They’re usually a touch different from you. There’s no way they’d make the connection.”

She sagged and nodded, hand flattening over the string. When they talked about informants, they probably pictured someone more like the Canting King, a ragged rogue, especially in a case that originated in the Gutter Streets. Even so …

Informant. It was just a fancy name for a snitch.

But Talat was killing people and before that he’d raped them. She owed him nothing, and she owed those women, Ela especially, everything.

Porto nodded. “Well, I’ll spread the word and his description amongst my colleagues.” He leant close and even smiled for a moment. “I think – well, I’m not usually one to get ahead of myself, but I think this might be the thing that turns the tide. We’re going to get him, madam, and with any luck, it’ll be before he kills again.” He stood and slid his chair under the table, lowering his head in a half bow.

“Hundred, I hope you’re right.” But she managed a slight smile. This was the closest they’d come to capturing and stopping him so far. They had a name, they had a history and a motive. With the help of the Gutter Streets and the janissaries combined … well, they might manage it.

He took half a step towards the door, stopped, cleared his throat, and returned, hands resting on the back of his chair. “As much as one who studies human failings can be, I am an optimistic man, but, I confess, this case … I was losing hope. But no longer. We will catch him, now we know who he is, and for that, I thank you.” With that, he nodded again and left.

She sighed, sinking back in her chair, shoulders finally lowering. If he was confident … well, maybe it was enough.

With a faint smile, she watched the door swing shut behind him and nodded to herself.

Talat had stalked Arianople long enough, now he became the prey.

33

Tuesday

Quin hurried home, a strange mixture of relief and guilt warring in the pit of her belly. Talat was the Destroyer.

She should have known what he was, what he’d become. Was there something she could have done? Back when they were children, out on the mudflats, times that he’d hurt Red or Ela or her … That time in the alleyway – he’d tried to …

She screwed her eyes shut.

And then he’d gone on to do it to how many women?

He’d always been one to lash out at others for the anger bubbling within. His violence had been bad enough for her to pay the Canting King to keep Red and Ela safe while she was away. She should have known.

Walking along the mews lane at the back of the house, she scrubbed her hands over her face, blowing out. No wonder Red had blamed herself – it was such an easy trap to fall into.

She stopped in the stable yard to check on Hira and the other two sabrecats in their enclosures. Hira was already at the bars, nose lifted to the air, and Quin reached in, holding her hand up for the cat to give it a good sniff. Her nose was wet, and her breath tickled on Quin’s palm.

“Hello, lady.”

Hira still favoured having an enclosure to herself, but she didn’t hiss at the other two sabrecats anymore. That would have to do as far as progress went. She’d always been fine with other cats on the streets and in the stable yard, but bring another cat into her household, and suddenly she was an antisocial creature.

Quin reached through the bars to give each cat a scratch behind the ears, winning deep purrs from each of them. “Sleep well, you three,” she said, smiling, then pulled open the gate leading to her back garden.

A flapping movement, low on the sturdy gatepost. Frowning, she caught it. A scrap of fabric caught on a nail.

Damn it, had she – she lifted the hem of her sellsword coat, but, no, there was no tear or missing scrap. Besides, the cloth was different. She rubbed it between her fingers. Black wool, but much finer, softer. She winced: her coat was coarse in comparison, and it hadn’t been cheap.

Not hers, then. Maybe one of the other gentlemen and women whose houses backed on to the stable yard could afford to dress their servants in such elegant livery, and they’d snagged it while looking after the sabrecats.

Gods, it was lovely stuff, almost buttery beneath her fingertips, so finely spun and woven. Where could she get hold of some for herself? She did need a new riding habit – she still hadn’t replaced hers after it had been ruined in the elephant attack. She put the scrap in her pocket. She’d show her seamstress – perhaps she’d know of a source.

Closing the gate behind her, Quin trotted up to the house, smiling at the candlelight in the kitchen window. After the shock of today, friendly company would be welcome indeed.

She opened the kitchen door and raised her eyebrows at the good china on a tray on the kitchen table. The teapot sat with its lid off, awaiting hot tea from the kettle on the stove under Mrs Tepe’s stooped supervision.

Quin cocked her head. “What’s this, then?”

Mrs Tepe glanced over her shoulder and back to the kettle. “Ah, there are you are” – her glance returned to Quin, eyes wide – “you’re getting changed, aren’t you?” She shook her head, tutting as she bustled to the larder. “You might have warned me we were expecting a visit from the Pasha.”

“Pasha?” Quin frowned at the tea set then Mrs Tepe. “I didn’t –”

Was that Atesh or a different pasha? Yildrim had that title, after all, but the fact Mrs Tepe hadn’t elaborated other than the Pasha, suggested Atesh.

At that moment the kitchen door opened and Ariston came in. He raised his eyebrows at Quin. “You’re going to want to get changed.”

“Would everyone please stop telling me I need to get changed and tell me – is Atesh here?”

Ariston snorted a laugh and nodded. “Derry’s keeping him and his bodyguard company – they arrived not long after she returned. Of course, His Highness is terribly impatient because he’s here to see you.”

Bodyguard – poor Decimus, spending his life shadowing someone else. At least Ariston had invited him in. Protocol probably dictated that he should stand in the hallway or guard the front door, but that felt far too formal, far too exclusionary. He and Atesh had known each other since childhood – bodyguard or not, the young man couldn’t be left out.

Still, that wasn’t the most pressing point. “What the hells is Atesh here for?” She hadn’t invited him.

Ariston exchanged a glance with Mrs Tepe, who sighed and shook her head. Together, they raised their eyebrows at her, as if it were obvious.

As if what were obvious? “Oh, dear gods,” Quin said, rolling her eyes, “please, just tell me.”

“You mean you haven’t noticed what day it is?”

Quin shrugged. “Monday?”

Mrs Tepe laughed and yanked the larder door open. “If it’s Monday, then I baked this cake a day early.” She pulled out a bone china stand topped with a glistening, caramel-coloured, pistachio-sprinkled cake and placed it on the table. She squeezed Quin’s shoulder. “Today’s Tuesday.”

Ariston cleared his throat. “Tuesday the 18th.”

Quin frowned. “No, it’s …” Bloody hells, it was Tuesday. Her birthday. “Oh.”

“Well, we got there in the end,” Mrs Tepe said, giving a dimpled smile.

Ariston chuckled and shook his head. “You mean you don’t remember the date?”

“I hadn’t really realised what day of the week it was, never mind the date. Hold on, so Atesh is here? But he doesn’t even know – does he?” Her eyes widened. If Atesh knew today was her birthday – her real birthday, not Lady Sabia’s fake birthday, then he’d realise she was born almost exactly nine months after the harem ended.

Mrs Tepe poured boiling water into the teapot, steam rising in a peppermint veil.

As soon as she’d finished, Ariston hefted the tray with the tea service on it. “Come along, you need to get changed.”

“I’ll help you.” Mrs Tepe brushed her hands on her apron, untied it and threw it on the kitchen table.

“Turns out he does know, somehow,” Ariston said, gaze slipping from Quin as he walked up the servant’s staircase to the main hallway.

Somehow. Meaning Ariston told him, she’d wager.

He shrugged as she followed, not even making the tea service clink. “So, it’s too late to change it. He already knows a lot of other things about you. Think of all he’s seen – he knows you’re not … er … what you pretend to be. And really, what’s he going to work out from your date of birth?”

Clearly, it was too late to put that djinni back in its lamp, no point in worrying about it. Quin sighed and let Mrs Tepe hurry her up to the dressing room, while Ariston went to the drawing room.

And Porto had Talat’s name and description now, so that problem was taken care of. All that was left was to enjoy her birthday, despite the one set of questions still bubbling away.

What had Derry been doing on Saturday night and yesterday and all the other times? They were meant to be friends, but she’d been keeping a secret … Not that Quin was in any position to lecture anyone else on secrets, but she didn’t keep them from Derry.

With Mrs Tepe’s help, she dressed quickly. She’d have to raise it with Derry somehow, but carefully – if there were some problem in their relationship she wasn’t aware of, she didn’t want to make Derry feel attacked and push her further away.

Once Mrs Tepe had laced up her stays, secured her gown, and helped her pin her hair in place, Quin took a few deep breaths and blew out all the questions. She couldn’t speak to Derry tonight, not with the others around.

“Pretty as a picture,” Mrs Tepe said over her shoulder, smiling in the mirror. “You know, I’m sure he’s going to ask you soon.”

She gave Mrs Tepe a tight smile. Bless the widow, she was trying to be kind; she didn’t know the words stung. She believed Lady Sabia was an aristocrat fallen on hard times with a poorly relative and hopes of an advantageous marriage. They’d set aside a letter of recommendation and some cash for her, ready in case they had to leave unexpectedly – she didn’t want Mrs Tepe harmed by their crimes.

“Mrs T,” she said, squeezing the housekeeper’s hand where it rested on her shoulder, “that’s – thank you.”

Mrs Tepe gave a dimpled smile. “He’s a lovely young man. Handsome, too, which never hurts. What a great match you two will be – and what beautiful children you’ll have.” She covered her mouth, eyes sparkling as if she were about to receive a proposal. “Just promise you’ll tell me every detail when it does happen. I love a good love story.”

It wasn’t going to happen, though, was it?

Still, it was her birthday. And maybe for tonight, she could act as though it were an option. She’d pretended enough in her life, deceived others with it. For once, she could pretend for herself.

“Of course I will.” She patted Mrs Tepe’s hand and stood, quickly checking her reflection.

The pair of them entered the drawing room. Atesh knew enough to excuse the lack of announcement and Mrs Tepe joining them and no doubt he’d briefed Decimus.

When had she grown so bad at keeping secrets? Ah, yes, the moment she’d met Atesh.

And there he was, dashing in midnight blue, a broad smile on his face. He held out his hand as their gazes collided. Her chest was fit to burst, barely containing the thrum of her heart.

She took a step towards him, but then glanced at Livia, Ariston, Derry, and Decimus. How were they meant to greet each other? At balls and so on they had to behave according to manners of propriety. Alone, they did as they wished. Repeatedly. But this was different – a private space, but they weren’t alone.

“Oh, stop pretending, you two,” Derry said, rolling her eyes, “this sabrecat is very much out of the bag.” She grinned at Quin and Atesh and then cocked her head at Ariston.

He raised his eyebrows at Derry, then made a faint sound in his throat and nodded. “Oh, er, yes,” he said, “you’re amongst friends here. No need for formalities.”

Livia sat by the fire, hands in her lap. She was quiet but smiling, and her gaze followed the conversation around the room.

By the door stood Decimus, straight-backed as if on guard, which she supposed he was. Still, he could relax a little – she’d see to it he did. His dimples showed briefly as the corners of his mouth raised, reassuring as if confirming Derry’s words.

“I suppose there are no secrets, anymore,” Atesh said. The smile he gave Ariston, Derry, then Livia, and finally turned upon Quin was open, honest. He wasn’t hinting about the things she kept from him, only their shared, poorly-kept secret.

Quin sighed and threw her hands in the air, scoffing. “I suppose not.” She stepped towards him and took his hand and placed it around her waist. His touch was warm, familiar, scented with orange and bergamot, though her shoulder blades stayed tight at the presence of the others.

“I understand it’s someone’s birthday,” he said, smiling down at her and planting a quick kiss on her forehead, “and your birth certainly is a cause of celebration for me.” He briefly squeezed and then released her.

Much as she longed for his full, proper kiss, she was thankful he didn’t do so in front of the others. It was one thing they knew more than that happened between them, it was quite another for them to see it or even a hint of it. And they had new company. Speaking of which ...

“Now, Captain Sadik,” she said, turning to him and shaking her head, “this simply will not do.”

Despite his military stiffness, his brows twitched. “Madam?” His gaze flicked from her to Atesh and back again. “Have I caused offence?”

“I’m afraid you have,” she said, tone and expression solemn. She flashed Atesh a look, winking once her face was turned away from Decimus. “Standing up here like you’re on parade” – she approached Decimus – “that might be what’s expected at the palace and perhaps even at Shahin House, but that is not how this house runs, young man.” She bit the inside of her mouth to still the grin twitching at the corner.

Decimus frowned, looking to Atesh again, as if for an explanation. He simply shrugged.

“You must join us, I insist,” she said, gesturing to an empty seat with the others. At last, she let a smile claim her mouth. “And as it’s my birthday, I don’t see that you can reasonably decline.”

The bodyguard’s eyebrows rose close to his hairline, and a soft exhale escaped his nose, almost scoffing. “I see.”

“I did tell you,” Derry said, smiling from her seat.

“Then I’d best oblige, hadn’t I?” Decimus bowed and sat as ordered. “Thank you, madam.”

“Not at all,” Quin said.

When she met Atesh’s eye, he mouthed his own thank you. Nodding, she turned to the china on the coffee table. “So, we’re to celebrate with tea then?”

“We were drinking that while we waited for you,” Derry said, draining her cup and returning it. “Now you’re here, I feel it only fair to break out the fun stuff.”

“An excellent plan,” Ariston said, pulling a few bottles of wine from the cabinet. “I’ve been saving these for an occasion. This certainly qualifies.”

He opened the bottles and served them all, except for Decimus, who took a cup of tea. Ariston even shared a smile with Atesh as he held out a glass for him. It appeared the mood between them had thawed dramatically from the last time they’d been in this room together. Ariston had to be the one who’d told Atesh it was her birthday.

“So,” Atesh said, “what does the birthday girl wish to do?”

“Well, was that the card box I saw you hovering around, Ariston?” She nodded to the mother-of-pearl inlaid box at his elbow.

“As long as you’re not planning to play for real money, it is,” Derry said with a grimace.

Quin laughed and promised to only play for tokens. They set out the card table, and she sat between Livia and Atesh, giving Livia’s hand a quick squeeze.

Livia had been quiet so far that evening, often looking at Atesh, but her smile seemed happy enough. She was often silent recently, gaze drifting away into the distance, lost somewhere in her thoughts, rather than here and now. She sorted through her cards and fanned them out, and yet …

Quin bit her lip and took her turn. With a prompt, Livia raised her bet. This was not the Livia she’d grown up with. How much longer would she be able to keep playing cards with them?

At whatever speed her illness progressed, they would keep playing cards together as long as Livia could hold them.

After a couple of rounds, they played a few parlour games – blind man’s bluff, sabrecats and wolves, and musical magic.

Between the games, there were presents, too. Mrs Tepe had baked the delicious cake, flavoured with pistachio and rosewater. Quin declared it the best revani in the city, making Mrs T practically glow with pleasure.

Ariston had made her a little mechanical sabrecat that reared up, swishing its tail, painted to perfectly match Hira’s grey striped coat. Even Decimus hesitantly held out a bottle of deep amber brandy saying, “I heard madam was partial to a brandy nightcap on occasion.” He raised an eyebrow at Atesh – no prizes for guessing where he had that snippet of information from.

Derry had made her gift: infused bath salts with dried rosebuds and bergamot. The complex interplay of musky, citrus and floral notes made Quin sigh. She raised an eyebrow, and although Derry returned only an innocent look, the quirk at the corner of her mouth said she’d deliberately combined Quin and Atesh’s favourite scents. She claimed Livia had helped and even if there was no truth to it, Quin was grateful for the ruse.

When she spotted Livia’s eyelids drooping, Quin tried to gather her up. At once, Atesh offered his help and carried her upstairs. He laid her on the bed so gently that Quin’s heart filled and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She smiled from him to Livia, who blinked slowly, sighing when Quin pulled up the coverlet. Such a man that he could stand by her against an elephant and face it down with ferocity, then weeks later lay a sickly woman on her bed, as gentle as he’d been ferocious.

“I’m sorry” – Livia yawned – “to bow out so early, I’m just so tired.”

“Now, now,” Atesh said, “I’ll not hear anything of the sort. I fear the parlour games were a little energetic. Perhaps we can play cards again another day.” His eyebrows flashed up at Quin, hopeful.

She pushed the hair away from Livia’s face. “There’ll be plenty of time for more card games.” She kissed her mother’s forehead. “You rest. Don’t worry, you’re not missing out.” Livia smiled and closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into the mattress.

Atesh offered Quin his arm, and she took it in one hand, the lamp in the other and they returned to their little party.

They played one more card game before Mrs Tepe retired. There was no need for her to stay up when Atesh and Decimus were only too aware this house didn’t operate in the same way as the average contessa’s. That part of their pretence was beyond over.

Quin smiled and leant towards Atesh, holding out her empty glass for him to fill.

His hand rested on her shoulder, the pad of his thumb tracing a line along the edge of her gown. “Are you getting tired, too?”

“Not tired, no, just …” How could she describe it? The feeling of warmth, the lack of tension in her shoulders and head, the smile she couldn’t smother.

From the chair opposite, Derry raised her eyebrows. “Just happy.”

Quin swallowed. Was that it? “I suppose – perhaps, yes. Happy.”

Decimus lowered his head over the cards in his hands as he shuffled them, but the shadows from the lamps and candles around the room flickered in his dimples, giving away his smile.

Atesh set down the bottle, cheeks flushed. He pulled his chair closer and sat. “Then I’m delighted to have a little part in it.”

“You have a large part in it,” she murmured, only loud enough for him. She swallowed and chanced a quick glance up at him. He bit his lip and bent to her, kissing her hair.

Ariston lifted the bottle and tilted it, peering inside. He scoffed. “Well, I don’t know about you four, but I think your … aunt and Mrs T had the right idea. It’s past my bedtime.” He stood and gathered his betting chips into stacks.

“Don’t tell me” – Quin cocked her head at him – “winning’s tiring?”

“I’m not sure my poor old back will be able to take carrying all my winnings downstairs.”

Quin and Derry laughed. Atesh shook his head, sighing. “Then I’m exceedingly glad we only played for chips. I thought Quin had prodigious luck, but it seems you outmatch even her.”

Decimus tossed a card in front of Derry, but she raised her hands. “Oh no, I’m done for tonight, too.” She went and joined Ariston near the door. “They might only be chips, but losing quite so many to you is tiring work.” She shot Quin a quick look, giving the slightest nod towards Decimus. “If madam is finished with her lady’s companion for the evening?”

Her words mirrored the unspoken question – was Sire finished with his bodyguard, too? Oh, bravo, Derry, well hinted.

“Ah, Decimus,” Atesh said and cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, we’re out rather late, aren’t we? Your work for the night is done, too. Perhaps we could hail you a cab back to –”

“I can’t leave you, Sire.” Decimus shook his head, setting the cards down in a pile. “I can sleep on this settee” – he suddenly looked from Atesh to Quin and back again, cheeks reddening – “or in the library – I saw a comfortable-looking chair down there. Even the floor will do.”

“You won’t be sleeping on the floor, lad,” Ariston said, chuckling. “There’s plenty of room downstairs in the butler’s suite. I’ll make up one of the footmen’s beds for you.” After all, they had no footmen to use them. “You’ll be close to the back door and only down the stairs from the front door, so I’m sure His Highness will be safe.”

With a nod from Atesh, Decimus accepted and retired, adding his goodnights to Derry and Ariston’s. The trio left, shutting the door quietly.

“It seems your friends don’t share your stamina.” Atesh retrieved the card Derry had declined and shuffled it into the others.

“Nor yours,” she said with a raise of one brow.

“I can’t say I’m disappointed on this occasion.” He placed the deck on the table – cards apparently no longer important now he had her to himself. The look he gave her – all hooded eyes and flushed cheeks – sent her heart racing. But instead of touching her, he rose and strode to the settee. “Now we’re alone, I can give you your gift.” He paused, glancing from her to his hand resting on the back of the settee.

“You wanted to wait until they were gone?” she asked, with a mocking drawl. “What, are you suddenly shy?” When he looked away, her mouth dropped open.

“A – a little,” he said softly, still not looking at her, “of this. Of you.”

Oh, gods.

Was he going to propose? Properly this time, not just the not-so-subtle hints he’d dropped before. What would she even say? How could she turn him down without wrecking their relationship? Because she wanted him, but – irony of ironies – she didn’t want to trick him into an engagement.

Her vision blurred for a moment, and she was forced to look away, blinking furiously against the threat of tears. That was what it would be, a trick. No better than the fake engagements she’d engineered through her cons. He’d be asking her under false pretences because he didn’t know the truth. Who she was. What she did. Why she’d first sought him out.

She’d have to say no.

34

The Sultan's Tears

Quin held her breath as Atesh bent down to retrieve something from behind the settee.

Oh, thank the Hundred. It was a jewellery box, covered in indigo velvet, but much too large to be a ring box. She puffed out a relieved breath and smiled at him and the half-shy look he gave her. He stood there for a moment, watching her, before holding it out and covering the distance between them.

“Happy birthday, Quin,” he said, voice a low purr in her ears. “I’m thankful I get to celebrate your entrance into this world as well as your, I think it’s fair to say, dramatic entrance into my life.” The corner of his mouth quirked in that way he must have known made her want to kiss him.

“You mean to say that most gentlewomen don’t, within the first month of meeting you, ride a sabrecat into battle against a rampaging elephant?” Her mouth opened in mock shock.

“Hard to believe, I know,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “And you are the first to cut me down from the scaffold, too. I’m hopeful that will be the last time I require such assistance.”

“On that, we’re in total agreement.”

“But that is not the topic for tonight or today –”

“You know we’re past midnight now, it’s not technically my birthday anymore.” She cocked her head at the clock on the mantlepiece.

“I think such an occasion merits more than merely 24 hours of celebration. Especially when the woman concerned so delays opening her present.” He raised his brows and lifted the box.

She scoffed and stood, taking her closer to his level. Still, she had to go on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek as she took the box from his hands. “But surely my gift is already here and looking terribly handsome?”

“Oh, smoothly done, madam,” he murmured.

“I’m glad you appreciated that. It – it isn’t entirely a joke, though.” Her face smoothed to an earnest expression. For once, not faked. “Whatever may be in this box, you being here means more to me than any object.”

His chest puffed and his eyes glistened, much like the effect his kindness and attention had on others. It made her ache somewhere between pride and pleasure that she had been able to give him a little taste of his own gift.

“Now,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back, but still standing close enough to be improper, “would you please open the damn box?”

She chuckled. “The Pasha Regent’s wish is my command.”

The box was heavier than she’d expected, making it a little awkward to balance in one hand. She pressed her fingers against the velvet for a moment, enjoying its lush pile beneath her fingertips.

When she chanced a quick glance at Atesh, her breath caught to see him watching her so intently. He was an observant man, intense at times, but even for him, there was something in his gaze that made her freeze for a moment. This gift must mean a great deal to him. Or maybe it really was a ring, and he was throwing her off the scent by presenting it in a larger box. This case could house a small parure, so perhaps a ring sat at its centre, surrounded by a necklace and earrings …

As her fingers gripped the edge of the lid, she smiled at him, though her heart throbbed painfully hard and her legs shook. The box flipped open, its hinge on a strong spring.

She gasped and blinked. No. It couldn’t be …

Sapphire and silver. The droplet-shaped stones quivered on hinged settings in an arc she knew. A tiara. One she’d seen in a painting, but never in person before.

She covered her mouth as a low sound escaped and Atesh had to steady the box in her shaking hand.

The tiara from the Sultan’s Tears set. The one her mother wore in the painting she’d stared at so often in Livia’s absence. The deep violet-blue sapphires glinted as they moved; their points of scintillating light blurred in her vision.

It was too much. She took a ragged breath that seared her throat and lungs.

Did he know? But no, he couldn’t possibly. And yet somehow, he’d found this tiara – one of the few items of jewellery in the world that meant anything more to her than money.

A diamond necklace – that would have been a means to pay bills, buy food, redistribute wealth to the Gutter Streets – but this … This cold metal and stone, it had been worn by her mother in happier, healthier times. It had been part of her life when it had been plentiful. It had seen the Livia who once was – bold and beautiful and glorious, envied across the harem and beloved by the Sultan. It had crowned her at balls as she’d dazzled the court with her deft dancing and even more deft wit.

If only she could tell him how much it meant. Her heart melted with the unsaid words and her body swayed towards him.

“Where did you – how?” She shook her head. The poor man had been standing here waiting for her reaction and must have wondered why she’d have such a response to a pretty headdress. “Oh, Atesh, I’m sorry – I, and this is such an understatement I cannot even begin to explain – I love it.”

She loved him. Those were the words that coated her tongue like honey. It made her heart stumble, and her stomach jolt, but it wasn’t a safe thing to say. Was it even true?

He’d said it to her, but he didn’t know her. He knew a part of the real her, yes, more than most, but he also believed in a massive lie. Or, at last, he didn’t know the truth of it. So, his admission of love was based on an untruth.

And if he discovered the truth, he’d never repeat those words.

But she knew him. She knew his truth. And, yes, she felt that way. But gods, she could never say it.

Atesh blew out a long breath as if he’d been holding it. “Thank the Hundred.” He gave her a rueful smile. “You were so quiet, I thought perhaps I’d misjudged. You” – he nodded to the box, still in her hand with his steadying it – “you can touch it, you know.”

She swallowed and nodded, scoffing at herself. He was right, she hadn’t even dared to do so, yet. Touching it might reveal it wasn’t real. But she’d studied the painting and memorised every colour and each brushstroke. There were faint scuffs at the ends of the tiara where it had perhaps scraped against hair clips – it wasn’t new. If this wasn’t the one from the painting, then it was an astonishingly good replica.

Atesh took the weight of the box as, with shaking hands, Quin lifted the tiara, a faint gasp escaping her lips as her fingers closed on the cool silver. The teardrop sapphires trembled and glinted as they moved, catching the light and throwing out flashes of rainbow colours. Certainly, real sapphires and of exquisite quality. This was no replica.

“It was in that painting in your hallway,” he said, hesitantly, as he placed the box on the card table, “the one by my mother that I offered to buy from you if you recall?”

She nodded mutely. The painting of Livia. But surely it couldn’t be traced back to her – Prima had done her utmost to wipe all mention of Livia and the other harem wives from all records in the palace and anywhere else within her reach. She bit her lip.

“I thought you looked very much like the lady in it,” he went on, gaze gentle compared to the intensity of earlier, “and the set of jewellery she wore suited her very well, so I knew you would look incomparable in it.”

“How – how did you find it?” The tiara was one of the items from the Sultan’s Tears. She was a jewel thief good enough to not be famous, and she’d never even had a lead on it. How had he managed to acquire it?

“I thought it was familiar when I saw it and, sure enough, when I went to my mother’s jewellery cabinet, it was there. I believe she and the lady in the painting must have known each other.”

Quin turned the tiara this way and that. Had Livia given it to Atesh’s mother as she’d left the harem or before? She must have had help to escape safely that night. Quin had always assumed it was solely Ariston’s assistance that had seen her out of the palace and the eastern districts of the city where Prima’s reach would have been strongest, but she must have had friends at court. She’d always assumed they’d all fallen in with Prima’s decree about the harem and banishment of its women on pain of death. Maybe some had remembered their friendships, despite the risks. And Atesh’s mother as the Sultan’s sister would have been insulated from Prima’s ire better than most.

Knowing Livia, she would have insisted on reimbursing a friend for such a risk. Perhaps she’d used the tiara as payment for borrowing a Shahin carriage that desperate night when death stalked the harem quarters …

Quin shivered. Or maybe that was a fanciful invention from too much wine and too much Atesh.

She turned the tiara over. Even the back was beautiful, with smooth silver curves and tiny cutwork along the edges, making this side glint, although it would often be hidden by hair.

“So,” Atesh said, “are you going to look at it forever, or do I get to see if I was right?”

She frowned at him, cocking her head. “About?”

“Whether it suits you as well as I believe it will.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his gaze slid away. “I’d like to see you wear it.”

His shyness – madness considering all they’d seen of and done with each other – made her want to touch him, to kiss him, to pull him towards her and wrap her arms around him. The vulnerability in his voice – irresistible.

“You know,” she said, looking at the trembling sapphires, “there is an etiquette attached to tiaras. I don’t qualify to wear one. Only a bride or a married woman may do so.” Yet more evidence that the women of the harem had all been considered wives, not only Prima, no matter what she claimed.

His brows rose, but the twitch at the corner of his lips belied this as false innocence. “Is that so?”

“As I’m sure any member of the Shahin family worth his salt would know, across Europa, they’re an emblem of the crowning of love.” Or the loss of innocence, but that ship had sailed long ago.

“Then I thank the Blind Lady that we have no gossips or etiquette pedants here to correct your wearing of it or my request. You can wear it as much as you want in private.”

Not a sly segue into a proposal, then. She smiled her relief and held up the tiara to him. “Then perhaps you can help me?”

He took it from her hands and lifted it to her head, sliding it into her hair gently. His gaze lingered on it then roved across her face, at last resting on her eyes. With a touch light as a breeze, he pushed back a lock of her hair and took a long, shivering breath. “Even more perfect than I imagined.”

Now the arc of the tiara was no longer between them, she edged closer. “Then I look well in it?” She turned her head left and right, before lifting her chin. She didn’t need a mirror when she had the reflection in his gaze and his blown pupils.

His arm wrapped around her waist and drew her near. “Far more than well,” he murmured and traced a line up her cheek. “But what’s this for?” His fingertip glistened.

Gods, she hadn’t managed to hold the tears in. How to explain without explaining? How to make him understand without revealing too much? And yet she needed him to know what this meant to her. She smiled and shut her eyes, pushing out more tears. Her cheek pressed into his hand, and she turned her head to kiss his palm. “Because this gift is more perfect than you realise,” she murmured against his skin, his fencing calluses grazing her lips. “I think that perhaps you are more perfect than you realise.”

“Hmm … sometimes rightness” – his mouth brushed her brow – “when it comes from unexpected places” – then high on her cheekbone – “is something to cry for.” He lifted his hand from her lips and replaced it with his mouth, gentle, soft in a way that made her tremble all the harder. When he pressed her against himself, their bodies locked together as if made to be. He understood that this was something she hadn’t dared hope for. And wasn’t it for him, too? What was it he’d hoped for? Someone tolerable?

This was more than tolerable.

This kiss that wreaked havoc through her brain, down her spine, through her legs to her toes. This gift that weighed but lightly on her head. And this man who’d gifted her both and more besides.

She clutched the front of his jacket. “I want you.” She kissed him hard so there could be no mistaking her meaning. “Now.”

With a single nod and a sound low in his throat, he lifted her onto the table, his movements easy, but his touch firm, hand gliding up her leg. And his touch, gods, it was good, but she couldn’t stop the tears any more than she could stop the moon or the sun in the sky.

She had to leave Arianople and leave him. The decision was already made. Had been made before she was born. It was what he was and what she was.

But, damn it, that day was not today. That place was not here, on this card table. For here and now, she pretended that if he asked, she’d say yes. She’d stay and live like this, in another life where every night she could melt against him again and again. Where his skilled fingers coaxed her gasping pleasure. Where she tugged at his trousers, and he filled her hands and her senses with his hardness, his low groan that rumbled through his body and into hers, his teeth grazing against her lip. Where he thrust into her, solid and true, their breaths mingling, her body crackling with rising rapture.

This was real, for tonight, at least.

He was just a man, and she was just a woman, and this night was theirs.

35

Polite Society

The next evening, Quin sat in Atesh’s carriage, shoulders against the back of the seat, rather than tensed up around her ears as it felt they had been for weeks.

She’d warned the Gutter Streets – this afternoon she’d helped Red by going to the Hidden Court and ‘telling’ her and the Canting King that Talat was the Destroyer. The gratitude in Red’s eyes had made her shift with discomfort, but she’d spared Red publicly admitting her own feelings of guilt. Being able to protect her from displaying that wound to the Canting King and the rest of the Hidden Court was the least Quin could do.

She’d done what she needed to. It was in Porto’s hands now – it was for him and the other janissaries to catch Talat.

And once he’d done that, she would leave.

With a sigh, she glanced out the window at the city in early twilight.

“You seem more carefree than I’ve seen you … perhaps ever.” Beside her, Atesh cocked his head. “Was a tiara truly all it took it to ease your worries? If I believed that, I’d have gifted it to you much sooner.” His teeth flashed in a brief grin.

She chuckled and pulled his arm around her waist. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, smiling to make the tease clear. “I think a situation may be on its way to a resolution, let’s say.”

Of course, that left plenty of other parts of her life unresolved.

“There is one thing, still weighing on my mind,” she said. “Only a little thing, I’m sure.”

“Oh?” Atesh angled towards her, so she nestled against him more easily. “Tell me about it, and if I or the tiara didn’t help the last problem, perhaps I can help with this one.”

“It – it’s silly, really. And perhaps I’m wrong …”

“I doubt it, if it’s enough to be some concern to you, I’m sure it is something.”

“Perhaps. It’s – it’s Derry. She seems … Gods, it even sounds ridiculous to say, it’s so vague!” She shook her head. “It’s just, she’s seemed distant recently. And then I found out she’d been lying about where she’s been. I thought we were such close friends, but she’s hiding something.” She frowned, leaning her head against his shoulder. It began shaking, and she sprung back to look at him. He was laughing. “I’m glad my fears are so funny to you!”

He shook his head, squeezing her close, even as she tried to lean away from him in irritation. “Isn’t it obvious?” He cocked his head at her, an easy smile on his mouth.

She huffed. “Would I have asked if it was obvious?”

“You can’t think of anything she might want to keep to herself?”

She shook her head and raised her eyebrows. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Perhaps she has a lover but isn’t ready to share that fact yet. After all, how much have you told her about us?”

Well, she’d had to ask Derry to replenish her jar of the preventative, so Derry knew something about how far their relationship had gone.

She cleared her throat softly. “Derry with a lover?” It wasn’t inconceivable … In fact, that could explain why she’d claimed to be with Reyhan when she wasn’t. And when she’d mentioned leaving, Derry had always gone quiet and moody or suggested staying, even if hypothetically. Maybe she had her own reasons for pushing that agenda. “I suppose … that makes sense.”

“I’m sure she’ll come to you when she’s ready to talk about it.” He kissed her brow. “But I’m selfishly glad if it means I get you to myself while she’s off with some young buck.” He grinned.

But she couldn’t smile back. Derry might want to stay, and Quin herself might want to stay. But it was impossible. And leaving would only come too soon, now the janissaries knew Talat’s identity, it wouldn’t be long before they’d arrest him. There was one thing she had to do first: tell Atesh they were leaving.

“Atesh.” She sighed, closing her eyes, and pulled away from him. She couldn’t be touching him while she told him. “There is one more thing on my mind.”

“I thought there might be,” he murmured, releasing her. “You seemed relieved, but you were sighing a lot all the way here. What is it? You know, you can tell me any –”

The carriage jostled to a stop, and the door opened a moment later.

“Ah” – his eyebrows lowered fiercely at the footman standing in the doorway, making the poor man take a step back – “we’re here. One moment.” He seized the door from the footman’s hand and slammed it shut.

“Quin.” He shifted to the seat opposite and took her hands, covering them with his. “I know you have fears. I know you’re worried about gods know what. But you can tell me anything. Even if you don’t believe that now, I hope you will, one day.”

Despite the warmth in his eyes, of his hands, and his words, she winced. “I” – the word was a sorry croak, forcing her to clear her throat – “I fear we don’t have many days. You know I said I might have to leave?”

He exhaled slowly, body sinking an inch. His throat bobbed, and he nodded.

“Well, I suppose you’ve guessed what I’m about to say.” Her gaze dropped to their hands, his long artist’s fingers entwined with hers. Their shared fencer’s calluses pressed into each other’s palms. “That thing I’m relieved about – it’s nearly all resolved, and once it is, I’ll be leaving.” Their hands blurred, and she shook her head, drawing a sharp breath. “Please understand, it – it’s not that I want to. You – you are more wonderful than I could have begged any djinni for. It’s the things I carry …”

“Your secrets.”

She nodded, still not able to bear to look at him. “They – the longer I stay, the more you’re in danger, and I’d hate myself if I ruined your chance to make a difference in the world. Now you’re Co-Regent –”

“There’s more attention on me, and you fear that makes it more likely your secrets will be uncovered, perhaps by meddlesome journalists, particularly if you’re at my side.”

Her breath burst out in a desperate laugh. Even when she was telling the damn man she was leaving him, he was so bloody understanding. She pressed her forehead against their clasped hands. “Yes.”

“Sire,” the footman called from outside, “we must clear the way. Other guests are arriving.”

A long, low sigh sounded from Atesh, and he pulled his hands from hers. He shoved the curtain to one side and yanked the sliding window down. “They can damn well wait,” he growled, then slammed it shut again, making the glass rattle. “Sorry. I – I’ll try to be quick.” The smile he gave her was slow, sad, guarded. “You said you might have to leave and I told you I wouldn’t try to change your mind.” He sighed, frowning. “That hasn’t changed. I just – I hoped we’d have longer, that you’d come to see that you and your secrets could stay.” He held his hand out, palm up, eyebrows rising a fraction.

Heart in her throat, she took the invitation, sliding one hand into his. “I’m sorry.” It was a pathetic set of words. Three sad syllables. But she’d never meant anything so much in all her life.

“I am, too.” He nodded, squeezing her hand, thumb running over her knuckles. “If – you wish to, I’d like to make the most of the time we have left together, then?”

So he didn’t want to be rid of the sight of her. There. She’d told him. One of the hardest things she’d ever done, second to leaving Livia in an asylum, and it was done. And he still wanted to spend time with her.

Biting her lip, she nodded. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Well, then,” he said, leaning across and cupping her cheek, “let’s make the most of this moment alone before we spend an evening in so-called polite society and I can barely touch you all evening.” His mouth quirked in not quite a smile.

“What a fantastic idea.” She bridged the gap between them and kissed him, deep and slow, making it count. When they parted, their breaths mingled, heavy. “Will that tide you over, do you think?”

“Hmm” – he frowned, gaze up to one side – “I don’t, but I fear the footman might come and bodily remove us both from this carriage if we tarry any longer.”

She scoffed. “I fear you’re right. Think of later.”

“Oh, I already am.” He winked and pushed open the door. He stepped down and turned to hold out his hand. “Madam.”

“Sir, you are quite the gallant gent,” she said and bit back a laugh at the footman’s raised eyebrows. She took Atesh’s hand and left the carriage.

“You know,” he murmured, offering his arm, which she took in what had become such a natural motion it required no thought, “you could just tell me and then I’ll be able to protect myself from your secrets. There’s got to be some benefit of being Co-Regent, hasn’t there?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I can’t –”

“I know,” he sighed. “You can’t blame me for trying.” He stroked the back of her hand and together they walked up the steps to the large double doors, Decimus in his customary grey suit a few steps behind.

She took a deep breath. Time to don the mask that she allowed to slip in Atesh’s company. She had to be in full Lady Sabia mode for tonight’s party.

Although Malos had assured them that tonight’s hostess, Lady Lucia Kartal, was terribly sorry about her behaviour when they’d first met, Quin was loath to give her any ammunition. She would be beyond reproach tonight, then they’d see if the late Miss Tiryaki really had been the ringleader of that little band, as Malos claimed.

Not that he was an entirely unbiased commentator on the situation – Atesh had seen him with Lucia riding through Valens Park a few days ago, and Malos had mentioned her at least a dozen times at the last party they’d attended. Atesh was sure he’d propose to her by the summer. Would that finally put an end to his wild masquerades? Hopefully not before she had the chance to attend one.

The doors opened, and a short, round butler awaited them. “Sire.” He bowed stiffly. “My lady will be very pleased to see you.” His eyes flicked from Atesh to Quin. Despite his welcoming words, he didn’t stand aside to let them pass. His throat bobbed in a swallow, and he winced as if the motion was strained.

What was wrong? She exchanged a glance with Atesh – so he’d noticed it too.

“Indeed,” he said, turning a bright smile upon the poor butler – a smile few could deny, “the Contessa and I are only too pleased to be here.”

“I certainly am.” She added her smile to Atesh’s, blinking at the butler, who still hadn’t withdrawn to allow them into the house. What was the meaning of this? His address was polite enough, but his behaviour bordered on rude. He hadn’t even greeted her.

“Ah – well …” His jowls quivered as he licked his lips, gaze still flitting between her and Atesh, finally settling on him. “Yes – Contessa – yes – right – it’s unfortunate. Ah, that is, I find myself in a regrettable position.” He swallowed, and his flitting gaze went behind them – another carriage pulled up, making four stopped behind Atesh’s.

Atesh frowned and glanced over his shoulder, raising his open hand to signal for his coachman to remain in place. Decimus closed in, pausing at his shoulder.

Great, a standoff between the Pasha Regent, his bodyguard, and a butler. The last thing she needed was to be involved in another scene. The gossip columns claiming she’d been escorted from the palace by janissaries had been bad enough. If they caught wind of this, they’d find a way of making her the problem. She bit the inside of her cheek to avoid wincing.

The butler clasped his hands before his round tummy. “Perhaps Sire would care to step aside for a private discussion?” A pleading tone entered his voice.

“We can talk here well enough,” Atesh said, voice pleasant, but the stiffness of his arm under her hand belied the calm.

“Is there a problem?” She tilted her head at the butler and raised her eyebrows as if that couldn’t possibly be the case.

“There certainly is, madam,” the butler said, finally looking at Quin for longer than a second. “I was instructed by the lady of the house to deny you entry.”

So she was the problem or at least the butler thought so.

“So, you see,” he went on, “I am only too pleased to allow His Highness entrance, but madam is an undesirable under this roof.” As he spoke, his voice grew colder, his back stiffer, as though he were reciting self-righteous words he’d heard elsewhere.

Undesirable? What did he mean? She glanced at Atesh, whose arm had become hard as stone beneath her hand. He didn’t return the look; he was as clueless as her.

There had to be some mistake – the butler must think she was someone else. “I’m not sure what you –”

“Madam, please!” The butler’s knuckles whitened “Please let’s not create a scene. I’d respectfully request that you leave this place quietly and save everyone a great deal of embarrassment.”

Quin opened her mouth to reply, to tell him he had the wrong person, but Atesh straightened his arm, releasing her hand, and stepped forward, towering over the butler.

She caught Decimus’s sleeve when he went to join Atesh and gave him a small shake of her head. This butler posed no threat to anyone’s life, only to her reputation. Decimus frowned, but nodded an acknowledgement and stayed in place.

Atesh’s jaw knotted and his shoulders squared. “Undesirable? Embarrassment? And the lady of the house said this?” His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deep breath. He was doing a good job of containing his anger, but he couldn’t hide it.

“They are indeed the words of my lady,” the butler said, neck craning to look up at Atesh. “My lady instructed me that all who are invited are welcome, except for the Contessa Lady Sabia. She is not welcome under this roof and never shall be.”

Quin’s face lit up with flame. It was no mistake. To be turned away from a party she had an invite to. Beyond mortifying. That Lucia had rescinded the invite meant she must feel her reasons entirely justified to make such a breach of etiquette. What did she know? Had Terzo told people about the library?

She would bloody well march in there and tell Lucia and anyone else who’d listen exactly what had happened. And then she’d say something witty about Lucia’s poor taste in decor or drink, before tossing her head and sweeping out, poised and triumphant.

Sweat cooled the back of her neck.

But she couldn’t do that, because Lady Sabia would never do such a thing. And although her reputation might have been in tatters, Atesh still had one to protect.

So, instead, she placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Please,” she said, “At – Sire, let’s not … I’ll go. You go in, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” She forced a smile as he looked over his shoulder at her. With a nod, she turned back towards his coach.

Something was so very wrong. Gods, it had to be that bastard from the library. What could he have said? That she’d given herself to him for money? Or for the fun of it? In the palace library!

She swallowed, stomach twisting. She was going to be sick. She gulped breath after breath, shivering, hot and cold at once.

Her reputation as Lady Sabia had clearly not been protected by her association with Atesh, but Hundred, she couldn’t let his reputation be damaged in turn, even if hers had been ruined by nothing more than lies.

“No,” Atesh said, and his shoes tapped down the stairs behind her. “I won’t let you go without me.” At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to look up at the butler. “If Lady Sabia is not welcome here, then neither am I,” he said, in that same voice he’d used at his investiture, the one that carried and must have sounded through the open door and into the house, probably even to the carriages stopped behind his.

Oh, gods, no, he couldn’t stand by her like this. He needed to be quiet. But she couldn’t speak against him now he’d made such a public declaration.

Decimus lifted his chin and gave the butler a long look from his great height, turned his back on Lucia’s house, and returned to his seat beside the coachman.

Glowering, Atesh yanked the carriage door open before the footman could reach him – he didn’t even bother to unfold the steps. “Anywhere that turns Lady Sabia away also turns me away. And I shall be sure to strike Lady Kartal from any events at my home and the palace.” With a quick, grim smile, he fastened his hands around Quin’s waist and lifted her into the carriage before climbing up after and slamming the door. Chest heaving, he knocked on the carriage’s ceiling for the driver to leave.

She swallowed and nodded at him. Her throat was dry and sore, brittle somehow like it was made of glass. If she spoke, it would break.

“What the hells is going on?” he said, but he was looking out the window at Lucia’s house as they drove away, so it didn’t seem the question was directed at her. “How damn well dare they?” His hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth. Tension corded his neck.

“Atesh, I’m sorry, I …” But what could she say? She ran her hands over her face. At least the sick feeling was gone. And Lady Sabia would be gone soon, with her ruined reputation.

A harsh sigh blew from his lips, and he loosened his fist, then looked at her. “Why the devil are you apologising?” He shook his head. “Someone – that Lady Kartal has some problem with you. Maybe that damn Terzo has said something, I don’t know. But what I do know is that you have done nothing wrong here. Please don’t ever apologise for someone else’s misapprehension.”

“But … the ball …”

He scoffed and scooted to one side of his seat, then nodded at the space left. “Don’t you think I’d rather spend my time with you?”

An invitation. She took it and sank against him. Even when she’d told him she was leaving, that he had no hope of making a match with her, he was still here, sincere, reliable. “You should be in there, looking for a prospective wife.” She tried to laugh, but it was a strangled, wheezy sound in her tight throat.

“You might be leaving, but until then, as far as society is concerned, where you go, I go. Where you are welcome, I am welcome.” His hand rubbed her arm, and the weight of a kiss landed on her crown. “Can we – I don’t want to spend the time we’ve got left moping. Is it too much to ask that we …” His breath blew warm against the top of her head, ruffling her hair. “Can we carry on as we are?”

She closed her eyes, resting her head against him. “Pretend, you mean?”

“It’s silly, I know. Maybe childish, but yes, I’d very much like to pretend that you’re going to stay here forever. I’ll worry about after when it is after.”

“It’s not so silly.” She smiled and slid her hand across his firm chest. She timed her breaths with its rise and fall. His heartbeat thudded against her palm, solid, true.

Forever. That wasn’t a word that had ever featured in her vocabulary. Sounded nice, though. Then again, anything would sound appealing coming from his lips. Much as she was loath to be parted from those lips, her secrets would tear her from him one way or another.

If she could ever force the words from her body to somehow tell him all those secrets, he wouldn’t understand. He’d reject her. And rightly so.

If she kept quiet, he’d always be wondering what she was hiding. Even if he didn’t, she’d always mistrust his faith in her, just as she’d assumed that bodyguard was a spy.

And no matter how hard she tried to keep them, in Arianople, her secrets would always be too close to the surface for her to stay more than a few months. He would find out what she was in the end.

She sighed.

His hand closed over hers, lifting it to his lips. “Such a big sigh.”

Did she really want to sigh away the next week or so while the janissaries caught Talat? What a waste that would be. She had no choice in leaving, but she had a choice in how she would stay. Misery would do them no good. At least Atesh’s way she would have happy memories to cling to, wherever in Europa she went next.

“I like your idea,” she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Damn those green eyes – there was a good chance they could get her to agree to almost anything. Looking at them, she could even see herself agreeing to stay, never mind such a small request as this. “Sometimes pretending is the only comfort to be had.”

36

A Lesson in Etiquette

A week after being turned away, Quin stood under Lady Lucia Kartal’s roof with a bitter smile. Not welcome, eh? She’d see about that.

When Lucia woke up in the morning with her jewellery box a bit emptier, she’d feel a bit less pleased with herself.

Quin took a deep breath and patted the bag hanging over her shoulder. She crept from the dressing room into the dark corridor, her clothes, all in shades of deep grey, blending with the shadows.

It would have been two such bags if Derry had shown. Quin pursed her lips. She’d waited at home with Ariston and Livia as late as she could, but there had been no sign of her. Ariston had been loath to let her go alone, but it was Mrs Tepe’s night off, so he had to stay and look after Livia. And she’d been sure Derry was at Reyhan’s, but the quick ride to the apothecary’s had revealed she wasn’t there. So either she was with this lover Atesh thought she had or Talat had got her. Two quite different possibilities.

They’d found another woman on Saturday morning, this time in the Fifth District, but again only a few streets away from the Watergardens. Perhaps he was using the dark trees and shrubs of the park to hide or cut between the bordering districts quickly. As children, they’d climbed over the fences or wriggled between gaps to get inside and play tricks on the aristos. Was it a great leap to think he might be using the same tactics now, albeit with deadly intent?

She pursed her lips. His name and description had been with the janissaries for over a week, and now another woman was dead. Amata, the twelfth.

Hundred, please don’t let Derry be added to that list. There had been no shouts of murder yet tonight, but it was still a prickle of worry in the back of Quin’s mind. Despite the danger of Talat, she’d returned Hira to her enclosure and come out alone to do her work.

They were waiting for the money to come in from the stuffing from Erdem’s house, but another bill had come in, and if word got out that Lady Sabia made a habit of delaying payments, other vendors would start denying her credit in the first place. So, tonight’s theft was a necessity, but targeting Lucia’s house specifically – that was personal.

Quin slid one hand into her pocket, drawing the Moon Card. The magic whispered under her fingertips and up the back of her neck.

Silence. Sleep. Night.

Things unseen in the dark.

The only sounds were the soft ticking of a grandfather clock at the end of the hall and the occasional creak of an old house settling in for the night. The household seemed to slumber. All the better for her.

She eased open the door of the study whose window she’d climbed through a short while ago. Creeping in, she squinted around the room and shut the door. Here dim moonlight lined the armchair, desk, cabinets, and a large, low footstool. She edged to the window.

Thumb running over the Card, she peered out to the garden below.

Silence. Sleep. Night.

It was darker down there, and even with the Moon’s magic, it took her a while to pick out the rough shapes of trees and shrubs and winter plants. No movement, thankfully.

She pursed her lips. This would have been Derry’s job if she’d turned up. She would have waited in the study or in the garden below, keeping a lookout to be sure their escape route was clear, to help carry the loot, and to time their escape.

Quin released the Card, lest she crush it in her tightening fingers. She took a deep breath. Calm.

An escape attempted in anger was likely to be an unsuccessful one.

Well, at least the way out was clear.

Closing her eyes, she took a few more breaths. Focus. Fingers back on the Card, she nodded to herself, slipping back into the Moon’s magic.

She pushed up the window, inch by inch – the less noise to mask, the easier it was to cover with magic and the less likelihood of a terrible headache after. The quietest squeak of the rope and pulley system tickled her ears, sending tiny ripples through the flow of magic. Likely the sound was soft enough it wouldn’t have reached beyond this room to wake anyone, even if she hadn’t been using the Moon. But a thief didn’t live to 24 without being cautious.

Slowly, slowly, the window opened until the gap was large enough for her to clamber out with her bag. She let her concentration on the Card drop and slipped it back into the case, then secured the backpack’s other strap over her shoulder and eased onto the outer windowsill.

Again she scanned the ground below, the mews lane at the end of the garden, but no movement caught her eye. Still, caution. She waited a minute, chest barely moving with breath, ears straining. She could have drawn another Card, but if she threw herself too far into concentrating on the magic, she might lose her balance. A windowsill was not the place to lose balance.

It was definitely quiet below.

On the cramped quarters of the narrow ledge, she turned first one foot, slowly placing it, then the other, so she faced the open window, and began the slow work of inching it closed again. She barely breathed, although it wasn’t as if her breath would add to that tiny squeak of the sash window. Still, there was an odd sense of comfort in the careful breath, as if it helped her quiet concentration.

“Stop!”

Her whole body flinched, like the recoil from a static shock. She teetered, tilting backwards, but her fingers clamped on the edge of the window, where it wasn’t yet entirely shut, and she pulled herself upright, heart racing. Pain shot up from the scar on her left hand, but thank the gods her grip held.

She glanced over the shoulder, and there he was – a janissary at the garden gate. He stared at her from behind the gate, pointing and looking back down the mews lane. “Here, we’ve got a thief.”

Thief.

She froze. He wasn’t wrong, but bloody hells, that was the first time a janissary had ever called her such. It might be the last.

What to do? That gateway was her exit.

Her breaths ran fast and ragged in her throat, and her stomach felt at once so empty and so heavy she was surely going to vomit.

She could try for the gate still, and push past him and – footsteps slapped on the cobbles in the mews lane – and however many more he had with him. Trying to evade them in a narrow mews lane would be difficult, though, and gods knew how many of them were.

She could carry on down to the garden, clamber over the walls, but that would be slow, and they’d see her through the gate and would be able to coordinate their movements to cut her off.

The house was still quiet. She stared into the office. Most likely, the shouts had only been heard here at the back of the building …

Behind, the gate shrieked open, and the running footsteps stopped. Gods, they might have pistols. She couldn’t hang around here, deciding.

She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, the janissaries were running towards the house – three of them, so far.

There was no option. She yanked the window up, and as soon as there was space for her and the bag, she squeezed in. She smacked onto the floor but rolled to her feet within seconds, rolling her shoulder as she ran for the door.

No point in stealth any more, the janissaries would alert the house soon enough with their shouting. All she had on her side now were speed and surprise. She threw open the door and sprinted into the corridor, bag bouncing against her back.

Ahead, then down the stairs two more levels to get to the front door. She just had to get out that front door, and with any luck, there would be no janissaries on the street. Gods, please let there be no janissaries out there.

Legs pumping, she made it to the staircase and ran down the steps two at a time, then jumped the last half-dozen steps of that flight. Turning the bend, she took the next lot, again, two at a time and leapt down the last.

That was one storey down.

Above, the sound of voices – a woman’s raised in surprise and a man’s in answer. They knew there was an intruder in the house.

Around another hairpin, hands anchoring her wild flight on the stair rail as she turned on the landing and sprinted down the next flight of stairs. At least the servants were on the top floor, with perhaps a housekeeper or butler living in the basement. Those at the top were far away, and any on the bottom floor probably hadn’t yet heard the cries.

Buggeration, they would hear the janissaries now hammering at the back door, demanding entry, though. They’d smash the thing down at this rate.

Panting, she sprinted the last flight of stairs, this time jumping the final ten, wincing as she landed in a crouch that made her ankle twinge where she’d twisted it at the masquerade ball all those weeks ago.

Above, a door thudded open.

But she was in the hallway, eyes fixed on the front door. No one slept on this floor, and the only sound from below was the janissaries, still hammering – no, breaking glass now. Bloody hells, they’d broken the back window and must be letting themselves in. Determined bunch.

Lungs pumping like bellows, hands trembling, she turned the latch on the front door and yanked it, but that only jolted her arm. The door didn’t move.

“What?” Her breath was a sharp sound in her ears as she looked the door up and down. Bolts top and bottom. She fumbled with them, drawing one, then the other, before turning the latch again and yanking on the door.

Blessed fresh air washed over her face, cold on the sweat already beading brow and neck. She swallowed it down and sprinted out, not even bothering to shut the door behind her. Again, she leapt down the stairs. This time she stumbled the landing, forcing her to a roll that ended up in the road.

Thank all hundred gods it was quiet this time of night, no carriages to crush her, but there were figures off to the left. Two. And the sound of her exit must have drawn attention, as one made a sound of query then cried, “You there.”

At least it meant she had no decision to make it – right it was.

Scrambling to her feet, she sprinted. Thankfully the dry weather meant the cobbles weren’t slippery. In the Gutter Streets, even if it hadn’t rained, they would have been covered in the gods only knew what substances. Piss and excrement at best.

She blinked ahead into the lamplit night. She needed to get out of their sight, find somewhere to duck down, catch her breath, and lose them. Damnation, she didn’t have a change of clothes hidden nearby, but if she could stop, she might at least be able to alter her appearance in some way. A woman in trousers and a dark jacket, a scarf over her face was all too conspicuous.

They couldn’t catch her. They couldn’t.

As she turned right, the sound of running footsteps followed, barely audible over the roaring of her own heart. Needling pain in her ankle protested that it wasn’t ready for this, that it wasn’t capable, but she gritted her teeth and frowned and ran on.

If they caught her …

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes at the exertion, the fear, the pain. As if that wasn’t enough, her left hand chose this moment to start throbbing.

A little further. There had to be somewhere to hide.

She ran on, zigzagging between alleyways and quiet streets. The Watergardens stood between her and home, but the wide road surrounding it was far too open to cross and the gates might still be locked at night after Miss Tiryaki’s murder. She’d have to go around.

Her chest burned, but she forced her pace on and on. It had been a few turns since she’d last seen them, but the distant sound of running steps still came – she wasn’t clear yet.

“Blind lady, let me escape this, and I’ll do anything.” Her thighs were on fire, forcing her pace to ease as she rounded the next corner.

She gasped, the fresh air searing her raw throat and lungs.

Ahead, red on the floor. A dress, stained and wet. Three janissaries standing, arms folded.

She skidded to a halt, feet scraping across the cobblestones and her arms windmilling to keep from falling over. She panted, staring wide-eyed at them.

Another murder scene. Talat.

Shaking her head, she backed away, but the janissaries’ eyes were upon her, and one waved the other two to stand guard, as he ran towards her.

She swallowed. This couldn’t be how she got caught. She gulped a breath and ran back towards the street. But damn it, the janissaries who’d been following her were back out there.

The only way to go was the narrow lane leading off this alleyway, and she knew Arianople well enough to know it was a dead end. The only escape would be the steep climb of a drainpipe, and she didn’t have enough of a head start to manage it before they’d reach her.

There was no other option.

Her turn slid on the cobbles again, but she righted her course into the narrow alley. If she lifted her hands, she could have touched both walls.

Just a bit further, just a bit faster.

The breaths ripped through her now as she choked down as much air as she could, pushing her burning muscles onwards. The janissary from the alleyway wasn’t far behind. His steps were quick and short – thankfully he wasn’t tall and so couldn’t outrun her as easily as a taller man might have. Still, he was rested and gaining on her. She hadn’t even reached the end of the alley where she’d have to attempt the climb.

She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. She wouldn’t cry; she refused to let fear conquer her. She wouldn’t be caught. She wouldn’t.

But what could she do?

“Please,” she gasped between breaths. There wasn’t even anyone for her to ask that of, it was just a general please.

Anyone who was listening, please.

Her hands slapped against the far wall as she finally reached the end of the lane. She took two breaths that rasped at the back of her throat.

A lower roof between houses formed this end of the alley. Lower was comparative, though – it was still two storeys high.

She panted and glanced over her shoulder. The janissary’s bottle-green coat was near black in this dim light and his hair a nondescript colour. His glasses flashed in the scant light as he ran towards her.

Glasses. Little round glasses that he had to push back up his nose.

Staring, she shook her head. It couldn’t be. The one bloody janissary who would recognise her. She pulled the scarf over her mouth and nose, even if it made the breaths hot and difficult, but it was too late – he’d already stopped, eyes wide, staring right at her.

They stood that way for what could have been seconds or minutes – the only way she was sure it wasn’t hours was that the other janissaries hadn’t caught up yet.

No words.

She surveyed the rooftop above, one hand on the cold cast-iron drainpipe. She had breath now to begin the climb, but as soon as she did, she’d be vulnerable, and he could easily grab her.

And even if she escaped now, he knew who she was.

Porto’s shoulders heaved with breaths. He lifted his chin and pushed his glasses back up his face.

Beyond him, the footsteps grew louder.

He glanced back, and his glasses caught the light again when his gaze returned to her. The line of his jaw squared, and he took a step forward.

Her grip on the drainpipe tightened. She braced herself to attempt the climb as quickly as possible, but however fast she was, it wouldn’t be enough.

“Go,” he hissed.

She blinked at him. What had he –

“Go.” His eyes widened at her.

He really was telling her to go. That wasn’t some sort of mad hallucination.

She nodded and heaved her way upwards. Wedging herself between the drainpipe and the wall, she could walk her hands and feet up the pipe and shuffle her back against the wall.

There was a scuffle to the right – Porto was on the floor.

She blinked, first instinct to leap down and help, but he was looking back towards his approaching colleagues, his hand waving at her, shooing her away.

He’d thrown himself on the floor and was pretending he’d fallen. That’s how he’d claim she’d escaped.

Buggeration. This wasn’t only a risk for her – if the other janissaries realised Porto had let her go …

She kept going, foot over foot, hand over hand, her ankle lancing with pain, her thighs and calves aflame.

The footsteps echoed louder, ringing off the walls and two figures rounded the bend onto this alley.

With the grunts only partially muffled by the scarf over her face, she heaved herself up, fingers scrabbling for some sort of purchase on the roof tiles. Her seeking toes caught on a bracket and she managed to push up onto the roof, crawl to her knees, and drag herself to her feet.

She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, the two janissaries were in view now, crouched with Porto, who – Hundred bless him – was clutching his knee as if injured.

Gods, she owed him.

He’d risked his job, even his freedom, maybe his life. She’d never heard of a janissary helping a thief like this. Who knew what the punishment might be? Surely he wouldn’t accept anything less than an explanation as payment.

She crept over the tiles as one of the janissaries stood and peered up at the roofline. Gasping, she ducked.

Even if he’d spotted her, there was no way he’d be able to get up here before she vanished into the alleys.

She crouched out of sight and caught her breath, then scrabbled over a wall.

When she finally dropped back down to the ground, she removed her coat and turned it inside out, so a brown lining showed. She shrugged it on and secured her scarf around her hair, as though she’d always worn it that way. She loped, taking a roundabout route home, two people on her mind, both of whom she was due a chat with for very different reasons.

Porto and Derry.

37

Fear Alone

Quin twisted and turned through streets and alleyways until the clamminess of her clothes cooled and finally dried. There’d been no sign of janissaries for over an hour, so at last, she was confident enough to return home. She stumbled through the kitchen door, legs giving up now they were over the threshold.

Ariston and Derry leapt up, eyes wide, faces ashen in the lamplight.

“Quin,” Derry gasped.

Derry. Pale and staring, but not dead.

Quin scrubbed her face. “So you’re alive then? Thanks so much for telling me.”

Ariston rushed over, pulling out a chair, going to put his arm around her.

She shrugged him off. “I’m fine. Is Mrs Tepe up in her room?”

Ariston nodded, lines between his eyebrows. Good, that meant they didn’t have to worry about her overhearing.

Derry took half a step forward. “Where have you been?”

“Where have I – oh that’s too funny.” She snorted, shaking her head. Her legs trembled, forcing her to catch herself against the door. They’d sat up because they were worried about where she was? And where the hells had Derry been? Had she told Ariston while they’d been sat here waiting? With a trembling sigh, she rubbed her face. “Where were you?”

“Quin,” Derry said, edging back to her seat and sinking into it, “I’m so sorry, I –”

“Sorry?” She shook her head, not entirely trusting herself to speak. She took three long breaths. “I don’t want your apologies. I want a bloody explanation. Where the hells were you?”

Derry’s already light skin paled another two shades, and her ears and nose turned pink. Her gaze slid away, down to her hands resting on the table. “I lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time where?” It was hard to get the words past her knotted jaw, but she managed to spit them out. “And don’t try to tell me you were with Reyhan, because I went there when you didn’t show up – she’d locked up and gone to bed. And I know this isn’t the only time you’ve lied about being with her.”

“Oh.” Derry took a long breath, shoulders heaving. She licked her lips. “Won’t you come and sit down?”

“Sit down? Sit down.” Her hands trembled at her sides. “Do you have any idea – I thought I was going to ...” She shook her head and the trembling set in across her whole body. Even her teeth chattered. Anger and exhaustion warred through her, the last of her adrenaline slipping away. The hot rage still seeping through her wanted her to stay standing – it felt better, freer, more powerful – but her legs were soft and weak as the stale bread Gutter folk soaked in milk to make it palatable. She clenched her jaw and dropped into the chair.

Derry bit her lip. Her eyes gleamed.

Ariston looked between them and edged to the door leading to his rooms, also on this basement floor. “I should probably –”

“You should definitely stay.” Quin thrust her hand at his chair. “Sit. This concerns you, too.” Once he was in his seat, she turned her glare upon Derry. “Now answer my bloody question.”

“I was” – she swallowed, and her lower lip wobbled – “I was with someone.”

“With someone?” Quin lifted her hands, palms upwards. “What does that even mean? I was counting on you tonight. You’re going to have to be a lot more specific.”

“I’m trying to tell you.” Derry’s nostrils flared, her cheeks flushing. “I’ve been ... There’s someone I enjoy the company of, and I’ve been spending time with her. I didn’t tell you because ...”

Huh. Atesh had been right. “You mean, romantically.”

Derry bit her lip and nodded, gaze slipping away. “Yes. I’m so sorry – we went to the theatre, and then dinner and I thought we’d be finished long before midnight, but we were talking, and when I thought to ask the time, it was gone one o’clock.” She shook her head and covered her eyes.

“Oh, Derry,” Ariston said, patting Derry’s shoulder, “why didn’t you tell us?”

Derry’s hands dropped from her face. “It’s new. I – I didn’t know what it was – gods, I still don’t and” – she sighed softly – “I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s – it was nice to have something of my own, someone of my own who wants to spend time with me for my sake.”

And that was what had nearly got her caught tonight. Quin shook her head and huffed a humourless laugh. “I like to spend time with you for your sake, you know?”

Derry scoffed. “That’s a different thing, and you know it. Like my love for you and the time we spend together is not the same as Atesh’s. Or do you spend your time with Atesh exactly as we do?” She raised one eyebrow, a shadow of a smirk on her lips.

Definitely not the same. “You should have told me. At least where you were going. You could have said it was a friend if you didn’t want to deal with questions about what exactly it was. When you didn’t show up, I thought Talat …”

Derry and Ariston’s faces screwed up in matching winces. “Quin’s right,” Ariston said and pursed his lips at Derry. “Even with an anonymous Destroyer out there, you should have been more careful, but now we know it’s Talat” – he shook his head with a heavy sigh – “there’s all the more reason to be careful.”

“And he’s murdered again tonight. Thank the gods he didn’t find you before he found that poor girl.”

Derry flinched, eyes wide on Quin. “He’s –”

“Another one. Yes.” She ran her hands over her cheeks and blew out a long breath. There was no more putting it off. “And Porto knows.”

Saying it meant acknowledging the consequences. The primary one being that they had to leave. Not in a week or a month, but tonight. He’d been shocked when he’d seen her, but once he’d had a chance to think about it and find out what had happened at Lucia’s, he could have a change of heart. He could show up here in the morning to arrest her.

With a little luck, she could stop at Atesh’s on the way out of the city. No, not with a little luck – that wasn’t negotiable. She owed it to him and to herself to say goodbye.

“Yes, I suppose he would” – Derry sighed, nodding – “he’s leading on the Destroyer case, so I’m sure they call him to every murder scene they think is one of his.”

“I don’t mean that.”

Derry and Ariston shared a look, then frowned at her, Derry with her head cocked. They stared, both very still. Ariston’s throat bobbed in a slow swallow. “Quin? What does Porto know?”

Derry’s knuckles whitened as she clasped the table. “Porto – he knows about … about us? But how? What happened? Gods, that’s why you’re so late. Did he –”

“He saw me.” Quin scrubbed her hands over her stinging eyes, trying to rub away the exhaustion. “A couple of janissaries spotted me leaving Lucia Kartal’s. I nearly got caught. I’ve never run so hard in my bloody life. I’d almost lost them, but then I blundered into the murder scene, where Porto joined in the chase. But when he saw it was me, he ...” She shook her head. “The strangest thing is he just stared at me. He looked as shocked as I was.

“He’s always had his suspicions that something wasn’t right, I suppose, but he didn’t expect to see me on the run from his colleagues. He stood there gawping at me and I at him and, in the end, he let me go. That was what he said: go. And then he threw himself on the floor, pretending he’d fallen over, and that was how I escaped.”

They stared at her.

Ariston shook his head. “I should never have let you –”

“You didn’t let me,” she said. “I assured you I was picking Derry up from Reyhan’s and I should have come back here and done the job a different night rather than do it alone. But damn it, we need to pay those bills and the way her butler talked to me last week – the rubbish in the papers – I was burning to get into her house.”

He nodded, scratching his beard, throwing a quick glance at Derry. “Well, if you’d told me that Porto was going to almost catch you red-handed, that’s not how I’d have expected it to go. He’s – that’s a massive risk for him to let you go. If his colleagues ever found out …”

“I know.” Quin swallowed, frowning and rubbing her eyes again. Now she’d stopped, her body was heavy as lead – just getting up the servants’ stairs was going to be a challenge. “I don’t even know what the possible sentence is for such a thing. It’s unheard of. I owe him. And I don’t know what I’m going to say if – no, not if, when he asks the question.”

Ariston tugged his lip. “There’s no avoiding it, the next time you see Porto, there will be questions.”

“Well, there’s not going to be a next time.” She pursed her lips at Derry, who’d kept still and quiet. “I hope you’ve made the most of this lover of yours because we’re leaving.” She heaved herself up from the chair, but her wobbling legs dropped her straight back onto it. There was so much to do before they could go. With Mum here and her mind so easily confused, this couldn’t be a wild flight into the night. “Fine, I’m going to sleep, then we’re leaving.”

“Leaving? Now?” Derry glanced at Ariston and scoffed, but the smile died on her face. “You’re not serious.”

“Derry, a janissary knows I’m a thief. Of course I’m bloody serious.”

“But what about Atesh?”

Quin grimaced, gaze dropping to her hands pressed against the tabletop.

“Oh, my gods,” Derry said, a laugh rippling through the words, “you actually want this. You’ve been looking for an excuse to run away from him, haven’t you?”

Run away?

Ariston lifted his hand between them. “Now, Derry –”

Quin blinked. “What?”

Derry’s hands swept out, and Ariston had to pull the lamp away before she knocked it over. She shook her head. “You love him, Quin. For gods’ sakes stay with him.”

It was Quin’s turn to scoff. “Oh, what a simple world you must live in! I don’t – Atesh is a great man. One of the best I’ve ever met. He makes me – he makes me feel ... everything. When Terzo attacked me in the library, Atesh erased the touch of his fingers on my skin, the stink of him in my nose, and he asked no questions, didn’t make me feel grubby or ashamed. He understood what I needed that night. Do you think I don’t want to stay and have that? Of course I do. It’s not that simple. It isn’t for people like us. And I hate to say it, but you should have thought of that before you got involved with this woman of yours.”

“This woman of mine?” Derry’s nostrils flared. The muscles and tendons between neck and shoulder corded, rigid, white. “Don’t you talk about her. As for you, no I don’t think you do want to stay – even without this trouble with Porto, you’ve been itching for any excuse to skip town. Hells, I don’t think you even know what you want.”

Quin dropped her hands into her lap and wrung the linen of her trousers so tightly, it grazed her fingers.

How dare she? Derry had no idea what she wanted. It was this lover’s fault, whoever she was. She’d come along, and suddenly Derry thought they had simple lives. “What I want isn’t important. I need to protect Atesh and all of us – if Porto finds out my secrets, we’ll –”

“Don’t give me that.” Derry’s eyes glinted as flinty as she’d ever seen them – hard as diamonds, cold as ice. “Porto aside for a moment, your secrets would barely touch Atesh. He’s essentially a prince – princes survive scandals on a daily basis, their lives untouched after. He’d look like a victim of your fraud. You might worry about your secrets coming out, but that’s not what you’re most afraid of.”

Despite the heaviness of Quin’s limbs, fire pulsed through her veins, roared in her ears. Derry had got herself a lover and suddenly thought she knew everything. What a child. She gave a bitter smile. “Oh, right, so if it’s not that, what the bloody hells is it? Go on, since you know me so well, you tell me what I’m most afraid of.”

“Derry,” Ariston said, “I don’t think –”

“No, Ariston. I’m dying to hear what she’s got to say.”

Derry’s chin lifted. “You’re not trying to protect Atesh or me or Ariston or your mother – you’re trying to protect yourself. Because you’re scared. You’re too much of a coward to stay with the man you love. Because staying with him would mean living as and loving as yourself and letting him truly see you – all of you. The real you – not the performance. And that terrifies you.”

That was ridiculous. Quin laughed and slapped her hand on the table. Utterly ridiculous. Derry didn’t get it at all.

Her secrets meant she couldn’t stay. She didn’t have a choice. What about that didn’t Derry understand? She shook her head, scoffing.

“So funny,” Derry said, lines between her eyebrows, “and yet you haven’t got anything to say. Then I’ll tell you something ... Weeks ago at this very table, I was scared about us helping Atesh because I was afraid of what might happen, of being imprisoned again. But you know what, we did help him, and I was imprisoned, albeit by Alora and Erdem rather than the janissaries.” She sighed, the lines easing. “But do you know what I realised?”

Quin sat back, lips pursed, arms folded. There was no point in answering because Derry was clearly going to say anyway.

Derry’s blue eyes bored into her, and she leant over the table. “Fear alone isn’t a good enough reason not to do something.”

More ridiculousness. Quin rolled her eyes.

“I’ll say it again: fear alone isn’t a good enough reason not to do something. Because although I was imprisoned, the fear of it happening was far, far worse than the reality. And I’m glad we helped him because although I was afraid, it was the right thing to do.”

A low noise – maybe a grunt of agreement – came from Ariston. Quin shot him a glare – one of her best – before turning it back on Derry.

Derry sighed, and her lips turned down, her anger seeming to evaporate into sadness. “Gods, I don’t know, maybe sometimes our fears tell us precisely what we should go and face. I faced doing the right thing, despite my fears, to save someone else’s life and we bloody well did save him. And believe me, I know how it feels to fail to save someone.” She shook her head, face crumpling. “But, Quin, you managed it, and he loves you so much, it makes me ache to see, but you’re so afraid that you don’t know what to do. Where should we go? What’s the next con? How do I live after Atesh? Well, your fear isn’t just telling you what to do: it’s screaming it.”

Gritting her teeth, Quin forced her eyes to stay open. If she blinked, the tears pooling there would spill and then Derry would think she was right.

And she wasn’t.

Quin was just tired. It had been a long night of running, climbing, being terrified of capture. Now, her adrenaline and terror and even her anger at Derry had worn away, leaving her threadbare. All that remained was exhaustion, heavy and dull and sad. Why was Derry picking and picking at her over this?

“Quin” – Derry reached out to her, but she remained pressed against the back of her chair, arms crossed, tight as a knot – “solve this problem with Porto – you’ve faced much tougher challenges. And then you can stay. Face Atesh and face being yourself, living truly as yourself.”

Oh, of course. That was it. Derry wanted to stay here to be with this lover of hers. This was all an attempt to get Quin to agree. How transparent. She shook her head slowly. “Touching as your speech was, it lost some of its meaning when I realised you only want us to stay so you can carry on with this woman.”

Derry opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, but she’d damn well had her turn.

“No,” Quin said, voice soft, “if you want to talk about fears, how about yours? You’re free to leave any time – and don’t give me that excuse about a life debt. I have never tried to hold you to that and the number of times you’ve stitched me up or poured some foul tincture down my throat, I’d say it’s repaid anyway. You are free to walk away any time you want – you always have been. So why stick with me, if you so disagree with my decisions? Why don’t you stay here when I leave? Is it that you’re afraid?”

Derry thought she knew her so well, but that cut both ways. Quin knew her, too. With their little group, Derry had a place, a purpose. Without them? Well, the only other place she had was her homelands, and the only time Quin had suggested they visit, Derry had gone so pale and had shaken so hard, it had been frightening. She’d refused to say anything more than that something had happened when she was captured, and it meant she couldn’t go back yet. But that yet had lasted years now.

Nostrils flaring, Derry looked away.

Maybe it had been cruel to bring it up, but damn it, Derry had poked and poked at her. She’d used her fears, her feelings, her secrets – all the things they’d shared as friends – and had thrown them in her face.

Derry’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Quite the opposite,” she said at last. “Because unlike you, I believe I can have love, happiness, family, and do some good in the world. You are not even willing to try – your mother drilled it into you so –”

“Don’t,” Ariston growled. “Kindly leave Livia out of this.”

Again, Derry thought it was all so bloody easy. Lies as big as hers were anything but easy. They certainly weren’t compatible with having a real life. At least Ariston had some sense.

Ariston sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s put the bickering aside for now, shall we?” He looked from her to Derry and back again.

Quin lifted a shoulder. Derry said nothing.

“If Porto helped you escape,” he went on, “he’s unsure about the situation, about you, and that means he’s not going to show up and arrest you tomorrow. At worst, he’ll come and ask questions, and that’ll give us some warning.” He ran his fingers along the grainlines of the table, then drew a breath, raising his eyebrows at Quin. “After all, what’s to stop you from telling janissaries that he let you get away tonight? Or how he helped you get the Card from the fortress?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. They were potential bargaining chips she hadn’t considered. “But he hasn’t done anything wrong – I don’t want to get him in trouble for trying to help Atesh or me.”

“And you won’t. But he doesn’t need to know that.”

“Ariston’s right,” Derry said, gaze firmly on him, “Porto’s not an immediate danger if we threaten to tell his colleagues what he’s done. We can buy some time, at least.”

Quin raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all night.”

Ariston cleared his throat. “And time is what we need, not rushing to get away without a plan and without settling affairs here. What about Ela? I thought you wanted justice for her and the other women.”

Quin bit her lip. She’d promised. While he was out there, still killing, there was no justice. She sank her face into her hands, grunting, eyes closed. And of course, those damn tears spilt. With deep breaths, she palmed them away and sat up. “Fine. Ariston, you’re right. We’ll see what happens with Porto, but let’s start getting ready to leave at short notice, if necessary. Derry, you’re wrong, but I’m too bloody tired to argue with you. Try not to get too attached – we’re still leaving. Or you can stay if you want, but I’m going. That was always the plan.”

Hands planted on the table, she pulled herself to her feet, legs barely holding her weight. Ariston swooped in with a steadying arm – always there, always reliable. He didn’t give her any of this rubbish like Derry had spouted tonight.

Quin lifted her chin at Derry. “Even if Porto doesn’t come for us, as soon as Talat is in custody, I leave Arianople. Forever.”

38

Exaplanation & Evasion

“He’s here, then?” Quin asked from her seat in the library. She’d been waiting for this knock at the door, and now it was here, she felt strangely calm. Or maybe too exhausted to react.

Ariston nodded, mouth a straight line. His shoulders were square, in full butler mode. At least someone still knew how to put on a show, even if she was failing so badly at it herself.

“You’d better show him in then.” She gave him a stiff smile before he nodded and left the room.

She’d been expecting Porto, but it was surprising he’d come this early, considering how late it had been when they’d faced each other last night. She took a long breath and stood, smoothing down the skirts of her deep cerulean blue dress of woollen broadcloth. It was an outfit fit for a contessa at home during the day – the last of the pretence she could still cling to.

In strode Porto, his back straight and head lifted, though his composure was betrayed by the slight rise of his eyebrows when he saw her. Ariston hovered at the doorway, an anxious gaze on her.

“Thank you, Ariston,” she said and nodded.

What a charade. Ariston knew exactly why Porto was here, and Porto knew more about her than he ever had before. Surely he’d guessed by now that Ariston was no more a butler than she was a contessa. She inhaled slowly through her nose, then blew it out through her mouth. “Perhaps you could bring us some tea in a –”

“No tea, thank you, madam.” Porto’s clipped tone was all official business.

“Very well.” She gave him a stiff smile, barely feeling her lips move. “Then that will be all, thank you, Ariston.” He bowed and left. “Will you at least take a seat or is that also not allowed for a janissary on duty?”

“I’m not actually on duty, yet.”

Yet. Was that a threat? Or was it merely that she feared it was, because of this odd situation they found themselves in? He sank into an upright chair, and, keeping the comforting weight of the desk between them, she took another.

“I imagine you were expecting me,” he said, at last, adjusting his spectacles.

She nodded. Best to keep quiet, let him lead rather than damning herself any further. Maybe he’d come up with some explanation that made her situation less incriminating.

“My colleagues told me what they were chasing you for,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled in front of him. “Burglary?”

That word from his mouth sent a shudder across her, like a blanket of cold. She swallowed. Was he expecting something more dramatic? Complex? Highbrow? She raised her eyebrows but remained silent.

“I’m not sure what the sentence is where you come from, but here it’s death to steal anything worth more than five kurush, and I can’t imagine you have a need so desperate to force you into it.” He glanced around the library.

Books. Expensive, leather-bound books with gilded titles. That was what he saw. Never mind that they’d come with the house rental. Or that the furniture, the chairs, the desk, and the thick fireside rug – all of it was hired. It almost looked a rich enough place for a contessa. Except a contessa would’ve owned the lot, and above her fireplace, she’d have a portrait of herself or an ancestor. Quin had a gilt mirror. But to the untrained eye, it looked the part. And even to the trained eye, the discrepancies could be explained away by her being but a visitor to Arianople.

Quin pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and breathed slowly. It was the only way to control the shaking of her hands. He already knew enough to destroy her.

Was this how it all ended? After all these years …

Narrowing his eyes, Porto shook his head. “But I think you already knew the penalty for that crime.” He cocked his head at her, and she fought to stay still. “And how does a foreign contessa know a young woman who lives in the Gutter Streets? Not because you own the building – aristocrats have secretaries to look after that messy business for them.”

Buggeration. This wasn’t just last night’s escapade: he was putting the pieces together. He was a janissary, after all.

Silence was the only defence she had. If she listened to his reasoning, she might be able to work out a lie that could explain it all. She scrunched her toes up in her shoes, even though her feet itched to run.

He leant forward, tapping his fingers on the desk’s inlaid leather surface. “And you’re not a first-time thief, either, are you? You were bold enough to come to the Fortress of the Seven Towers to attempt to steal a piece of evidence from our own offices.” His lips tightened, and his eyes stayed unerringly on her. “No, there’s far more going on here, isn’t there? This runs deeper than I realised.”

The hairs on her forearms stood on end. Her chest burned for short, fast breaths, but that would have been a show of fear. Swallowing, she pressed her feet to the floor.

In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

What lie could explain this? None. Nothing was going to make this right. She should run to Ariston, tell him to take Livia out to the carriage, call for Derry and all flee.

In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

No time for panic. She could at least delay him. There had to be something …

He’d investigated the Sultana’s murder when everyone else had assumed Atesh’s guilt. He’d even visited Atesh in the fortress to question him. And he’d taken a huge risk to bring her the Card used in the murder because he’d hoped it would bring justice. That was what he was utterly devoted to, justice, not the strictures of the law.

In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

There was more, too …

Atesh had told her how Porto had protected him from the other janissaries in the fortress. And he’d shown genuine distress at Ela and Aurelia’s murder scenes and when he’d spoken about the Destroyer killings. He loved justice because he was a caring man.

Maybe if she explained she was trying to do good, he’d be sympathetic. Maybe.

“It’s not for me.” That was true. There were bills they needed to pay, but they didn’t have the money because they’d given it away. “I’ve donated large quantities to the poor here.” Also true. “And now I’m struggling. It” – she swallowed, throat tight – “it kills me to even consider ending my support of the Gutter Streets.” True. True. True. “I was hoping to steal from Lady Kartal in order to continue making donations, to give to the poor, to help people. It’s not as though she needs it and they do. And –”

“Stop.”

Her eyes widened. Had she said too much? Steal, that had been a word too far, hadn’t it? A confession. Hands, jaw, toes all clenched, she held her breath.

“I’m not entirely sure I want to know,” he said at last and sighed. “The less I know, the less I perjure myself. The less I betray my profession.” He shook his head, gaze slipping down to his hands, now pressed flat against the table, fingers splayed. “You are a criminal. And it’s my job and my duty and has been my lifelong calling to capture such people and remove them from the streets so that decent law-abiding subjects are safe.”

She nodded, closing her eyes. The inevitable had finally come. All these years and here she was. There was an odd poetry to it happening in Arianople. It would end where it had begun. For her, anyway. “Please, just spare Derry and Ariston, let them leave – they don’t know about – and Atesh doesn’t know anything. They’re all innocent. Please, let them go.” Her heart squeezed, painful. Maybe he’d grant her that one concession.

He cleared his throat. “I hadn’t finished. You’re a criminal and yet …”

There was a yet? Head and heart pounding, she stared at him.

A war waged upon his face – the frown, the purse of his lips, the breath out through his nose making a faint whistle.

She swallowed. “And yet?”

“And yet you – you’ve done good … Not just good, but specifically, you’ve served Justice.” His hand dropped to the brown leather Card case at his belt. “Justice was the Card I drew on my Carding Day, and it’s Justice I’ve always tried to serve. I’ve dedicated my life to her. I signed up to be a janissary as soon as I was old enough, and I was eager to because doing that or being a judge were the ways to serve her.” He frowned, sighing. “You’re no janissary or judge, and yet you stopped an innocent man hanging in Kediler Square last month. You came to me with the name of the man cutting his way through our city’s women.” He shook his head slowly, as if not believing what he was saying. “I was sure you were a creature of Justice, but now I find out you’re a thief.”

He hadn’t said anything untrue. She couldn’t correct him.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I – I can’t pretend to fully understand what you do or why, but I think maybe my blind lady would say that in the grand scheme of things, you’re currently in credit.” His cheek twitched. That comment qualified as a joke for him and the twitch was practically a gale of laughter.

Did that mean … “So, you’re not about to arrest me?”

His shoulders lifted. “I’m not sure what to do about you, so I’m turning a blind eye for now. I’d say your work for Justice currently outweighs the transgressions.”

She huffed out a breath. For now. That meant the grace he was granting would run out at some point, but right now she was safe and so were Livia, Atesh, Derry, and Ariston.

He sat back, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Besides, I can’t exactly lecture anyone on justice when we’ve had Talat’s name for over a week and still haven’t been able to catch him. And he’s taken two more women. I take it your – er – Gutter Streets contacts have had no success, either?”

“That’s something I certainly wouldn’t have been shy about telling you of. No luck. Do you have evidence linking to him?”

“A necklace taken from one of the victims – we found it down the side of his bed at his mother’s.”

She rubbed her face. That was something at least – when they got hold of him, they’d be able to arrest him. Hopefully, that would lead to more evidence. But how many more would die in the meantime? “I – the alleyway last night – that’s why you were there, isn’t it? He’s taken another.”

Porto nodded, mouth flat.

The poor woman. “Who?”

“A young woman, only 25 – her family are merchants, trading along the Silk Road and into Europa. We’ve told her husband and parents.” A deep sigh heaved through him. “I don’t envy them having to tell her children. How do you explain something like that?”

“Gods. Children?” Quin’s throat closed.

Two more children who’d grow up without a mother.

A woman with a life unlived – at 25, she’d barely nibbled it. Had she travelled? Had she met her husband and fallen in love with him or was it a more practical match? Had she even tasted true happiness in her time?

Quin scrubbed her hands across her eyes. Enough. She’d left this in the janissaries’ hands. She’d left it up to someone else to find him. But Talat was too clever or maybe too lucky.

“If you’ll excuse me, madam,” Porto said, rising and pushing his chair back under the table, “I’ve imposed upon you long enough and I’m due on shift shortly.” He bowed and turned to leave. When he was halfway to the door, he stopped. “I – I’ve not arrested you on this occasion,” he said, back to her, “but you understand I won’t always be able to turn a blind eye to your actions and I won’t always be able to protect you from my colleagues.”

Of course. “I understand, Porto.”

“And I don’t suppose it will make you reconsider the source of your – er – donations?”

She bit back a scoff. “I don’t suppose it will.”

“Then I hope for both our sakes. I never see you at work again.”

“A hope I share.”

“Very well. Good day.” With that, he left, his clipped step all business once again.

Watching him, Quin sighed. He didn’t know what to make of her. Unsurprising. Perhaps he’d work it out at some point. Although he’d given her a pass this time, on account of her help, whatever conclusion he drew about her eventually, well ... it might not end well for her.

Still, that was something to worry about another day.

Today another woman lay dead in a mortuary at Talat’s hand. And each day he was free, that threat hung over every woman of Arianople.

She sat back, drumming her fingers on the table, worrying her lip between her teeth. She’d have to go out and find him.

Or maybe she could make him find her ...

39

Catching Up

That afternoon, Quin smiled at Atesh and Decimus as they took their seats. They’d been invited to a private concert by Yildrim Pasha. She was apparently unconcerned by Lucia’s dislike of Quin. She and Atesh had been friends a long while, and Quin liked the woman for her pert wit.

This large room in Yildrim’s home had been set out for the performance with rows of chairs in a semicircle. A space at the front served as a stage, with instruments awaiting the musicians.

“I hope you’re not too worried after last week,” Atesh said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, as the last few guests filed in.

Decimus sat on the other side of him, gaze fixed straight ahead, back upright as ever, his neutral face saying I’m not listening.

Atesh exhaled harshly. “I can’t believe – well, it’s quite shocking.”

He didn’t know the half of it. She tilted her head and gave him a quick grin. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was unwanted somewhere.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He winked at her and ran his finger across the back of her hand where it sat on her lap, just a brief touch, too subtle to be noticed by other guests, but enough to raise the hairs on her arms.

“Let’s not concern ourselves with Lady Kartal, I suspect divine justice will find a way of catching up with her.” Never mind that it had almost caught up with Quin as well. She’d escaped, and that was the important thing. Although at what cost to her friendship with Derry? She winced. Every time they’d seen each other today – passing on the stairs or when Derry and Ariston had come to see how to chat with Porto had gone – it had been a study in politeness. They had some smoothing over to do.

All chatter stopped when the quartet entered taking their places at the front to a ripple of applause. Two women took up zither and viola, while two men took cello and oboe.

They struck up a slow tune, pitched low in the ranges of each instrument. The hum trembled through Quin’s chest and reverberated in the floor and the soles of her feet. Slowly, the music rose, the viola and zither picking up in pace and pitch, snaking above the cello’s low chords.

She stared at the viola player’s fingertips darting over the strings and the quivering of her bow hand as she held a tremulous note. She’d come here to enjoy the music and Atesh’s company, to show Lady Sabia’s face in polite society. Not to think about Porto or Talat or Derry.

And yet …

Talat was still at large. Still at liberty to kill again and had done so last night.

Red on the cobblestones. Slick and glossy. Rivulets trickling out from the slumped body. She flinched from the image, blinking hard at the viola-player and her beautiful fingers. Unbloodied, attached, whole.

“Quite the performance, isn’t it?” A soft voice in her right ear. The back of her neck prickled, and every inch of her body tensed, still as stone. A woman … familiar and close enough that the breathy words brushed her ear. She went to turn but – “Keep still, my dear. Surely you recognise my voice by now.”

She did. From her nightmares. From that alleyway. From the Golden Tower.

Alora.

Quin swallowed, pressing her hands down on her thighs to hide the trembling. Her chest heaved with each breath. She managed to swivel her eyes to Atesh, but he was immersed in the performance, and Alora whispered in her opposite ear, out of sight. Decimus glanced left and right, but not behind, and Alora had placed herself so that both Quin and Atesh blocked the bodyguard’s view. No one in the audience gave any reaction. No doubt they thought her and Alora merely a pair of friends whispering.

“Very good, you’ve got the idea. If you turn, I have a little gift that will slip between the bones of your stays easily enough. Understand?”

A point of pressure below her ribs, on the right – it had to be the tip of a blade.

Alora was alive and still in Arianople. The woman who’d conspired with her half-brother to murder Zeynab and frame Atesh’s for it. The woman who’d killed Dethero and kidnapped Derry. The woman who’d sliced Quin’s hand open, smiling all the while, pushing to get that same blade to her throat.

Alive and well enough for this.

Quin nodded, vertebrae shrieking against each other as they fought the stiffness that had taken over every joint.

“Excellent. I must say,” Alora went on, her voice almost a purr, “I’m pleased to finally have the opportunity to have a good catch up chat with my dear friend Quinta Guldan.”

Quin flinched at the use of her real name, but Atesh didn’t stir. He hadn’t heard. Her lip quivered. Weak and pathetic and afraid.

She hadn’t brought her rapier. It was easy to hide beneath her skirts when walking, but difficult to manoeuvre around a chair. She wasn’t unarmed, though. The cold steel of a dagger sat against her thigh and, in the pocket tied around her waist, lay the comforting weight of her fan. But she couldn’t bloody well turn and attack someone in the middle of a concert. In the middle of Yildrim’s house.

It wasn’t as though she had evidence of who Alora was or her involvement with Zeynab’s assassination or Dethero’s murder.

Quin’s hand shifted, touching the outline of her fan through her skirts.

“Now, now,” Alora said, the pressure against Quin’s back increasing, “I know you love that pretty toy of yours, and I know only too well how much its kiss hurts – you near killed me, you know. But there’s no need for you to move, just listen. Unless you’re that desperate to feel my blade. I promise you that will come soon enough, but not quite yet.”

Hundred damn her. Once more, Quin was powerless at Alora’s hands. She might not be dangling off a tower, tied up with rope, but she was just as tied by society and surprise.

She turned her head the barest amount. “What in all the hells do you want? Because whatever it is, get on with it.”

“Why would I hurry when I’m enjoying this so very much?”

The soft pad of a fingertip brushed over the back of her neck, trailing to the top of her spine, bare beneath her tied up hair. Quin had to press herself into the seat to keep from leaping up. If she did, she’d either rip her to shreds or run until the walls of Arianople were out of sight. Anything to be away from Alora, as fast and far as she could.

“My darling, I merely wish to check in with my dear friend and wish her hearty congratulations.”

Quin frowned. “Then you have me at a disadvantage in more ways than one – congratulations for what exactly?”

“Managing to get an invite to a social event in this district of all places. I understand you have a few … social difficulties at present.” In her mind’s eye, Quin could see the cruelty in Alora’s smile and the pleasure.

By the bloody Hundred, she was involved. Alora had to be spreading rumours, telling Terzo she was a courtesan. He’d seemed so sure: he must have had it from somewhere. And, of course, Alora knew about her and her honeypot cons. She had to realise such a rumour would be the most debilitating for Lady Sabia and personally humiliating for Quinta Guldan.

Quin had to give it to her – she was good.

“And do your new friends know exactly what you are?” Quin said, injecting venom into her own voice, and cursing the waver it began with.

“Of course not, but who is there to tell them? Certainly not anyone they would listen to. Why would they listen to a courtesan like you? I’m free to continue with my plans. And you’ll know about them soon enough.”

Alora’s fingertips trailed along the top of her dress, almost a lover’s touch with how lightly it brushed the lace trim and paused on her shoulder, making Quin hold her breath. “I do hope that hand of yours doesn’t get in the way of this being an interesting fight. That alley was the first time I’d had a good duel in years. And I so look forward to our resuming it. Perhaps next time it will just be us, and we’ll see who’s the better swordswoman. But that’s for another day. For now, I grow tired of the music – it’s not dramatic enough, don’t you think? I prefer a full orchestra to a sad little quartet. Besides, I have much more interesting places to be. So, for now, my dear friend, I wish you adieu.”

Alora’s fingers left her shoulder, and as Quin released her breath, that fingertip touch was replaced by the moist brush of lips in the crook between neck and shoulder, sending a shudder through her entire being.

A shuffle of movement and the pressure of the blade at her back disappeared.

She turned in time to see that unmistakable pouty smirk of Alora’s as she rose, her typically beautifully tailored gown sweeping in a trail of steel-grey. At the neckline draped a sheer grey shawl – she must have used that to keep her blade hidden. Yellow citrine and jet glinted at the neck of her gown in the form of a little insect. A bee brooch. Her red-brown hair gleamed, glossy and rich as mahogany.

Once Alora’s back was to her, attention and blade away, Quin was on her feet, rushing to the end of the row. She muttered an apology when she trod on a lady’s toes in her haste, but she kept her gaze on Alora, who made for the back of the room and the double doors there.

“Quin,” Atesh whispered after her, and Decimus stood, but she marched out to the hall.

The front door closed.

“Madam, I –” a footman out here began, pointing in the direction of the powder room, but Quin pushed past him and threw the front door open herself.

Carriages and pedestrians passed in the last of the day’s sun – an ordinary Thursday afternoon in the Third District. No grey gown or gauzy shawl floating away on hurried footsteps. No sound of running. No sign of Alora.

No, that wasn’t right. A prickle brushed the hairs at the back of her neck, setting them on end. A trembling thrum, like a note on the double bass within. Magic.

“Damn it,” she muttered, shoving her hand in her pocket, but even with the help of the Seer, the street looked the same. Alora had used magic to get out of sight, unnoticed. At that speed, most likely she’d hopped into a carriage as Quin had done on dozens of occasions.

She thumped the doorframe, and her body sagged as the tension left it. She sighed, tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

Alora was still alive and still pissed off and apparently all too easily able to reach her. And she had plans.

Quin grimaced. Plans Alora had promised she’d discover soon enough.

Well, damn it, no, she wouldn’t tolerate this. She’d already lost Dev and had been a rope’s length from losing Atesh. And she’d lost Ela, too. She wasn’t going to lose anyone else to ghosts from her past.

Enough.

40

Unwelcome Invitation

Quin clutched Atesh’s arm as they circulated after the concert. She’d bumped into Decimus in the hallway, as she’d closed the front door. He’d raised his eyebrows, but she’d dismissed him with a brittle smile before disappearing into the powder room to splash her face with water. After that, she’d returned to her seat, but couldn’t have named a single tune played.

Hells, a djinni could have appeared on the stage and offered everyone wishes, and she would have been unaware. All she knew was that Alora was alive, had threatened her, and had slipped away.

“Yildrim Pasha,” Atesh said, smiling as they approached Yildrim and another lady. As always, Decimus trailed them like a tall shadow. “An excellent concert, thank you for the invitation.” Atesh bowed, and Yildrim followed, as did Quin and the other woman.

“Of course, it’s no problem at all,” Yildrim said, smiling at Quin, “I’m only too happy to invite both of you to any event I hold. You are always welcome under my roof.”

So Yildrim had heard about her mortification at Lucia’s hands last week. Quin managed a tight smile. Yildrim was as close to a friend as she got amongst these people. She didn’t seem to have been put off by the nasty gossip. But, did she know Alora, perhaps under some false name, and had invited her?

“Have you –” Atesh began.

“Indeed,” Quin said, and he stiffened at her side, “and who else did you invite? There are a few I don’t recognise.”

To Yildrim’s credit, she didn’t react to the unusual question or to Quin interrupting Atesh. She was a true gentlewoman, taught to smother any surprise when in company. “Well, I believe you know Mrs Badem.” She indicated the woman at her side. Ah yes, she did look vaguely familiar – from Erdem’s gallows party, perhaps. “And over there that’s…” She pointed out and gave names of a few other ladies and gentlemen whom Quin had never met before, five people in total. The rest she already knew.

She bit back a sigh of frustration – this wasn’t the information she was after. “And this is everyone invited?” Quin tilted her head. No Alora. “I did see a lady leave early.”

“I” – Yildrim frowned, glancing around the room, then looking askance at Atesh – “well, this is everyone I –”

“There’s no one else you invited who’s no longer here?”

Mrs Badem flinched, and Atesh’s arm twitched under her hand. But Quin leant forward, staring at Yildrim – perhaps she’d pick up on any flicker of a lie. Did Alora have a secret identity she used amongst the aristocrats? Or was it that she hadn’t been invited and had managed to secure entry some other way? Could Yildrim know the woman? The worst of all possibilities – she could be involved with Alora and had deliberately helped her, had made Quin vulnerable to her.

“My dearest Contessa,” Atesh said, fixing her with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes, “I’m not sure what’s – perhaps your glass needs refilling. Come, let us get you refreshed.”

Her jaw knotted, and she shot him a brief glare.

“Everyone I invited is here,” Yildrim said, frowning from Quin to Atesh and back again. “Is there some problem?”

“In that case, there is no problem,” Quin said with a smile that felt like it might crack her face. “I think you had an interloper – a lady I didn’t recognise whispered to me during the concert. Perhaps she noticed eyes upon her and thought it prudent to leave swiftly. You might want to –”

Atesh squeezed his arm around her hand where it sat in the crook of his elbow, the pressure bordering on painful. “Now, Yildrim Pasha,” he said, “I feel we’ve taken quite enough of your time, you have other guests, after all. Lady Sabia, let’s get you a drink and leave the Pasha to her other guests.”

Quin clamped her teeth down on her tongue, but she managed a nod to Yildrim and Mrs Badem. “Madam,” she said and bowed, even as Atesh steered her away.

“What the devil was –”

“Don’t you dare” – heat flared up her back and in her cheeks, even though she smiled for show as they walked away – “don’t you interrupt me like that.”

“Don’t I dare?” His speed picked up, and he walked her straight past a table of drinks and out into the hallway, forcing her to almost trot to keep up. Once they were out of sight, he spun to face her, eyebrows drawn in a frown. “Quin, you were damn rude. What the devil has got into you?”

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin – no need for niceties out here in the deserted hallway. “Me, rude? What about you – interrupting me like that and then dragging me away as if I were a child or some petulant debutante.” The adrenaline from earlier bubbled up again, second-by-second, boiling over into the shaking of her hands, quivering in her throat.

He held up a hand, stopping Decimus at the end of the hall. The bodyguard took up position there, hands at his side, eyes averted.

Atesh leant close to her. “What’s wrong? You’re being –”

“What? Hysterical, is that it?” Her jaw ached with how hard she ground her teeth.

“No.” The lines of his neck corded with tension. “I was going to say you’re not being yourself. You’re shaking, for goodness sake. What’s the matter?”

Decimus cleared his throat a moment before a footman’s tapping steps approached. She and Atesh took half a pace apart, and she plastered on that false smile again. The young man walked past, eyes ahead, and disappeared through a door.

The interruption gave her a chance to catch her breath and attempt to calm her shaking body. A long breath in and then out again. Twice more, and she felt as though she could reply in a reasonable manner. Her gaze lowered. “She was here.”

Saying it made it all the more real. It was ridiculous, the woman had held a blade against her ribs, but it was saying she’d been here that made it real.

“She?” Atesh searched her gaze, and his frown eased to one of confusion more than annoyance.

Quin took a shuddering breath and licked her lips. “The woman – Erdem’s sister. A – Alora. The one I fought that day. The one who tried to …” Who tried to kill me before I was able to save you.

“The one who …” He took her left hand and turned it over, so it was palm up. He traced the line of the fresh scar. Even through her lace gloves, his accuracy was unnerving.

She swallowed and nodded, staring at the line he’d traced on her palm.

“So she’s alive?”

She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.

“Hundred damn it,” Atesh said, one hand fisting and thumping into his thigh. “And that was – I saw you speaking to a woman behind you. I assumed …” He shook his head, brows drawn down into a glower. “I’m so sorry, I should have realised. I should have –”

“No,” Quin said, shaking her head and huffing a sigh. “No, you couldn’t have known. There’s nothing you could’ve done. She did it this way precisely because she knew it would look like a friend whispering in my ear. Her shawl covered the knife she had at my back.” The ghost of that blade prickled at her ribs. “That’s why I couldn’t say anything. She’s not stupid, I give her that.”

“Oh Quin,” he said and pulled her into his arms, squeezing and rubbing her back.

“Atesh – we’re in a hallway – someone will –”

“Damn someone,” Atesh said into her hair, his words tickling her scalp, “damn everyone. I don’t care. This is more important. You are more important. What do you want to do? We can stay if you want, but if you wish to leave, then I’ll have my carriage brought around, and we can go to your house or mine.” He peered down at her and raised his eyebrows. “We can spend the rest of the afternoon and evening however you wish, I’m sure Derry and Ariston want confirmation this Alora woman is still alive and now bothering you. But if you don’t want to talk to them about it yet, we can do something else. The choice is yours.”

He really didn’t care – or at least cared more about her than about society’s expectations or his image. And – something else – the way he gave her the choice. The way he would go with whatever her wishes were. He respected her. That was better than adoration or infatuation – she’d seen those in the eyes of other men before, usually marks, but also Dethero.

She smiled up at him and sank against his chest, closing her eyes. Gods, she was tired. Now her adrenaline and anger had burnt away, that was all she had left: bone-wearying exhaustion.

“Let’s go to mine. I’ll speak to the others in the morning. For tonight, you can read to me.” She needed rest and time to process all the things Alora had said and the full implications of her survival and continued presence in Arianople.

And she needed to feel alive. A good, hard reminder that Alora hadn’t killed her in that alley. And that, despite her threats today, she hadn’t slid that blade between the bones of her stays.

Later, Atesh could give her exactly that.

41

The Plan

The next morning, once Atesh and Decimus had left, Quin marched to the kitchen, finding Ariston and Derry there. She and Derry exchanged small smiles and nods. Argument acknowledged. Hopefully, this was the start of better terms than yesterday’s strained politeness.

That was good – they had work to discuss. She nodded. “Excellent, you’re both up.”

Ariston raised the coffee pot and cocked his head.

“Ah, not yet.” She raised her hands. “Is there any hot water left?” He waved at the kettle on the stove, and she gave him a stiff smile. It was obvious what she and Atesh got up to, but it was a different matter to discuss her preventative tea with Ariston of all people. She busied herself with the daily ritual of water, teapot, and cobalt blue jar. “Mrs T is at the bazaar, I take it?” Derry nodded. “Good. I’ve got a plan.”

Derry’s brows shot up, as did Ariston’s, and they exchanged glances. “For…?”

“Talat.” She spooned the herbal mix into a teacup and poured hot water over. Closing her eyes, she inhaled. Rue’s bitterness edged the minty notes of pennyroyal, and beneath that, silphium’s liquorice tang blended with the aromatic spiciness of wild carrot seeds. It was a smell of home. So familiar. She nodded. “We’re going to get him.” It sounded so simple. Blessedly simple.

“Wait a second.” Derry shared a frown with Ariston. “It’s one thing pursuing the Sultana’s assassins – I mean, we thought they only had a political motive. And that turned out to be dangerous enough, but this – Talat is” – she shook her head, as if there weren’t words for quite what he was – “well, he’s a killer, purely for the pleasure of it, and it seems he’ll go after any woman who crosses his path, but you … Quin, he hates you – you’ve told me that yourself. You can’t –”

“I can, and I will.”

“Quin,” Ariston said, leaning over the table, fingers spread across its surface, “you need to step away from this. Derry’s right – that was a completely different matter – Atesh’s life was at stake, and no one else was going to help him. But now we have a name, and the janissaries are after him, the Gutter folk are looking for him. Your work is done. You don’t need to –”

“I do. I need to” – she drew a breath and shook her head, looking at the window and the clear sky beyond – “I need to do something. He’s killed two women since the janissaries started looking and there have been no sightings of him.”

And damn it, her body itched to be in action rather than waiting. Last night with Atesh had eased the impulse, but already that was fading. She needed to do and act, rather than be still and think. She paced the room, cradling her teacup. “And this plan, well, I’m sure it’ll work. We know the area he’s been hunting in – the last murder was near the Watergardens again, and I know if I spend enough time there, I’ll find him … Or rather he’ll find me. Either way, the end result is the same. We’ll catch him.”

Ariston’s mouth dropped open.

Derry brushed her lips with her fingertips. “Bait. You’re going to set yourself up as bait?”

“No,” Ariston said, “you can’t do that. And you can’t expect us to sit back and wait –”

“You’re not going to be sitting back anywhere.” She turned and gave them a bright smile, continuing to pace the kitchen’s length. The objections were inevitable, but she’d prepared. “I have no intention of becoming his next victim. This is going to be an ambush.” If she could get her hands on him – and she was positive she’d make an irresistible target, so that wouldn’t be difficult – then between the three of them, they’d be able to capture him. At least Talat’s hatred was predictable.

Unlike Alora. Her smile soured. “You two will be hidden nearby, keeping an eye on me. When he appears, that’s when we’ll strike.” She lifted her shoulders and blew on her tea. So simple it had to work.

“That’s when we’ll …” Ariston scoffed, shaking his head. “As if it will be that easy. Just like that. Poof, he’s caught.”

Derry snorted. “Oh yes, child’s play.”

“Trust me,” Quin said, “the hardest thing will be finding him. We have to go out for a few nights and –”

“We’ll go out precisely zero nights,” Derry said, hand rising, “because, let’s be clear, we are not doing this.”

“Absolutely not.” Ariston nodded, jaw firm.

Quin huffed. “But we’ll be able to catch him. I’m sure of it. He won’t be able to resist coming after me, as soon as he knows I’ve been hanging around after dark, he’ll come –”

“Quin!” Ariston stared at her, his chest heaving. “What the devil has got into you?”

She paused in her pacing and drew a breath to argue, but this wasn’t the first time she’d faced that question in the past 24 hours. Instead, she released the breath slowly.

What had got into her? She pursed her lips and closed her eyes. “Alora.”

Perhaps they hadn’t been expecting her to actually answer, because they remained silent at that response. Quin sighed and sank onto a chair. “Alora. Even that bloody name still sounds in my dreams. And she” – she shook her head; she hadn’t been planning to tell these two, but – “she’s alive.”

“Oh, Quin,” Derry said, voice soft as she reached across the table and covered Quin’s hand with her own, soft and cool. “I thought you’d already decided that was the case – what’s changed?”

“Knowing she’s alive is one thing. Hearing her voice and seeing her again, that’s quite another.”

“Seeing her?” Ariston said, shooting Derry another glance, his brows raised as if to ask Derry if she knew of it.

Derry shook her head. “You spoke to her?”

“Yesterday.” Quin took a long sip of tea, still a touch too hot for comfort, but its complex flavours flooding her mouth kept her here and now, at this table, in their kitchen, in the house they rented, where Alora had never set foot and never would. “She was at the concert.”

“Ah.” Ariston nodded. “I thought you came back early.”

She told them about the conversation and the way Alora had disappeared afterwards with the help of her Deck.

“So, it seems she’s recovered from her injuries, at least enough to torment me.” She gave a rigid smile. “She’s still out there, and Talat’s still out there, and I need to at least get one of them out of the way. I need to bloody do something, not sit and wait for the janissaries or the Gutter folk to find him or for another woman to die. The Hundred only know what Alora’s got planned, and I have no leads on where she might be, but at least we know something about Talat and what he’s doing. That’s something I can act upon.”

Derry glanced to Ariston again, each line of her face angled in tension.

Quin sighed. “And you two can stop looking at each other as if I’ve gone mad. Between the three of us, I’ll be safe. Derry, surely you’ve got something medicinal to knock him out or keep him immobile? Then we can tie him up and take him to the nearest janissary orta.”

Beneath his beard, the lines of Ariston’s jaw twitched. “Speaking of janissaries, can’t we get them to do this? Or at least get Porto involved. Or even Atesh – another person would help us keep you safe.”

“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. Terrible ideas – both of them. “Having janissaries around would compromise the trap, for one thing – more people means more chance of Talat spotting someone. Besides, this isn’t the sort of thing janissaries do and I – the peace between Porto and me, it’s tenuous at best. If I do this, which is absolutely outside my remit, as far as he’s concerned and possibly illegal, it could be the thing that pushes things over the edge and gets him to arrest me. As for Atesh, involving him is utterly out of the question. He isn’t part of this team – as much as he’s spent time here and I care about him and –”

“And he’s met your mother,” Derry said, “and celebrated your birthday with us and shares your bed more nights than –”

“And that’s enough,” Quin said, not daring to even look at Ariston for his reaction. Her ears burned. This was worse than discussing the tea. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps it’s been a mistake to involve him in our home life, for you two to spend time with him. Even you seem to have thawed to him, Ariston. Something I never thought I’d see after his first visit.” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s my mistake, and it’s confused everyone, so let me spell it out: Atesh Shahin is not part of this group. He doesn’t know our secrets. He doesn’t know my secrets. And he never will.”

Because after we catch Talat, we leave. She left it unsaid, but the way Derry’s brows lowered, and her mouth tightened, she’d filled in the gap for herself. Did that mean she’d decided to stay here? Much as Quin might want to keep Derry at her side, she was a free woman, and it was her choice, her life.

Like leaving Atesh was her choice.

“Atesh” – Quin swallowed away the damn crack in her voice – “isn’t part of this group and involving him in the plan will only raise more questions. So, no Porto, and no Atesh. Just the three of us.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked from Derry to Ariston.

Ariston opened his mouth – he was about to argue – but then instead of an argument, came a long sigh. His shoulders slumped. Defeat? “And I suppose if we say no, you’re going to go and do it anyway, aren’t you?”

Quin cocked her head. To go out alone after Talat, however great her fencing ability, well, it would be madness. She’d faced him twice in her life and had escaped both times with only a few injuries, but she’d only walked away thanks to help. Alone? That would be suicide. But if thinking she was that foolhardy got Ariston on board, then so be it. She raised one eyebrow and quirked her mouth as if suppressing a smirk that was cockier than she felt.

“Fine.” Ariston lifted his shoulders.

Derry clicked her tongue and glared at him sidelong. She’d been counting on him for backup. “You cave so easily. Well, if the two of you are doing this, you’re going to need someone with …” She narrowed her eyes into the distance and Quin could see the thoughts running through her head as she tapped her fingers on the table, no doubt scanning a mental inventory of apothecary’s bottles. “Hmm, I’ll speak to Reyhan – she mentioned a new anaesthetic that’s quicker than laudanum. Knocks a person clean out, she said.”

“Thank you,” Quin said, leaning forward to touch them – Ariston on his shoulder and Derry on the back of her hand. “What would I do without you two?” Leave with me, Derry. I need you.

Derry sighed and glowered at her. “Die, that’s what you’d do without us.”

“Well,” Ariston said, “to ensure that doesn’t happen even with us, let’s decide exactly where and when we’re going to be setting up our little trap and how we’re going to spring it.”

42

Bait

That evening, Quin ambled through a quiet street in the Third District, not far from where Wednesday’s victim had been discovered. She wore a pink gown and a pale grey hooded cape – perfect for standing out in the twilight loom. She and Derry had spent an hour fussing over her hair and makeup. Fancy enough to be a gentlewoman, but subtle enough that someone like Talat who knew her from the Gutter Streets would recognise her. They’d pulled a few curls loose around her face – not quite fashionable, but it was reminiscent of the loose hair she’d worn when she was younger.

The bright rose-pink satin of her gown gleamed under the sparse lamplight as she walked in the practised way that didn’t knock the rapier hidden beneath her skirts. She glanced around every so often, making a show of looking furtive. Her part tonight – a gentlewoman venturing into the darkness to meet with her paramour without her ’husband’s knowledge.

Even as she glanced along the quiet roads – to an observer checking for her lover, but in reality for Talat – she forced her gaze to skitter past where Ariston and Derry hid.

They crept through the shadows and alleys on her right-hand side. The plan was for one to stop at a point equidistant between two street lamps and watch her, while the other circled around, hiding between the next pair of lights. Once Quin passed a streetlight, she was in the second person’s sights, and so the first one could circle around to the next point along the agreed route.

Derry alone, that made her twitch. Deryy had dressed in neat trousers and jacket, a working man’s attire, with her hair coiled up beneath a cap, but would that be enough to escape Talat’s notice if he spotted her before he saw Quin? Blind Lady, set his eyes on a far greater prize, gleaming like a pink beacon in the night.

Quin swallowed and took a long breath, left hand in her pocket, grazing over the edge of her Deck. The thrum of magic was as high and tense as her own nerves.

No sign of either Derry or Ariston right now, but she had to trust they were there. They’d planned a route ahead of time, and she’d kept to it, meandering along streets near the Watergardens. If they stayed in sight, Talat would spot them, but if they ducked down alleys and crept along, they’d – gods willing – get the drop on him.

“Blind Lady,” she whispered, nail sliding along the edge of that Card, which answered with a silent rumble, “let us find him. Let us be good luck for the women of Arianople and bad for the man who stalks them.”

She wandered on into the shadows at the gate to the Watergardens. He’d killed in there not long ago. The gleaming red. The fat, fleshy seedpods, swollen and ready to burst. The slick cobbles.

The breath caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes. Enough.

She shook her head and grimaced in the direction of the akebia archway.

Dawdling here, that she could cope with, but to go into the Watergardens? No, she went there often enough in her nightmares.

Besides, when they’d been planning the route, Ariston had vetoed the park – with so many trees and shrubs and only sparse lamps lighting the way, he’d said it would be too difficult for him and Derry to keep an eye on her and too easy for Talat to ambush her.

Cowered in the dark gateway, to a passerby she’d look like someone trying to stay concealed, but the full hem of her gown crept out into the light, gleaming – a lure. An observer would assume she was here awaiting her beau’s carriage, just as she had waited for Atesh’s.

Ears straining, she glanced into the park. The shush of fountains and leaves. Lamps led along the path, shadows pooling between.

Back on the street, the still of an autumnal Arianople night – drier than usual, but just as cold. She shivered and rifled through her Cards, as her other hand pulled the cape close.

No sign of Derry or Ariston, still. She could listen, though – it would tell her where they were and maybe tell her if anyone else crept through the streets or the park.

For all she knew, Talat could be down that pathway in a copse of trees. Lovers met here after dark and even those who had no lover but wished for an evening’s fun with a stranger – the perfect prey for him.

Of course, finding Aurelia Tiryaki in the akebia archway seemed to have put off any such assignations – or at least moved them elsewhere.

Quin sighed and drew the Seer. Her breathing slowed, but she kept her eyes open. It was easier to focus on the flow of magic with them shut, but it wasn’t safe to leave herself so vulnerable – not here, not now. Slashing a throat only required one swift movement.

She shuddered, jolted out of the flow of magic when she’d barely dipped into it.

No. She had to focus – on magic and listening and sound and sense, not on imagined fears or what could be.

In and out, her breath calm and measured, that corralled her thoughts.

She let her gaze rest on the statue gracing the finial of the gatepost opposite. It gave her a peripheral view of the street on one side and the park on the other. That would have to do. Fixating on one spot helped her focus on the stream that flowed past, picking out the thread that was the Seer’s gift.

Magic pulled her in, welcoming arms wrapping around her.

Rustling branches, their creaking sway almost musical in the breeze. That breeze whispered against her cheek. The scurry of some small creature – a mouse or rabbit or fox in the park, most likely. In the distance, the rattle and ring of carriage and harness buckles.

Ariston and Derry must have been stationary because she couldn’t hear them. Unless … Could she push harder? Even a still person made a sound – breath and heartbeat were audible if you were close enough. She’d never used magic to hear those things across a distance before, but theoretically, it could be done.

Squinting, she furrowed her brow as she strained. Resistance, as though the flow of magic were tangible and thicker than water where she pushed deeper into it. But thick in the way treacle was thick – still pliable.

Her own breath was a deafening rasp. Her heartbeat thunderous as an orchestra’s timpani in crescendo; the trees’ rustling loud as branches in a gale.

Then, above it all, a crash.

Quin gasped and dropped the Card.

43

Hunting

When Ariston had come asking for help that afternoon, Atesh hadn’t expected to spend the night creeping through the city streets. He also hadn’t expected to have to watch the woman he loved as she – of all things – used herself as bait for a murderer.

Or to do so without her knowledge.

“You’re like me,” Ariston had said, mouth and brows straight and fierce, “you’d do anything to keep her safe.”

That was true. He’d already killed Erdem to save her life, yet somehow this was harder.

Waiting in the dark. Waiting for a man who stalked their city looking for women to kill. From the way the newspapers reported it, the younger and prettier the better. And Quin had to be amongst the most beautiful in Arianople.

Certainly the most frustrating.

Ariston knew it too – that must have been why he’d sworn Atesh to secrecy. She knew Derry and Ariston would be watching her, but Ariston was at least more sensible than her and knew they needed more people to help with this most insane of tasks. Capturing a killer.

Atesh sighed and shook his head.

Madness. Absolute madness.

And yet, Quin was determined.

“Ariston,” Atesh had said, “you can’t –”

“Believe me,” Ariston had said, raising his hands, palms open to ward off the objections, “I tried arguing with her. Derry did, too. But you know her well enough by now.”

That was true. And it was the only reason Atesh had agreed to this ridiculous course of action.

Before agreeing though, he’d asked Ariston to answer one question honestly. It was the one part of Quin’s secret he couldn’t silence. “Is she Ibril Sultan’s daughter?”

Ariston had frozen. He couldn’t blame the fellow – it was a strange question, and it had to hint that he knew something of Quin’s secret. Ariston had fixed him with his hawkish look for a long while, rooting him to the spot. “Why do you ask that?”

Atesh had swallowed – he shouldn’t have asked. “It’s not important – I don’t mean to pry, but if she is, we’d be related and I –”

“She isn’t his daughter.” He’d left it at that, expression and voice firm, and the rest of the conversation had been cool and factual. Where, when, what to wear, and not to say a damn word to anyone, even Decimus.

No janissaries. Officially-speaking, no Atesh. And no lights. They were the rules.

No bodyguard, either. That had proved a minor challenge. The boy – gods, Decimus was 22 now, not a boy, really. But when Atesh and Octavius had been gangly 14-year-olds and Decimus a round-faced boy of 10, those four years had felt like a lifetime’s age gap. All these years on, Decimus was still a boy in his mind. No doubt, in a decade, he’d think the same.

Boy or man, Decimus trailed him everywhere short of bed and the bath. Atesh had pretended to retire to his chambers to catch up on correspondence before bed, which had satisfied Decimus enough to send him to his adjoining suite. That hadn’t been the end, though, as the proximity had forced him to dress painfully slowly in an effort to remain quiet, but eventually, he’d eased open the door and slipped out.

Hopefully, Decimus wouldn’t come to check and find his bed empty.

Atesh grimaced and squeezed the hilt of his rapier. His eyes strained in the dark, trailing from Quin to survey her surroundings and back again. She had stilled at the base of one of the statues that marked the entrance to the Watergardens, only the sheen of her rose-pink gown visible in the gloom from a distant street lamp.

He exercised daily, whether it was rowing on the Golden Horn, fencing with the best masters of the city, or running through the grounds of his home, but the tension in his body from a few hours of this watching made his limbs ache. He held his muscles coiled, ready to draw blade and sprint towards Quin at an instant’s notice.

If the Destroyer appeared, well, it would be better if they could capture him, make him face justice, but if Quin were in danger, Atesh wouldn’t hesitate to kill again to protect her.

And when he helped catch the man, then it would prove that she could rely on him, trust him, tell him the truth. Maybe then she’d realise she could stay in Arianople.

If the Destroyer appeared. Why did she believe she could draw his attention?

Atesh scowled and hunkered against a drainpipe. He hadn’t managed to get a straight answer from Ariston, but his jaw had twitched at the question. So perhaps she wasn’t delusional to think herself effective bait. Surely it wasn’t only because of her beauty and station.

Ariston was sure enough of Quin’s allure to the killer that he feared for her. The desperation had crackled in his voice as he’d asked for help – almost begging. In all his life, including the strange things that had happened in the past few months, he never thought he’d see the day the famous duellist Cheviker begged anyone for anything.

He shivered. Quin had to know something about the Destroyer. She’d managed to uncover Erdem and his sister Alora as Zeynab’s killers and they’d gone to the trouble of providing an excellent scapegoat for that murder.

Perhaps there was some connection between them. No – he’d started by killing professionals in the Gutter Streets, most likely that was where he was from and what possible link could Quin have to such a man?

What could –

Movement in the dark.

Atesh’s eyes widened, and he drew his rapier, taking a step back. But his heel hit something hard. A rotten crate. He shifted his weight, but he splintered through, foot jarring on the ground. A furry grey tail disappeared around the corner.

“Damn it.” A smallcat. Not the Destroyer.

He backed away from the crate’s shattered remains and crouched. Breath held, he peered into the street.

Quin was out of the shadows, one hand to her chest – even from here, the round-eyed shock was evident on her face. She glanced up and down the road, then back into the park, and started towards his alley.

Hundred, if she found him here … It was too soon. She couldn’t know until after they had the Destroyer – once he’d helped, then she’d see.

He swallowed and pressed himself into the shadows, reaching for his Deck. What Card would help him hide?

“Sorry,” a deep voice came from behind, “I stepped on something.” Ariston walked along the thin strip of light at the centre of the alley, arms spread in admission. He strode past Atesh without even glancing in his direction.

“Gods,” Quin said, hand falling from her chest, “I thought …” She sighed and shook her head. “Well,” she went on, just loud enough to reach the alley, “that’s probably scared him off, even if he was nearby.” She scowled, looking up and down the street.

Ariston stepped out, placing himself between her and Atesh. “Sorry.”

“You near gave me a heart attack. I was using my Cards to listen – you sounded like a rampaging elephant crashing through the alley.”

“And I suppose you know what a rampaging elephant sounds like, don’t you?” The smile sounded in Derry’s voice as she emerged from the shadows off to the right. “Perhaps we’re best to call it a night.”

There was a pause before Quin answered. “Maybe you’re right. This is” – she sighed – “exhausting.” She rolled her shoulders and fell in beside Ariston. “I’ve never been so tense in my life. I feel like I could sleep for a day.”

“Yes,” Ariston said, offering one arm to Quin and the other to Derry, “perhaps we’ll try something else to –”

“Oh no,” Quin said, shaking her head. She looked up at him, and the dim light caught her profile, casting shadows beneath the determined clench of her jaw. “We’ll try again tomorrow night. And the night after and however many nights until Talat is caught.”

Talat. So she knew his name. And that was a first name. Did she use it because she only knew his first or because she was that familiar with him?

Atesh frowned as the trio walked away, quarrelling about whether they’d continue their hunt for the Destroyer.

Of course they would. Quin willed it. If she’d persuaded Ariston and Derry – and by extension him – to go through with her plan for one night, she’d have them all out until this Talat was caught or she was dead.

And the second of those wasn’t an option.

Atesh rose and pressed his hand against the wall, fingers gripping the brickwork in place of Quin’s arm. He watched as the rose hem of her gown disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone in the dark.

* * *

“Thank you for visiting me, Sergeant,” Atesh said, smiling stiffly as he leant his elbows on the desk.

“It is an honour to serve the Throne, Sire,” Porto said, back and shoulders stiff and straight.

“Considering everything that’s happened, I think we’re rather past this level of formality, aren’t we?”

With a nod, he dismissed Decimus, who stalked outside, undoubtedly to wait outside. If the bodyguard had checked on him last night while he’d been out trailing Quin, he’d given no sign. Surely he’d say something if he’d found the room empty. The boy he’d grown up with had grown into a diligent officer if this assignment was any indication. Decimus checked the front and back doors and all windows on the ground and basement floors of Quin’s house every time they stayed. Atesh had even caught him making a circuit of the halls in the godsforsaken small hours. Hopefully, the Blind Lady would remain smiling on Atesh’s endeavours, and the boy would remain none the wiser about his own after dark assignment.

Turning to Porto, Atesh gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Won’t you please take a seat?”

Porto bowed and sat. His eyes screwed up, and his lips tightened. “I must apologise again for our previous –”

“Please don’t,” he said, “you were doing your job, and you never offered the extras that certain of your colleagues did.” Atesh closed his eyes for a second, hands tightening against the edge of his desk as he fought not to flinch at the mental image of Mert’s fist flying in. Would he never be free of that? He swallowed, opening his eyes again. “And I will eternally appreciate yours being the only friendly face I saw amongst the janissaries. You listened to me when others would not. And that’s why I’ve asked you here today. For myself, not for the Throne.”

Porto’s brows raised. “This isn’t an official visit?”

“No, and I’d prefer it not be mentioned outside these walls,” Atesh said, opening the top drawer of his desk and pulling out the hateful letter. “I received it this morning. It’s – it makes horrible accusations, which I know aren’t true, and yet … I thought you might be able to help me if there’s any hope of finding who it’s from.” He placed the letter on the desk, pinning it in place with his fingertips. “Although I know the things within to be untrue, I’m sure you understand why my trust in janissaries is perhaps, shall we say, not at its height.”

“Understood entirely. You are showing me, not my orta. You can trust my discretion, Sire.”

Atesh watched Porto for a moment. Porto’s clear brown eyes returned his gaze levelly. He’d already helped Quin get the Card from the fortress. He’d helped Atesh remove Quin’s sabre from the scaffold without drawing investigation from the janissaries. Perhaps justice was more important to him than his career. He could be trusted. Atesh nodded and slid the letter across the desk.

“Thank you.” Porto took it and peered through his spectacles. “I assume there was no seal?”

“Only a plain one, red wax, unremarkable.” Atesh sighed and opened his desk drawer again. “I did keep it, though I can’t see it’s much use.”

Porto nodded and then his face stayed quite still as he read the letter.

Atesh hadn’t managed such mastery of his response when he’d read it. The accusations within had made him crumple it in his fist, and he’d been a second from throwing it into the fire. Even thinking about it now, hours later, made his flesh burn and a spot between his shoulder blades itch with the desire to hurt.

Professional, it said. Courtesan. Things he’d already heard from Terzo and Prima – and she’d been his first thought upon reading it, but she’d agreed to leave Quin alone, and the letter didn’t stop with those accusations.

It detailed sordid acts and orgies allegedly carried out in public bathhouses and even the Watergardens, all under her direction. It claimed she had at least half a dozen bastard children, deposited in orphanages across Europa, exactly as she had been by her own harem whore of a mother.

That grain of truth in the lie. If Prima had known that when he’d confronted her, she would have loved to throw it in his face.

And that wasn’t all.

It said, Thief. Confidence woman. Murderer.

Atesh’s teeth ground and his fingers ached where they gripped the arms of his chair.

Whoever had written this, they intended to tear him and Quin apart and to not only ruin but destroy her reputation.

Had others received similar letters or was he the only recipient, his relationship with Quin and position in Thanatolia marking him as a target? He would keep it quiet, but others couldn’t be trusted to do the same.

“Well,” Porto said, placing the open letter on the table, “it doesn’t leave many crimes uncommitted by Lady Sabia, does it?” He raised an eyebrow at Atesh.

“Indeed,” Atesh said, barely able to push the word through his stiff jaw.

“And I suppose none of it is true, is it?”

What did Porto know? At least some of Quin’s actions around Zeynab’s assassination and his hanging. She had essentially stolen Erdem’s Card from the janissaries – that was safe to discuss. “Of course not. At worst, she merely borrowed that Card from you, though one could argue you gave it to her.”

“You could.” The corner of Porto’s mouth twitched. “Do you know of any truth in any of the other accusations?” Atesh’s body coiled and Porto raised his hands. “I ask not because I believe any of it may be true, but so we can ascertain who it is that has written this letter. After all, how many people know about her actions in relation to saving you?”

Atesh’s jaw clamped shut. Nostrils flaring, he forced his breath to slow. In. Out. In. Out. “Perhaps she acted outside the law on that occasion, strictly speaking, but I’m unaware of the rest of it having any basis in truth. How on earth could she be related to the harem? She’s from Umbria, after all.” He tried to laugh as though the idea were entirely preposterous, but what emerged from his throat was a strangled sound.

“A foreign lady, of course.” Porto pushed his glasses up his nose, the gesture not entirely hiding the narrowing of his eyes.

Damn it. Perhaps he’d danced too close to the truth in his attempt to steer Porto away. Did that mean he had suspicions about Quin being from Thanatolia? Did he know she had some relationship with the harem? Atesh managed a stiff-but-bland smile, keeping the questions from his face.

“She certainly is no courtesan,” he bit out.

“No, nor a professional. A lot of the accusations do centre around her relationship with you and rumours that might damage that. Could this perhaps be a spurned young lady, seeking to separate the two of you and your understanding, so she might sidle in at the opportune moment?”

“Perhaps, though there is no particular woman that I’ve slighted, and the other accusations …” Atesh shook his head. If Miss Tiryaki were still alive, she could have fit that description. And although Lady Kartal had slighted Quin by denying her entry, she seemed happily on the path to a proposal from Malos. Besides, the other accusations in the letter went far beyond anything a jilted debutante might say, however spiteful. Such a woman would only need to push the courtesan or unfaithful angles – why bother accusing her of theft and murder and all these other things, too? “Besides, some of these lies are far more elaborate than necessary if the goal was to split us apart.”

Porto tapped the letter, the sound light as rain. “I fear there’s little I can tell you about this. The paper and the seal are quality, but nondescript, as you say. Though I think you’re right – its contents suggest a source with a personal vendetta, as opposed to some debutante seeking to divide and conquer.” He frowned and pressed his index finger to his lips. “Perhaps you could ask Lady Sabia yourself whether she has any such enemies?”

“Perhaps. Only that would mean telling her about the letter.”

“Ah, so she doesn’t know?”

“She’s been sleeping poorly recently and” – he winced, he shouldn’t know that from first-hand experience – “so she says.” Gods, he’d said that far too quickly. To Porto’s credit, he didn’t even appear to smother a smirk. He was no fool; he must have realised. “I’d rather not add to her worries by showing her such a cruel and baseless letter. I’ll think about what you said, though, see if I can discover that she has any enemies. Would you –”

“Of course,” Porto said, nodding as he rose, “if I should find anything in my work that suggests someone with a dislike of the Contessa, I’ll bring it to your attention.” Porto bowed and turned, making for the door. He stopped, fingers on the handle. “Do you plan to tell her at all or will you always keep it to yourself?” He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

“When I have more information, I’ll tell her. It’s for her to decide how she wishes to broach this. She’s the one who’s been maligned, not I. Whatever she wishes to do, though, I’ll support her.”

Porto nodded, but there was something odd to his smile – if such a small movement could be called a smile. “And if any of the accusations in that letter prove to be true? Will you still support her then?” Maybe Porto did have suspicions about the harem.

As for the rest of it – she’d told him she’d been forced to kill during that battle with Erdem’s sister. She’d been fighting for her life and to get to Kediler Square to save him. It didn’t matter that blood was on her hands. His weren’t clean – he’d killed Erdem, his own cousin, surely that was worse. He lifted his chin. “All of it could be true, and I’d still love her.”

“I see. Then the other blind lady does indeed smile on her. She’s lucky to have such stalwart support from such a high position. I pray to the Hundred she won’t need it.” For a fraction of a second Porto’s lips curved and there was warmth in his eyes, but then he was gone so quickly, Atesh had to question whether he’d seen the expression – a proper smile – at all.

Gods, Porto knew something about her secret – he at least knew it was a danger to her. If he hadn’t arrested her, then perhaps he was an ally.

And if Porto wasn’t, well, a Pasha Regent trumped a janissary Sergeant. Whatever Quin was, he loved her, and he would help her stay safe, even if that meant another night hunting the Destroyer.

44

Through the Mist

The third night of hunting for Talat was chilly, with a mist that bit through Quin’s clothes and flesh, cutting to the bone. As she walked, she pulled her cloak closer around herself, but it was scant comfort. The streets were dark, and the lamps only served to light up the fog, making it more opaque and harder to see ahead.

The third night in a row and still no sign of him. Quin pursed her lips. His last murder had been four nights ago, and the one before that had been five days earlier. He’d killed almost every week since early August. Perhaps they were here too early, but who knew how long he stalked the streets before killing? For all they knew, he lined up a victim days before taking her.

There’d been no more visits from Alora, either, so that was a small mercy. What could she have planned? Maybe nothing. Maybe that little stunt at the concert had only been designed to frighten her. Maybe.

Her back itched at the spot where Alora had pressed her blade.

Quin pushed through the mist, gaze darting from side to side, though it was her ears that would be the most help in these conditions.

Her own footsteps. Breaths. Almost the sound of her heartbeat. Distant laughter – a man’s, then a woman’s.

Could that be him, drawing in a victim before taking her somewhere quieter? No, she couldn’t imagine Talat laughing like that. She swallowed and quested onward.

For another hour, she wandered the streets near the Watergardens, playing the exhausting game of looking as though she was trying to be stealthy, while actually remaining conspicuous in a cream gown with a grey cape and all the while listening so hard it felt like her ears would pop. Every so often, she paused for a moment and drew the Seer Card, straining to hear signs of Talat.

Nothing.

She bit her lip. A glance around gave her no sign of Ariston or Derry. She had to trust they were nearby, following the plan. If only she could speak to them. They understood her desperation by now. They’d known his identity for almost two weeks now, as had the janissaries, and the only sign of him had been the women he’d left behind.

Thirteen, so far. Sinem. Özlem. Belinay. Sherife. Hazan. Nona. Asina. Yeshim. Ela. Aurelia. Sexta. Amata. Meliké. Each syllable weighed heavily on Quin’s shoulders. The faces she knew – Ela’s brown eyes especially – pierced her chest, lancing her heart until it could bleed no more.

Another laugh, this one from her right – inside the Watergardens. She paused and cocked her head, listening. A woman’s giggle and a rustle within the bushes. So, people had ventured back in there after dark. If anyone revelled within, it meant Talat might have followed them. Her fingers tangled in the hem of her cloak.

If he was in the Watergardens, he could cut that woman’s giggle short.

She swallowed. Any more names on that list would be her fault, at least in part. Damn it, if she’d started this hunt sooner, surely they’d have caught him by now. And if the morning revealed another victim …

Her heavy sigh misted in front of her face, diffusing into the fog. She glanced towards the dimly visible alleys where Ariston and Derry stalked her. They had to know what she was considering – they knew her well enough. She swallowed, straightened her back and crept towards the gates to the Watergardens.

At the threshold, she paused and looked up at the paired statues of Pleasure and Beauty, the twin sisters. They’d vied in competition as children, only to learn that in working together they enhanced each other. So here the sisters stood, beckoning in those who sought to enjoy Beauty and thus find Pleasure.

This wasn’t a night for either.

She gritted her teeth. They’d agreed not to include the Watergardens in their planned route. Too dangerous, Ariston had said, with the dim light and so many places for Talat to hide.

But if he might be inside, she owed it to those women. The real ones, not the statues. The women who’d been rendered still as stone by Talat’s hand. The women who’d been torn from their lives far too soon. The women who’d left behind loved ones.

“Ela,” she whispered. “I’ll find him for you.” Whatever it took.

Drawing a fortifying breath, she entered the park. If she went slowly, Ariston and Derry would spot her and adjust their route.

The fountains murmured, even at this time of night. The light of the street lamps caught on the mist and cloaked the shrubs and trees in sinister shapes. Darkness pressed at the edges of the pooled lamplight, as if ready to rush in and rule the night.

Her face and hands grew clammy and slick with mist and sweat. To the left trailed the path that led to the akebia arch. Ahead stretched the open promenades that gentlefolk rode along during the day. To the right, another trail curved through a grove of young oaks.

If Talat was here, where might he look for prey? He might choose somewhere open like this to watch from a distance and spot a likely prospect, but this wasn’t where he’d draw close. That wasn’t where he’d strike. He’d look for the quiet places. Lonely places. Dark places.

She paused as if deciding which way to go, though it would be the oaks. No one would venture towards the archway after Aurelia’s murder, surely, and Talat had already struck there – killing again at the same place would lessen the statement.

Besides, she wasn’t sure she could face that place again.

She glanced over her shoulder. A shadow moved at the gates with a momentary gleam of pale skin. Derry.

Quin puffed out her relief, her breath adding to the night’s mist. They’d spotted her new route.

She took the oak grove path, letting her feet lead the way, not walking too quickly, but promenading in that way of gentlewomen who walked to see and be seen.

For half an hour or so, she roved around the park, only passing three couples – two on their way out, the other pair inviting her to join them. But this was not a night for pleasure, and if it had been, she’d have sought Atesh’s bed, not strangers in the Watergardens.

She forced her feet towards quieter, more private places – places she would have avoided if she was trying to prevent an ambush. He’d jumped out at Aurelia in the akebia archway. That spot was a landmark of the Watergardens, somewhere recognised and popular – somewhere beautiful, usually. And he’d murdered there and, in doing so had claimed it for himself, as he had the women he killed. At least that would be how Talat would think of it.

Where else in the Watergardens was a landmark, a place of beauty or pleasure? The fountains near the gate where she’d entered – they were well-known, often featured in paintings and even a play she’d seen. But they were too open, even with this mist. She’d already wandered along a colonnade forming part of the central Plaza – another beauty spot in the park, with columns and alcoves offering shadowy cover.

There was one more place. The maze. The yew trees were kept meticulously clipped throughout the year, their red berries attractive against the deep green foliage. To be pursued through a maze would be terrifying. And the centre would make a macabre setting for one of his murders. If he were in the park, that’s where he would be.

Quin drew a long breath, squared her shoulders and made for the maze, trusting in Derry and Ariston to follow.

45

Labyrinth

Ahead stood tall, dark hedges hewed into an angular fortress, mist creeping around the edges. Street lamps flanked the entrance, like slender guardians. Their light diffused through the fog. Four more lamps stood in each corner of the maze and another four in the centre.

Quin swallowed. This was the right place. At least she knew the route to the centre from previous visits. Now she had to play her part as unwitting victim.

She slowed her pace, made it playful, swaying from side to side. Her voice cracked on a little ditty she sang about a lonely young woman searching for a lover – she’d heard it at the Pearl and at the more risqué masquerades. If nothing else, it would help guide Ariston and Derry to her. And Talat, too.

Touching her shoulder and running a fingertip along her collarbone, as if it were an invite, she entered the half-light of the maze. Even her own touch made her skin crawl, but anyone watching would think she had come for a liaison.

Her fingers trailed along the yew hedges, and the silly, flirtatious nonsense song kept coming, her heart hammering the percussion accompaniment. If this was where Talat had chosen to hunt tonight, he’d chosen well. The lamps and bright moon overhead made it seem light enough to justify venturing in, but shadows pooled around the tall hedges. The ground underfoot was paved with stone, softly tapping with her footsteps.

She swallowed and glanced over her shoulder, pausing her song for a moment. Someone could be close behind her here, and she’d never know.

No, she was being fretful because of the thought of Talat. That was all. She’d know if someone were close.

She nodded and walked on. Her fingers twitched with the longing to draw a Card – surely the Seer would help her hear even the softest steps across this ground – but she didn’t dare split her attention. Instead, she clutched her hands before her, knuckles stiff.

Winding her way through the maze, the song faded on her lips, and instead, her breath came more heavily than her slow walk justified. Even without a Card, it was almost deafening in her ears.

Ahead, the path branched in a T-junction, to the right – light. The lamps at the centre. Her legs bunched. She could run there. But that wouldn’t help – light or dark, the centre of the maze was hidden from the outside world. Bloody hells, Derry and Ariston better have –

Was that the scuff of a shoe?

She froze.

Was it?

The only sound now, her heavy breath and thunderous heartbeat.

She swallowed and licked her lips. She was meant to be here looking for a lover, not expecting a killer.

Forcing a smile in place and twirling her hair playfully, she turned. “Sir?” That’s what a gentlewoman looking for a liaison would say, wasn’t it? No voice, no movement, nothing. Relief and disappointment warred, tangling in her stomach. She needed to find him before he found another woman. Onward. She turned to continue.

A tall man, shadowed, the moon behind him.

The scream tore through her, body almost doubling over with the effort.

She didn’t need to see his face. It could only be him. Three feet away, slightly to her left, as if he’d been waiting on the left-hand path of that T-junction. A long black coat, tailored trousers, and shiny shoes. Smarter than the Talat she knew.

Even in the shade, his smile gleamed. “I thought it was you,” he said, voice low and cruel as she remembered.

She ran. He needed to think she was afraid.

Gods, who was she fooling? She was afraid. The idea of Talat and the reality of Talat were two very different things. Surely his shoulders were even broader than last time she’d seen him. And had he grown taller too?

At least the scream would have alerted Derry and Ariston. Her lungs burned with the cold air, but she sprang to the right, to the heart of the maze.

Around the corner and there it was – the circular clearing. At its centre, a fountain burbled, lit by four oil lamps, one at each compass point.

The thud of footsteps behind. She stopped and turned, slipping on the damp paving. Let him believe he had her cornered and defenceless and afraid – there was only one exit from the centre of the maze, and here he came, striding from it.

He did have her cornered. But she was by no means defenceless.

Her chest heaved, and her fingers tingled to draw Card and sword and fight. But she needed to lure him closer first. Let him think her his next victim, rather than a trap.

And give Ariston and Derry time to catch up. If she could keep him turned towards her, then they could come up behind him unawares.

“A bit less brave without Red here, ain’t you?” The glow of lamplight bathed Talat’s face in warmth, but his eyes gleamed, cold. His nose had been broken a few times since she’d last seen him and skewed to the left. The familiar scar sliced through his eyebrow, and his jaw was as square is it had always been. Her mark was still there – the missing chunk from his ear.

The same old cruel smirk played around his lips.

He wasn’t so different from the boy she’d known. Still spiteful, still angry. Good, she could use that. When he’d backed her into a corner in that alley years ago, he’d toyed with her, hands on her throat and wrists, telling her how damn angry he was. She could delay him with talk, maybe piss him off enough that he’d make a mistake.

“Talat, what are you doing out here? I thought you only sniffed around the Gutter Streets.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Come on, I’m not an idiot, I know you know what I’ve been up to. Sent nappers sniffing around my mum’s house, didn’t you? Been asking about me, haven’t you?” He sucked his teeth. “But then ain’t that you all over? Sticking your snooty little nose where it ain’t welcome.” With a flick of his wrist and a gleam of lamplight, an open razor blade appeared in his hand. “Wonder what you’d look like without it.” He stepped closer.

Eyes wide, as if afraid, she swallowed and backed off, drawing him away from the exit. Ten feet away now – space for Derry and Ariston to enter the courtyard. Whenever they bloody showed up.

She plunged her right hand into her left pocket and, in one long movement, drew her rapier. “For some reason, I’m much less curious about that than you are.” She held the blade wide as if accidentally leaving an opening. He’d never seen her fight with a sword – let him think her incompetent.

“Ah, I see you ain’t lost your fight,” he said, a smile baring his teeth. “Thank the gods for that. Thought you’d gone soft on me.” He backed off one step, threw the razor into his left hand, and drew a long knife with his right. “Glad I came prepared.”

He was bigger and stronger, and his long arms might cancel out the advantage of her rapier’s reach, but she was quicker, more trained, and had backup coming. Besides, for him, this was personal – he’d want to take his time.

She didn’t need to win, she just needed to survive.

He lunged for her deliberate opening. He was faster than she remembered, but she turned her shoulders, easily avoiding his flashing dagger. She darted back, keeping out of his reach. If he got his hands on her, it would be over.

She grinned at him, making a feint, which he jerked to catch on his knife. “Still predictable, Talat.” At the last minute, she turned her wrist, and the tip of her blade sliced his cheek – it would have been his eye if he hadn’t twitched away.

He gave a low grunt.

First blood to her. “Here’s a prediction for you – tonight, your stint as the Destroyer ends.” She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from the red on his face, on her sword, in the red room, spattered against the wall, bathing the floor of the akebia archway …

“Too late to save Ela, though, weren’t you?”

Stinging pain – her shoulder – blooming into a throb. She blinked, hissing.

Heavy cologne and something thick and metallic filled her nostrils. Stale blood – on his clothes? In her ears, his breaths, loud. How had he got so close?

She tossed her head, stumbling back, barely deflecting his knife, then his razor in quick, clanging succession – she couldn’t go to that place. She had to be here and now. She had to keep moving.

Clenching her jaw, she righted her posture, back on the balls of her feet, presenting only her side – the smallest target. Even as her muscles coiled, she let her face crumple, as if she were going to cry, and he smiled, edging closer.

His mistake.

She exploded at him, a flurry of thrusts and slashes, forcing him to back away towards the fountain. Between lunges, she aimed a kick between his legs – the injury might still be painful – but he slammed her ankle away, hand open in an attempt to catch it. Best not to try that again – if he got hold of her leg, she’d be in trouble.

As she slashed, he tried to catch a blow on his razor, but the lightweight blade was no match for a sword, and it flicked away in two pieces and clattered to the floor.

“Why, Talat?” she huffed between slashes. “Why?”

“Why bloody not?” He twisted out of her path with a grunt, knife flashing toward her hand.

“Quin?” A shout in the distance – Derry. She should have been closer than that.

On instinct, Quin rotated her wrist as fresh pain lanced through her sword hand. She gritted her teeth. Nothing was more important than her grip on this rapier.

Nothing.

With a scrape of metal and a jolt up her arm, she kept turning her wrist, and his knife caught between the knuckle bow and loop guard of her rapier’s swept hilt and flipped from his grasp.

He yelled, wordless and wild, and she let out a breath, almost a laugh.

She’d disarmed him.

But the knife was only at his feet. She lunged, back of her hand searing with pain, palm slick with sweat and blood. He dodged her rapier, but that didn’t matter – with a rushed flick of her foot, she sent his knife clanging away into the yew hedge.

She’d done it, she’d –

“Quin?” Derry, still too far away.

Quin skidded on the damp pavement near the fountain as she tried to recover from the unbalanced kick, and she overextended, thudding to one knee. Pain shot through the bone, making her gasp. Her muscles coiled, ready to heave upright, but she was still – had stayed still too long.

His thick fingers wrapped around her wrist.

She stared at him, scrabbling to her feet, but her hand and rapier were held in place.

He smiled, though it must have hurt the cut on his cheek. She pulled and pulled, but his grip was a vice.

No. She shook her head. “No.”

She tried twisting her arm. Left hand clenched, she punched his kidney again and again and again.

He huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

“Enough of that,” he growled and ripped the rapier from her hand, throwing it away.

Her stomach, her heart, her lungs crushed at the ringing of her sword on the ground and the glint as it rocked for a moment before lying still.

No weapon. All she had was backup. Where were they? She glanced at the entrance to the maze, but there was no movement.

Her fan. She pushed her left hand into her pocket, fingers frantic.

“Shake your head all you like,” he said, “ain’t gonna stop me.” He yanked her towards him so quickly, her head snapped back. He grabbed her left arm and pulled her hand from her pocket, empty.

No. Head spinning, she gasped for breath, lungs a fraction of their normal size.

He thrust his face inches from hers. “Is this what it took to shut you up?” His breath blew hot and stale upon her cheeks. “If I’d known, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

Delay. She needed to keep him busy, taunting her, talking, pissed off so he might make a mistake, anything but picking up a weapon. And she just needed to do it until Derry and Ariston arrived.

“You did try, remember?” she said between panted breaths. “And you bloody failed. Because that’s all you are – a failure. You mum’s failure. I’m sure you’d be your dad’s failure if he’d stuck around to –”

Her head slammed to one side with the blow and darkness crept around the edges of her sight, lights sparking. Her legs had buckled, but he held her up and, blinking, she managed to scrabble back to her feet.

“You don’t get to speak, bitch,” he spat, “unless it’s to beg.” His hands tightened around her wrists and twisted, burning her flesh.

Talking, that was good. And even the strike – it meant he was pissed off and if she made him see red, he wouldn’t see clearly. If he was hitting her, he wasn’t cutting her throat. She tried to smile, but the pain in her jaw made her gasp instead.

“You still scared of the water?” He smiled down at her, dark eyes glinting.

She shook away the stars. Scared of –

He hoisted her off her feet and threw her back.

Ice cold over her head and her shoulders. Her instinctive gasp choked, only pulling in water. Stone scraped her back, and her kicks hit only air.

The fountain.

He didn’t need a weapon when he had water.

He crushed her shoulders, holding her under. Her fingers went to her pocket opening, scrabbling at the fabric, but her skirts were twisted around her, and she couldn’t get to her bladed fan. Biting back a scream of fear and frustration, she reached for him, scratching, grabbing, hitting, pulling, pinching – any movement she could, any contact she could.

And then her face was back in the cold air. Shuddering gasps shook her.

She’d been wrong. There would be pleasure here tonight – it was written all over Talat’s smile, the light in his eyes, the way he licked his lips slowly.

And she’d been wrong to think she could survive being his bait.

“No.” It came out as a moan between gasping breaths. She had to hold on – Derry and Ariston had to be here soon.

She grabbed at his hands, clawing to prize them from her shoulders as she kicked and kicked and kicked, but either he didn’t notice or didn’t care. He’d placed himself between her legs, with her resting on the edge of the fountain. All she could do was catch the sides and backs of his thighs. She couldn’t even reach where she knew his body still recovered from having his cock sliced off. If she could kick him there –

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he breathed, lifting her face close to his, “and I’m going to bloody enjoy it. Every single second. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re a pretty corpse.” His face inches away, fingers biting into her cheeks, holding her head still. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose against her neck, inhaling. “Dunked in fountain scum and you still smell fancy.” He pulled back and winked. “It’s important to remember this stuff, you know?”

Quin swallowed, shaking. Her arms felt leaden, but they were free. He was strong, but his eyes were as vulnerable as anyone’s. If she could scratch them out …

She flung her hands at his face, but he smiled.

With barely a flinch, he grabbed her wrists and threw her back.

Eyes wide, she managed half a breath before the water closed over her face again.

Pain. The water stung her eyes, the wound in her shoulder, the one in her hand. He crushed her hands against her shoulders, holding her down.

And the kicking, kicking, kicking did nothing.

She shook her head and fought against the need to blow out or breathe in.

Survive, that was all she needed to do. If she could hold out for Derry and Ariston. They had to be nearly here. Had to be.

She’d been wrong. So stupid to think that she could escape him a third time. She should have asked for more help. Should have …

Her lungs burned, screamed at her to breathe, but that would bring only cold water and then cold death.

If she could get him to let go …

Maybe if he thought she was dead …

Playing dead, wasn’t that how Alora had survived?

Her throat and her chest jerked, fighting to inhale.

No. No. If she could just hold on …

Her eyes closed.

No. Awake.

Even when she opened them, sparks littered her vision, and the blurry shape of Talat grew dim, as if behind a dark veil.

Gods, she had to open her mouth and fill her lungs with something. She coughed and choked, and Talat’s hands pushed until her shoulder blades ground into the stone base of the fountain.

A little longer … They had to be here soon.

She fought against her burning lungs.

Keep still. Don’t fight. Play dead.

Flashing lights filled her sight.

Let go …

Legs limp, arms limp, she closed her eyes.

46

Destroyer

Atesh hunkered down in his hiding spot in the alley and lifted the collar of his coat. The thick wool was damp with mist but still cosy. His leather gloves cut out the worst of the cold, but wedging his hands under his arms was the only thing that made them truly warm.

He frowned out into the street. He, Derry, and Ariston had been leapfrogging along alleys and mews lanes as they had the past two nights. Since he’d reached this cramped spot between a coffee shop and a draper’s, there’d been no sign of her.

Not that that was saying much in this weather. The haze was a shroud – not ideal for hunting, even with human quarry. He swallowed, throat tight. It certainly wasn’t what he wanted when he was trying to keep sight of Quin while she acted as bait.

Where the hells was she?

Squinting into the fog, he clenched his jaw. Why had he agreed to this again? Oh yes, because even if he revealed to Quin his involvement in this ridiculous plan and asked – begged – her not to continue with, it wouldn’t stop her. If he withdrew his help, she’d only come and do this alone. Some odd sense of – what? Duty? Justice? Right? It would still bring her out, and she’d still be here seeking this monstrous man. All he could do was support, together with Ariston and Derry, and, gods willing, keep her safe.

No, not gods willing. This was in his hands. His midnight blue leather gloves creaked as he gripped his rapier. He would keep her safe. And Ariston and Derry were just as committed.

Quin emerged from the fog like a ghost, and he gave a misting sigh. She stopped at the gateway to the Watergardens. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her until she passed the lamppost that signalled the start of Ariston’s territory and –

She entered the Watergardens. What – why was she – that wasn’t part of the agreed route. It was dark and too dangerous – what on earth would possess her?

Hadn’t Miss Tiryaki been found in the Watergardens? And the other recent attacks had been in these streets surrounding it. Damn the woman – whatever her reason, she’d taken this mad course of action and had now faded from his sight.

Scowling, he watched as first Ariston, then Derry crept into the gates at a distance from Quin. He glanced up and down the street – nothing but mist. Huffing, he hurried over the road and into the shadows beneath the great stone gateposts.

Ahead, the others had already disappeared into the mist, and he circled around, the dew-dropletted grass slowly soaking his boots. He passed from shrub to shrub, catching odd glimpses of his accomplices as they continued their leapfrogging action, using the lamps as markers. His eyes strained every time Quin was in his view, barely daring to blink.

Their job was so much harder now she’d taken them off course – they didn’t know which way she’d turn next, but at least she seemed to be aware of that, lingering at the path’s branches before following one. Usually the darkest, most enclosed route.

Hunkered against a bushy camellia near a fork in the path, he frowned into the mist. Where was she? He’d watched her pass into Ariston’s view and had circled ahead, overtaking Derry. She should have appeared by now.

Nothing. He swallowed, fingertips tapping on his thighs.

The whisper of movement in the bushes off to the right – he narrowed his eyes, leaning forward, muscles bunched, ready.

Ariston. Searching left and right – Atesh caught his eye and raised his eyebrows. Ariston’s brows lowered, and he shook his head. He didn’t have eyes on her either.

Damn it.

Atesh bit his lip and alternated between watching the fog and Ariston’s reaction. Neither changed.

Every muscle burned with desire for movement. His skin prickled. Where was she? Surely she hadn’t passed without either of them spotting her.

After achingly long minutes, he crept towards Ariston and placed a hand on his shoulder. Ariston raised his eyebrows, eyes wide. So hopeful.

Atesh shook his head. “It must be 10 minutes since I last saw her,” he breathed in Ariston’s ear. “You’ve seen nothing of her? You’re sure?”

Ariston’s mouth flattened, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He glanced back out to the mist and then ran his hand over his face. “Nothing. Derry had stopped by the maze. Do you think –”

A scream.

Atesh’s heart lurched into his throat, and he found himself upright, hand on his rapier – Ariston’s pose the mirror of his own. The sound came from back the way they’d come.

“The maze,” Atesh gasped and sprinted out from the cover of the shrubs.

“Quin?” Derry’s voice ahead, cracking.

Gods, don’t say Derry had lost her too.

His arms pumped, and he pushed himself harder, faster, Ariston’s footsteps close behind.

The dark maw of the maze opened ahead, and he tore in.

The crash of metal on metal. His stomach roiled. That had to mean he’d found her. But it also meant she was alive.

Glaida, please let her stay that way.

Which left was it? He peered down the first one – no, not there. He ran on and checked the second left, the path stretching on ahead before splitting a T-junction. This one.

Why hadn’t he paid more attention all the times he’d been here? He huffed out a frustrated breath.

Because all the other times he’d been here for fun. Milling around the maze, chatting with friends or playfully pursuing a lover.

It had never been life-and-death before.

Atesh paused at a T-junction. It was no good – he didn’t know which way.

Ariston slid to a halt beside him, looking left and right. Their eyes met, and Ariston shook his head.

Both clueless.

Ariston nodded to the left. “You go that way.” He ran right.

Good thinking – they’d be able to cover the most routes if they split up.

Atesh jogged left, ears straining over the sound of his own breath.

A metallic scrape – blades against each other? Then the ring of a sword. So, they still fought.

“Hold on, Quin,” he murmured, “we’re on our way.”

As he rounded the next corner, he skidded to a halt – a figure ahead. Red hair spilling from under a cap.

“Derry,” he hissed.

She turned, blue eyes wide. Her mouth and jaw were slack, her brows creased in anguish. “I don’t know –”

Atesh shook his head and trotted to her. “Me either – we have to split up. Ariston’s checking another route back there.”

She nodded and darted down the pathway to the right. “Quin?”

Even splitting up, this was too slow. Too damn slow.

He reached a crossroads and shook his head.

A shout sounded from the right. A man’s voice. Not familiar. That had to be the Destroyer. Talat.

On tiptoe, Atesh could barely spot the tops of lamps in that direction. They had to be in the central courtyard.

“No.” Quin’s voice. The dull clang of metal upon stone. Atesh bit his lip and strained to listen. A sword dropped? But there was nothing else – no more clues.

“Damn it,” he whispered. That bastard had chosen cleverly. The maze was too much – he must have known Quin had help but that the maze would keep them from her.

The nearest of the lamps wasn’t even far away – perhaps twelve or fifteen feet.

Still no more sound – no, a splash. Hundred. There was a fountain in the centre of the maze.

He shook his head. This maze was not going to defeat him.

And Talat wasn’t going to take Quin.

He backed off down the path about five feet, lining up with the nearest of those central oil lamps. Crossing his forearms over his face, he shoved into the yew hedge, eyes shut. This would have been easier with a sabre – its curved edge would have slashed through the branches with ease.

The needles scratched and the air thickened with the smell of sap, but he managed to wriggle in, branches snapping and creaking. A trunk blocked the way to his right, but if he angled left and braced as though he were wrestling, the going got easier, and at last, he stumbled out.

He gulped down fresh air, running his hands over his face, sweaty and sticky with sap and smeared red berries. Needles and bark prickled in his clothes. The lamp was just over eight feet away, so one more hedge should do it.

Hold on, Quin.

Drawing a long breath, he shoved into the hedge, arms guarding his face again. He wriggled and pushed branches away, snapping thicker ones to make space.

Again, he emerged this time into –

“Quin!” He was sprinting before it all fully registered.

The fountain burbled, a shape in profile standing over it. A hulking man, hands in the water holding something. Legs dangled over the edge of the fountain basin, unmoving, cream silk drenched and plastered to them, one shoe dangling off, the other on the floor.

No. She couldn’t be …

Talat’s dark eyes gleamed, fixed upon Quin. A sneer – no a smile curled his lips. He blinked and slowly turned towards Atesh, as though he’d been engrossed by the sight of …

Atesh set his jaw and leapt for Talat, barrelling him to the floor.

There was no up or down, only the spinning of their bodies, the marble paving hard at his back, then the sky, Atesh pummelling in front, because that was where Talat was.

As long as he knew where that man was, he knew which way to hit.

If Quin was …

When they came to a stop, he was on top, but with a roar, Talat threw him off. Gasping with the impact, Atesh rolled to his feet, drawing his rapier with a metallic ring.

Talat was enormous – he had to be even a few inches taller than Atesh, and broader and thicker through the body and arms. And he was on his feet a second later, a rapier in hand.

The hilt was familiar. Atesh had held it in Kediler Square, had killed Erdem with it before returning it to its owner.

It was Quin’s.

Coldness showered him, across his scalp, seeping down his neck, over his shoulders and back, all the way down his legs to his toes. She hadn’t been moving. How long had he held her in the water?

Talat’s lip curled, showing his teeth. “Oh, she’s yours?” He snorted. “Thought a posho like you would have better taste than a whore like her.”

Atesh’s hand clenched – his rapier’s grip solid, familiar.

He was going to crush this bastard.

Talat’s eyes narrowed, and he flicked the sword as if testing its weight. His first finger wasn’t around the ricasso. He was no swordsman.

Good.

Atesh gave him no time to grow accustomed to the weapon and thrust at his heart. But Talat moved faster than he’d expected from his hulking size. With a clash of metal, he threw the strike off target. Atesh sprung back, recovering his form in an instant.

“Sorry I killed your girl.” A gravelly laugh. “Who am I kidding? I ain’t sorry. She’s had it coming a long time.”

Atesh swallowed and glanced towards the fountain where a pale shape lay so still it made his chest clench, empty, aching. His eyes burned. Quin, please …

But Talat came – rapier angled at his belly.

Atesh leapt to one side. He had to keep his attention on Talat – clumsy as his attacks were, they were fast and powerful, and a hit could easily mean death. Not tonight.

Gritting his teeth, Atesh feinted high.

With a gleam of steel, Talat’s blade rose to protect his throat and face, but Atesh’s was no longer there. He sprang low and right. Talat managed a quick block but couldn’t throw the attack completely off-target – the slash landed, low and light on his side.

Blood drawn. Atesh gave a grim smile. Pain exploded across the right side of his face, and he staggered away.

Shaking his fist, Talat smiled in return and touched the cut on his side, frowning, then shrugging.

Of course he’d know how to fight outside the rules.

Atesh shook his head, blinking away the stars bursting in his peripheral vision. This wasn’t a duel. There was no honour here right now, just survival and killing this man who had …

Without thought, he lifted his blade in time to catch an overhead strike – all power, no finesse, but full of deadly potential all the same.

They traded blows, sweat cooling Atesh’s brow, a sneer on Talat’s face.

He’d soon wipe that away. Atesh slipped inside his reach and smashed his rapier’s swept hilt into that smug face with a pleasing crunch of steel on flesh and bone.

But even as Talat clutched his nose with one hand, blood gushing, he slashed with the other, slicing pain into Atesh’s thigh.

Atesh hissed, transferring his weight to the other side. Guard up, he moved his injured leg experimentally. Pain, yes, but still movement – the full range, thankfully.

“Not the talking type, eh?” Talat sneered. “Fine.” He shoved Atesh’s blade to one side, sweeping in with a punch to the kidney.

Atesh choked, the shock tilting through him.

“I’ll talk, you listen.” Talat leered, grunting with each punch – rib cage, belly, sides below the bottom rib, again and again and again.

Atesh yanked, but his damned rapier wouldn’t move – their hilts had locked between them.

“She only sells herself to the highest bidder, you know. You ain’t nothing special.”

Gritting his teeth, Atesh pulled in his left arm, shielding his bruised side and buying him the chance to catch a breath.

A glower darkened Talat’s face, and his fist flew. Atesh managed to turn, so the blow landed on his cheek, rather than his nose, but it still rang through his head, dizzying and dark.

He was back in the Fortress of the Seven Towers. Mert’s sneer and Talat’s blurred together, that same gleam of pleasure in their eyes at someone else’s pain and suffering.

“I did you a favour, really.”

Atesh blinked and ducked as another punch hit his brow, exploding with pain. No, he wasn’t there, he was here, and this man had hurt Quin and others, and Atesh didn’t know if she was even alive any more. He gritted his teeth and sank a solid blow into Talat’s belly, driving the breath from his lungs, stopping him mid-punch.

With a twist, Atesh’s sword was free, but he was too close to use it.

And now Talat’s was also free – he slammed its hilt against the cut in Atesh’s thigh.

Swearing at the explosion of pain, he staggered as the wound ripped open, warm blood soaking his trousers.

Talat smiled and nodded, taking a step back. He must have realised the difference in the rapier’s reach – the reports said he’d used a knife to kill those women. He drew his arm as if to thrust, but no thrust came.

Instead, he grunted and dropped to one knee.

Atesh rubbed his eyes, pushing away blood and sweat. He blinked at movement behind Talat.

A pale shape, ghostly in the lamplight.

Quin?

Throat thick, a moan escaped his lips. She was alive.

But Talat spun on his knee towards her, arm still coiled to thrust.

No – he couldn’t …

Atesh sprang forward, and his blade met blessed resistance at last. Gritting his teeth, he pushed and pushed, steel disappearing just below Talat’s ribs.

Choking, Talat turned, twisting the rapier from Atesh’s grip. Even impaled with a sword, he turned quickly, blade flashing closer.

Eyes wide, Atesh jerked away, wobbling as the weight fell onto his injured right leg, pain lancing. He slipped on the paving, slick and red with blood, and smacked against the floor as steel whistled above his head.

He had to keep Talat’s attention off Quin. He couldn’t see her behind the brute of a man, but the gods only knew what condition she was in. Hundred, had he imagined her there – a foolish hope ghosting in his vision? In case she was real …

Heel lashing out, he caught Talat’s shin, but the man just smiled, sword flashing in the lamplight above Atesh’s head.

Face twisted and contorted, Talat’s sneer dissolved into rage, but there was still that glinting pleasure in his eye. Atesh tried to scrabble away, but the pavement was too slippery to gain more than a few inches.

He stared. This was death. At least he’d perhaps bought Quin time to run.

The blade reached its zenith.

And stopped.

Talat’s eyes widened.

Crimson. It splashed down Talat’s front, leaving glinting wetness on his black clothes, and onto Atesh’s legs, warm.

Next to his open throat, a fan edged with red glinted, trembling.

Gurgling, Talat collapsed, Quin’s sword skittering from his hand to clatter against the paving stones, Atesh’s sword quivering in his back.

Behind him, she stood, chest heaving, fan in her hand, face and cream gown soaked in blood like a grim watercolour.

Alive. She was alive.

Talat stared at her, mouth opening and closing, a grotesque bubbling sound coming out.

She stared back, eyes round, unblinking as she wiped the fan on her gown. A soft grind of metal sounded as she closed it, then dropped it into her pocket. Her chest rose and fell before she spoke. “That was for Ela.”

Ela. He’d heard that name recently – a newspaper article about the Destroyer.

She’d known one of the victims. Had almost been one herself tonight.

Atesh surged to his feet and grabbed her, to be sure. But she was solid under his hands as he pulled her close and beneath the coppery smell of blood and the dank stench of the fountain water, there was still a hint of roses from her perfume. She shook under his grasp, and he had to catch her as she fell. Her arms wrapped around him, but her grip was pitifully weak, where usually she was so strong.

“You’re alive,” she said, voice quaking.

He laughed against her crown before pulling back to look at her. Dark hair plastered to her face, still soaking, but her amber eyes shone clear and bright and alive. “That’s what I was going to say to you.” He cradled her, the pain in his thigh and face and torso dim against the relief of her living warmth.

“But …” She ran her fingertips over his brow and jaw, touch featherlight. “You –”

“I’m fine. At least I am now.”

The Destroyer’s gurgles faded. Stillness.

Atesh turned and limped from the courtyard, still holding her. Given the choice, he wouldn’t ever put her down. “What say we never go near another maze again?” He squeezed her thigh. She was no ghost.

She snorted and closed her eyes, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Agreed.”

* * *

Quin shivered, despite Atesh’s arms around her and the warmth of his chest against her side. Now the fight was over, her sodden gown chilled her, letting the cold in like a broken window in winter. Holding her close, he strode through the maze towards the exit.

They’d bumped into Derry and Ariston as they’d left the courtyard. With assurances they were both well enough with no injuries that required immediate attention, she’d told Derry and Ariston to go and check Talat was definitely dead. Before he’d left, Ariston had shared a look with Atesh, one that showed no surprise at his presence.

No prizes for guessing how Atesh had come to be here tonight.

“You cut his throat,” Atesh said, frowning. He claimed to have no critical injuries, but that bob in his gait continued, and blood streaked from his brow and down his cheek. “Does she really need to check him?”

She snorted. “Yes. I was wrong once before with Alora; I won’t make that mistake again.” Lightly, she traced her fingertips over his cheek, the bruises hot and damp under her touch. The cut on the back of her hand throbbed at the movement, but it was only pain. Hundred, the pair of them had taken a beating, but they were alive. “Are you sure you’re –”

A collective gasp. Bright lamplight.

Atesh halted at the mouth of the maze, eyes wide. She blinked away the sudden brightness now they’d left the shadow of the hedges. Her stomach plummetted.

Four nobles stood around the entrance, two were men with rapiers drawn. All four stared at her and Atesh, eyes wide. One woman covered her mouth.

She couldn’t blame them for gasping or staring or drawing weapons – they must have looked a sight. Her in a white gown stained with blood and green moss or scum or whatever had lined the fountain’s basin, a cut on her shoulder. He with a bruised face, split brow, and that limp.

Swallowing, she looked up at him. Maybe they wouldn’t recognise him in –

“Your Highness,” the woman who’d covered her mouth said, lowering to a bow. The others followed suit.

So much for that. Buggeration.

He raised his eyebrows as if thinking the same thing.

“Sire, you and the lady are injured,” one of the men said, wide brown eyes raking the pair of them as he took a step forward. “I can send for my surgeon and –”

“No,” she blurted past the tightness in her chest. Gods, all they needed was more people here seeing her and Atesh in this state. Her body tensed. She needed to run.

The brown-eyed aristo straightened his back, one eyebrow raised.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Atesh said, his smile smoothing the aristo’s ruffled feathers, “we have an apothecary en route. However, we do need janissaries.” He glanced at Quin and squeezed her knee before lowering her to her feet. He kept an arm around her waist. “Lots of janissaries.”

“Of course, Sire.” He bowed and hurried off towards the nearest exit, the other man following.

She leant close to Atesh. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered, removing his cravat and tying it around his thigh. It still bled and looked worse than she’d expected – Derry needed to check it soon. “Word’s going to get out about” – she nodded towards the maze – “and they can’t know we were involved.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head, the bruises and blood lending him a roguish aspect. “It’s too late for that. We’ve been seen and recognised. People talk – four people become eight, become sixteen, and on and on.” His breath tickled her ear, and he kissed her cheek, putting on a show of this being just a lovers’ exchange.

The two women stood a polite distance away, murmuring between themselves, but their gazes flitted over with ill-concealed curiosity.

“But perhaps,” he murmured in her ear, “we can use their talk to help you.”

She frowned up at him. How could idle gossip bloody well help?

He stroked her hair. “You’ve killed the Destroyer.” His words were soft, but they made her flinch all the same. She was a killer. Again. “You’ve saved the city from his clutches – if people know, they’ll love you for it. It’ll boost your reputation, perhaps even counteract the unpleasantness.” His eyebrows rose in expectation.

Looking away, she ran her tongue over a jagged cut on the inside of her cheek; it throbbed from Talat’s backhanded blow. She’d succeeded all these years as a con artist and thief by avoiding drawing too much attention to herself. At least not the wrong sort of attention – anything that suggested she was more than a pretty aristocrat in need of a husband.

But hadn’t she already drawn attention to herself and plenty of it the wrong sort? The elephant attack. Chasing Zeynab’s assassin through the masquerade. The horrible things Terzo and Lucia Kartal had said and believed about her. Supposedly being escorted from the palace by janissaries after Atesh’s investiture. And that was only what was common knowledge.

Sighing, she rubbed her face.

He took her hand, frowning at it. “You’re still bleeding and freezing. Besides,” he murmured, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, “if you’re leaving soon, what does it matter?” Gently, he bandaged her hand. “At least I’ll get to celebrate you as a hero, and you’ll leave the city in a blaze of glory.” She didn’t need to see his face to know he said it with a lopsided grin – she knew the sound of it in his voice.

She scoffed. Celebrate her as a hero. Such nonsense.

He held her close, pulling his coat around her, his body heat seeping through her soaked gown. Gods, that was good.

A gasp sounded from the women. They’d been joined by another three aristos, a woman in crimson with a man on each arm. They all stood together, heads bowed, Crimson looked to the other two women as they spoke, rapt as they must have attempted to explain the situation.

“… a tryst … janissaries … ménage à trois or affair gone wrong …”

“Bloody hells,” Quin muttered. That was all they needed, a story like that doing the rounds. She sighed, shaking her head. They didn’t have a choice, did they? Here she was, bedraggled, covered in blood, with an injured Pasha Regent, in the middle of the night in the Watergardens. There was a story to that, and it would be told. “If we don’t tell the story, someone else is going to make it up for themselves, aren’t they?”

His mouth flattened, and he nodded, rubbing warmth into her arms. “We’re going to need an official version of events, not only for them but for the janissaries, too. I don’t want you getting into trouble with Porto for playing vigilante.”

A sharp laugh burst from her. He didn’t know the half of it. How much more trouble could she get in with the sergeant?

He raised his eyebrows in question, but she was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Derry and Ariston, the latter carrying their swords. Derry hustled them to a nearby bench and checked their injuries. She examined Atesh’s thigh and bandaged it more tightly – it would likely need stitches when they got home, as would the hole in the back of Quin’s hand. Otherwise, they had shallow cuts and bruises, no broken bones, but she wanted to listen to Quin’s chest when they got home.

A huge bottle-green coach rumbled towards them, a familiar janissary sitting beside the driver.

Quin exchanged a glance with Derry. Time to find out how much more trouble she was about to get into with Porto.

The carriage stopped, and a dozen officers spilt from its doors, quickly directed by Porto to enter the maze or guard its entrance. He gave her and Atesh one look, eyebrow raised, before digging through the trunk at the back of the carriage and pulling out a blanket. He approached and handed it to Quin.

The wool scratched, but it was thick and warm and welcome against the wet chill that had her skin covered in goosebumps. She pulled it around herself and nodded her thanks.

What was she meant to say?

A pair of tall janissaries cleared their throats and beckoned Derry and Ariston to one side, no doubt for questions, leaving Quin and Atesh alone with Porto.

He watched his colleagues retreat from earshot and then sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You just couldn’t wait, could you?” Brows lowered, he gave her that look again – the same one he’d given her when they’d spoken about her theft from Lucia. He didn’t need to say what am I going to do with you? That look did that for him.

At her side, Atesh stiffened.

Whatever the two aristos had said, Porto had worked out what had happened, or at least enough of it. She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Did this break his rules? Was he going to have to arrest her this time?

He folded his arms, tapping one finger. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? Not at you, anyway.” He shook his head at her, and his eyes turned to Atesh. “But you, Sire” – he sighed – “I expected more caution from you. We don’t have enough Shahins left to send them running willy-nilly after murderers in the night.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s what you two have been doing, isn’t it? Hunting him? Hundred help me, do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to cover up your involvement?”

Nigh on impossible.

Atesh cleared his throat. “I don’t think that will be necessary … or possible. We’ve already been seen.”

He looked at her, his raised eyebrows saying this was her decision.

I’ll get to celebrate you as a hero.

Maybe it would help her reputation. And if it didn’t, well damn it – he was right, she was leaving soon, so what did it matter?

She took a long breath, swallowed, and told a version of the story – not one that could be officially reported, but one Porto would surely accept and one the gossips would read between the lines of the official statement. Atesh chimed in to confirm or add details to the story, but he let her take the lead. She and Atesh had arranged to meet for a liaison here in the Watergardens. As she’d waited, the Destroyer had attacked her. Thankfully, Atesh had been nearby and heard her cries. Between the two of them, they’d fought and killed the Destroyer, sustaining only minor injuries.

As she finished, a janissary hurried out of the maze and offered his report. Porto gave her a quick frown before taking his colleague to one side for a discussion in lowered voices.

She fidgeted. Did he believe her? Or at least believe her enough. Surely their injuries proved they’d only killed in defence as Atesh had when he’d stabbed Erdem on the scaffold. Besides, Atesh had backed her up, and the Pasha Regent’s word had to count for something.

Atesh rubbed her arms and pulled the blanket up around her neck. “A plausible story,” he murmured.

Porto returned, dismissing the younger janissary. He watched her, lids lowered, mouth straight. “And you both just so happened to have your rapiers?” He raised an eyebrow at the sheathed swords resting against the bench where Ariston had left them.

“You might think me foolhardy, Sergeant,” she said, head cocked, “but I do have a streak of self-preservation. Of course I’d bring it to a nighttime rendezvous in the very place the Destroyer had previously struck.” She smiled. This was better. Half-truths were familiar territory, easy, and this story had no direct contradiction, only Porto’s supicions.

He pursed his lips and glanced at Atesh, who raised his shoulders in a shrug. “What can I say, sergeant? A gentleman is rarely without his blade.”

Light flashed off Porto’s spectacles as he lifted his head – the flash blocked her view of his eyes, but he must have rolled them at that moment. “Luckily for you two, it seems there will be enough evidence to confirm Talat was the Destroyer.”

He explained his colleagues had found a key on Talat’s body – the numbered type the nicer lodging houses used. How in the world could he afford such a place, especially when he hadn’t been stealing from his victims?

Tomorrow – no, it was gone midnight – later today, Porto and his men would set out into the city, searching for the door that key unlocked. They’d already found evidence linked to one of the murders at his mother’s house – a necklace belonging to Yeshim. Surely there would be other trophies at his rented room when they found it.

That would be enough to prove once and for all that he was the Destroyer.

“It sounds as though the pair of you” – his gaze flowed from her to Atesh – “have done the city a great service. Not that I approve of your involvement or putting yourselves in unnecessary danger, but …” He glanced around and took a step closer. “Unofficially, thank you. I’ll file my report as per your version of events, and I’ll need a signed statement from Lady Sabia, but that should be the end of the matter.” Of course, now Atesh was Co-Regent, he had immunity, just as Ilyas had enjoyed during Atesh’s trial – he’d only testified out of choice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finally catch sight of this Destroyer.” He bowed briefly and stalked into the maze.

As per your version of events. So he knew they hadn’t been entirely truthful, but either he couldn’t contradict them or was choosing not to. Once again, she owed Porto.

Now they were no longer under direct janissary supervision, the bystanders from earlier, their numbers swelled by another half dozen or so, approached the ring of lamplight surrounding the bench.

The woman in crimson came closest, her eyes round, roving over Quin’s split lip and Atesh’s bruised and bloodied face. “Is it true? Did the Destroyer attack you?”

Atesh squeezed Quin’s shoulder, avoiding the cut, and gave her a quick smile. Together, they answered the aristos’ questions. What happened? Were you afraid? Is he really dead? Was he as huge as they say? And out came their story.

“So you rescued her, Your Highness,” one of the gentlemen said, nodding in approval. “An excellent show.”

“And so romantic,” Crimson said with a sigh.

Urgh, was this how they’d paint the whole event? Quin cringed.

Atesh’s stroking of her arm ceased. “Not quite, it –”

The low roar of a sabrecat silenced them all.

His face scrunched in a grimace. “Oh dear.”

She followed his gaze. Decimus rode a spotted sabrecat towards them, a large black cat following – Atil. The bodyguard’s jaw squared: no hint of his dimples tonight.

Wincing, she leant towards Atesh. “You didn’t tell him about all this, did you?”

“I gave him the slip.” He gave a strained smile to the gathered aristos. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Crimson and her companions nodded and backed away to quiz one of the janissaries guarding the maze.

Decimus dismounted and tethered the sabrecats to a lamppost before approaching, back stiff, face tight, a small line between his eyebrows.

“Sire,” he said with a perfunctory bow. His gaze passed over them both, lingering on Atesh’s face and her bloody gown. “Madam.”

“Decimus, I –”

“Permission to speak plainly, Sire” – he drew himself up to his full height – “to Atesh Shahin, not to His Highness.”

“You always have permission from me to do that.” Atesh’s voice was soft.

Decimus huffed a harsh breath. “I cannot believe you – did you even stop to think this through?” He skewered first Atesh, then Quin with his gaze.

So she was in trouble, too. This had been her plan, so that was probably fair. Although Atesh’s presence was entirely Ariston’s idea. She kept her mouth shut, though – a muscle in Decimus’s jaw twitched as he looked between them and it didn’t invite excuses.

He raised his eyebrows. “If you’d been killed, who do you think they’d have blamed?”

Atesh winced.

“And how do you think the life of a Captain would go when the Pasha Regent died on his watch?”

Not well. Would he have been stripped of his rank?

Atesh’s gaze lowered. The pained look creasing his face said his thoughts turned in the same direction. “I’m sorry, Decimus. You’re right, I didn’t think it through. I” – he glanced at her – “I needed to ensure Quin was safe. I couldn’t leave her to face him.”

Decimus’s chest rose and fell deeply. “No, I suppose you couldn’t.” He sighed and took a step closer. “But you could have trusted me – I wouldn’t have told anyone” – his voice lowered – “just like I haven’t told anyone about the nights you two spend together or the, frankly, odd arrangement of Lady Sabia’s household.” He gave her a look, mouth flat, eyebrow raised, so severe it didn’t seem right on his usually friendly face.

She grimaced. He did indeed already have plenty of information about them that could have been damaging. “He has a point.”

“Atesh, I count you amongst my brothers,” he said, voice thick. “I’ve never told anyone your business and I never would.” His gaze flicked to her for the barest instant before returning to Atesh. “Like Octavius.”

Octavius? One of his older brothers – away in the army at present, but a good friend of Atesh’s. She frowned. What did an absent brother have to do with anything?

Atesh sighed. “That is true. More than true.” He nodded and turned to her, shoulders hunched. “In our teens,” he said, voice low, “Octavius and I …” He trailed off, gaze slipping away as if there was something he didn’t want to say.

Which could only be … “Oh!” They’d been in a relationship and Decimus hadn’t spread that secret. “You were together?” Atesh gave a tight nod. “I see.” No wonder he’d been such close friends with the whole Sadik family – he must have spent a lot of time with them.

He watched her, a flicker of worry on his brows.

She shrugged. What did it matter who loved whom? “It makes no difference to me. Not to scandalise you, but you’re not my first lover, and your predecessors haven’t only been men.”

He blew out a huh, and the tension left his shoulders and face as the breath left his lungs. He smiled and pulled her close. “I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised by anything about you, should I?”

Decimus cleared his throat. “There are many who wouldn’t be as calm as you are at that news, madam –”

“Quin,” she said, “permission to speak plainly, remember. Please call me Quin.”

He opened his mouth but closed it quickly and nodded. “Quin. Very well.” He turned to Atesh with eyebrows raised, earnest intensity in his gaze. “You both know how that information could be received, and in all these years I’ve not breathed a word of it to anyone. Atesh, what more must I do to earn your trust?”

Atesh sighed. “I’m sorry, Decimus – I didn’t think of it like that. You have it – you do. I only kept it from you for Quin’s sake.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It was even secret from me, Decimus, so I’d try not to take it too personally.” She flashed him a grin that shot pain through her face and made her hiss. Cradling her cheek, she elbowed Atesh. “I presume Ariston invited you?”

His lifted his chin, unrepentant. “Just as well he did.”

She could be dead now if not for him. That water covering her mouth and nose, the burning in her lungs – they still felt raw. She’d been playing dead, but she’d been right on the brink of actual unconsciousness. Almost certainly dead, if he hadn’t shown up right then. How long would Talat have waited before cutting her open? She shivered, clutching the blanket. Another name on his list of victims. Another object amongst his trophies.

Swallowing, she leant against Atesh. Despite the lecture she’d given Derry and Ariston, despite her attempts to keep him close and distant at once, he’d managed to become part of their team. And his presence came with Decimus’s.

The bodyguard raised his eyebrows. “So no more sneaking off, then?”

Atesh held his hand out, palms up. “I’m afraid not all my secrets are my own” – he shot her a look from the corner of his eye – “but if I want to go somewhere without you, we’ll talk it through first.”

Decimus watched them for long seconds before huffing a sigh, shoulders loosening. “That’ll do.”

“Come here, little brother.” Grinning, Atesh rose and grabbed Decimus in a brief hug, clapping him on the shoulder.

The bodyguard stiffened at first, but then a low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and he fastened his great arms around Atesh, lifting him from the ground for a second. “Not so little anymore.”

She watched them, chest tight, eyes stinging. She’d lived for years with the fact her secrets kept her away from others, Atesh being only the most recent example. But now those secrets had slithered between him and the people he cared about. If she left, he might miss her, but he wouldn’t have to lie to them anymore. If she left, it would be for the best. Maybe.

She smiled, the expression stiff on her cheeks and not just from the pain. “I’m glad you two have made up.”

Atesh dragged himself from Decimus’s grip and covered a yawn. “Do you think Porto will let us go home to bed?”

She rubbed her face and pulled the blanket tight. Hold on, when had it become if she left? Gods, she needed sleep – she wasn’t thinking straight. “You’re the Pasha Regent, I don’t think he gets to let you do anything.”

Her limbs ached, her shoulder stung, her face throbbed, and her eyelids drooped. She bit back a sigh. She had to face Red, tell her Talat was dead, but that was for tomorrow. For now, sleep.

Rising, she slipped one arm through Atesh’s and the other through Decimus’s. They gathered Derry, Ariston, and the sabrecats and made for Neorion Square.

47

Good News

Holding up her grey silk skirts, Quin stepped out of her carriage on the edge of the Gutter Streets. Her limbs ached, still weak with exhaustion. Atesh stood there in a mask, offering his arm. That he was here of all places only added to the sense that this was a dream, but since the moment she’d killed Talat, he’d refused to leave her side.

That still felt unreal.

His blood had soaked that hand, her dress, the ground. That was undeniable. Even once she’d sat in a bath scrubbing and scrubbing, the ghost of it was still there, sticky and slick on her skin. Her fingers twitched, and she drew them into a fist to hold them still.

She’d killed Talat.

Atesh looked down at her and squeezed her hand where it sat in the crook of his arm, careful to avoid the stab wound Derry had stitched last night. “Are you sure – I mean I’m sure whatever this message is, you could write or even invite the person to the house. You almost –”

“But I didn’t.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “You refused to leave me this morning, but I still have things I need to do today. And this I need to do in person.” She shook her head and led the way along Kahvesi Street, Decimus a grey shadow on the periphery of her vision. “I can’t quite believe I’m bringing you here.”

Atesh opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, closed it and nodded. He shot her a sidelong look. “Understood. I’m sorry – I just” – he shook his head – “I thought you were dead when I saw you not moving. And I can’t…” His jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck corded. Beneath her hand, the muscles of his arm solidified.

“I know,” she said and smiled, reaching up to adjust his mask. She’d insisted on that precaution. It was one thing that this morning’s papers proclaimed Pasha Regent Duels Destroyer – Victory, they didn’t need to add another dimension to the strange turn of events by having him seen on the edge of the Gutter Streets. She’d managed to hide the worst of the bruises on both their faces with makeup – her disguise kit had its uses. He’d said she was being overcautious – it wasn’t likely people would recognise him with a cut brow and bruised cheek – but she’d pointed out that he’d almost looked as bad at his execution. She shivered and huddled closer to him as they walked. “I understand. I was loath to leave you that day on the scaffold.”

Atesh nodded, and his gaze roamed the street ahead. Last night, Derry had stitched the wound on his thigh, but the limp had already much improved. He claimed he healed quickly and it looked like it was no bluff exaggeration.

People smiled and walked and dipped into shops and walked in couples or groups or even alone. A woman sold spiced buns at an intersection, her wares drifting cinnamon and ginger scent through the air, making Quin’s stomach growl. Atesh flashed her a quick grin, and she muttered an apology, face hot.

But even an ill-timed hunger pang couldn’t spoil the relief that had loosened her limbs.

Destroyer Dead. The way the tension on the streets had broken – no more worried huddles of people talking in hushed tones on street corners – the news had spread far and wide already.

“Last night was…” He sighed as if looking for the right word. “Intense.”

Quin scoffed and shook her head. “Always one for understatement.”

Talat was gone, his blood coating the paved courtyard at the centre of the maze. Before that moment, all she’d wanted was him gone, out of the way, dead if necessary. Anything that would make him stop.

But once they’d arrived home and the adrenaline and the gawking crowd of onlookers had faded away, she’d felt …

It wasn’t grief exactly. And it wasn’t quite sorrow. Although there was perhaps a strand of that woven into the complicated rope that had knotted around her. Pity, that was certainly there. Relief. Exhaustion. The full force of the wave of fear she’d been fighting in order to keep moving.

Even regret.

If she’d been able to capture him, he would have faced his crimes in a public trial, and undoubtedly the evidence would have led to a public execution. Justice for the city. Much as she hated the hangings, perhaps this one would have helped heal the tensions between the Gutter Streets and the wealthy districts, as she’d seen at the gates to the Watergardens. If he’d confessed in court, perhaps that would have given a sense of closure for everyone involved.

But the wildness in his eyes, the glee as he’d plunged her underwater. The way, even with a sword in his belly, he’d lifted his blade ready to kill Atesh … He wouldn’t have come alive. He’d given her no choice, but damn it she wished he had.

Then below that regret, there was a second strand of it … Talat had been a little boy once. A mudlark, like her, combing through dirt for pitiful treasure to feed himself and his family. He hadn’t been born a monster. He’d been made one. Forged in the cruelty of his childhood home.

He was a little boy who’d been abused in the gods only knew how many ways. Things Red had said … Hits … Screams … Bruises and swollen eyes … The time he couldn’t sit down because it hurt too much … Was it any surprise that he had turned that abuse outside to others? That he’d sought power over others, where he’d had none over his own life?

If his parents had been different, would he have grown into a different man? How many lives would have been saved, including his?

She sighed and closed her eyes.

“You know it’s not your fault, don’t you?” Atesh gave another intense look, angled towards her as though he wanted to gather her up again. “He’d happily have killed us both.” A shudder rippled through him. “I thought he had me at the end.”

“I know. I just …” How could she explain it all to him? It was impossible. She couldn’t tell him enough to help him understand how far back it all went. “I’m worried that you’re involved.”

“You needn’t fear for me.” He bent low to her and murmured: “I have no regrets about our decision to go public.”

“It wasn’t exactly our decision,” she grumbled. The reports so far hadn’t quite matched with the story they’d hoped would emerge. Perhaps predictably, Atesh came out the hero, she the damsel in distress, and Talat the monstrous villain. One report did acknowledge that she’d actually dealt the killing blow. Whether that was a good or bad thing remained to be seen when they next returned to society.

“No, but sometimes we have to make the best of a bad situation.” He gave her a meaningful look, eyebrow twitching.

It sounded a lot like their agreement to enjoy their time left together before she left. That time grew shorter by the second. Swallowing a sigh, she pressed against him as they walked. He was warm and solid as ever.

He huffed a long breath. “Look, about tomorrow night.”

Quin cocked her head. “Tomorrow?”

“Malos’s masquerade.”

She snorted. “Where did that suddenly come from?”

“The Pearl.” He nodded at the sign up ahead – a partially open oyster with a pearl caught between its frilled edges. Not exactly subtle. “Malos hires his dancers from there. I know I’ve been invited, but I’m not going if you’re not, so let’s spend the evening –”

“The Pearl?”

“Er – yes, I know what kind of establishment it is, but –”

She patted his shoulder, grinning. If he’d employed The Pearl’s dancers, she had her way in, even without an invite. Besides, there was still the chance of Malos changing his mind. “Don’t worry. You enjoy Malos’s dancers. If no invite appears as a result of recent news developments, I’ll meet you there.”

Although the dances were traditional – perhaps as old as the Hundred gods themselves – they were not dances for gentlewomen to perform. Never mind that Arianne Sultana had used them to seduce her own husbands. And never mind that all levels of society enjoyed watching and to be enjoyed, someone had to dance those steps.

Ever entrepreneurial, many of the higher-end brothels on the edges of the Gutter Streets provided the service. Their dancers performed for those who could afford it and sometimes circulated through the balls and parties afterwards, entertaining the guests in various ways. She knew those dances, and despite her bruised knee and the cut stinging her shoulder, she could dance them well enough.

He huffed. “But at Lady Kartal’s I said –”

“Please?” She looked up at him. “I need this. I need to get out of the house and drink and dance and laugh and” – she waved her hand – “let go.” It was an itch in her muscles, a side-effect from holding them so tense for weeks. Alora was still out there, but for now, she needed to enjoy the relief that Talat was taken care of and the women of Arianople that much safer. And she was curious as all the hells about Malos’s infamous masquerades.

His lips pursed. “You’re sure you can get in?”

“Positive.”

“But how?”

That was a long story. She cleared her throat. “We’re here.”

He peered up at the sign reading Ariston & Kasim, then back at her. “Your Ariston?”

“He’s the co-owner.” He didn’t need to know she owned the other half.

“That’s what legendary fencers do when they retire, is it?” Despite the mask, she could hear the raised brow in his voice – she knew that expression well enough by now. He opened the door and ushered her inside.

The bell rang, but Red was already looking up at them, head cocked, eyes narrowed at Atesh.

He stopped in his tracks, mouth open.

“Red?” He pushed his mask up, approaching the counter.

“It is you.” She laughed, shaking her head.

“Wait” – Quin frowned from one to the other – “you two know each other?”

“Of course. One of my favourite –”

“Yes,” Atesh said and cleared his throat. “How do you know each other?”

Quin pursed her lips, staring at Red, whose eyebrows shot up. She understood – keep quiet. “Long story. Lifetime long story. I suspect yours isn’t so long?” She raised an eyebrow at Atesh as she held the door open for Decimus. Once he was in and standing guard, she locked it and turned the sign to closed.

Atesh cleared his throat again and sighed, shrugging. “Well, I suppose you already know where I find a lot of the subjects for my paintings – Red was one of them.”

Red grinned, giving Decimus a quick nod as he took his place by the door. “Easiest zeri I’ve ever made.”

Atesh made the introductions between Red and Decimus, then glanced at the door leading to the back office, as if he expected it to open. “And your sister – how is she?”

All amusement vanished from Red’s face.

Cold washed over Quin’s shoulders. She swallowed, and her gaze dropped. She had to be the one to explain – she couldn’t put Red through that. “You didn’t hear?”

Lines etched between his brows, then his mouth dropped open with a low exhalation, his whole expression falling. “Ela – last night, you said …” He drew a shuddering breath, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry you’re finding out like this.” Quin swallowed and glanced at Red – she was very still, mouth a tight, flat line. “That’s what I came about.” Eyes locked with Red’s, she jerked her head to the back-office. Red followed the unspoken instruction, and Quin paused in the doorway. How was she going to explain to him that –

“I know.” He raised his hands, palms outward. “There are some places I still can’t come with you, yes? Much as I’m loath to let you leave my sight, I know I’ve got to at some point. Just promise you won’t run off anywhere.” He gave her a sad smile, eyes gleaming over-bright.

“No running. I promise.”

He nodded and waved her off, peering into one of the glass-fronted cabinets.

That man. Her gaze lingered on him a few moments before she closed the door. He deserved …

She sighed. He deserved more. More than she was giving him at the moment. More than she perhaps could ever give him. She swallowed and leant against the door before turning to Red.

“Have you seen a newspaper today?”

Red shook her head.

“I came because I needed to tell you in person.” Nodding slowly, Quin drew a long breath. “Talat is dead.”

Red froze, staring. Moments later, she covered her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes. She threw her arms around Quin. “You did it,” she said, voice muffled.

Mastering her surprise, Quin nodded. She closed her eyes and squeezed Red, despite the pain it sent through the cut on her shoulder. Even after all these years, Red’s scent of jasmine was familiar. Comforting. “I promised I’d never let him hurt you or Ela,” Quin said, voice cracking on Ela’s name, “and I failed on that promise, so I’d be damned if I was going to fail on this one.”

Red shook, sobs racking through her.

Swallowing, Quin stroked her back, making a soothing sound. Her own face was soon soaked with tears, shed silently. She would hold Red for as long as she needed.

Eventually Red pulled away, rubbing her eyes with her cuffs. She blinked at Quin. “I’m free. All my life, he was there …” She shook her head and perched on the edge of her desk. “All my life. It was good once, you know. He did … He kept me safe from the others. And he … Maybe in another world or another time or another place he wouldn’t have been …”

Quin sighed. “Maybe. It’s – I’ve had the same thought. He grew into what he was because of them. But perhaps there was always a seed inside him that they nurtured with their neglect.” She shook her head and knuckled the tears from her own eyes.

“Maybe.” Red’s breath quivered. “There are plenty who have that kind of childhood, especially around here, but none of them …” She shuddered. “None of them do what he did.” She raised her eyebrows. “Thank you. And it looks like I owe him a thank you, too.” She nodded towards the door. “I reckon that limp’s a parting gift from Talat, eh?”

Quin nodded. “We did it together, Derry and Ariston, too.”

“Quin, I…” She sighed. “I know we haven’t – we aren’t the friends we used to be. We aren’t the girls we used to be, after all. And I … Well, I know I don’t always give you an easy time. But this” – she gestured as if to take in the world around them – “this is more than just chucking coins into the Gutter Streets and hoping to make everything better. You acted. You acted as though we mattered. And you actually – gods bloody know how – fixed it.”

Quin shuffled under the weight of her gaze. For years now, all she’d wanted from Red was some echo of their old friendship. Or something positive at the very least. Who knew that would make her even more uncomfortable than the harsh looks and exclusion?

“Eventually.” Quin tried to smile, but the expression was brittle. He’d killed thirteen women. That didn’t feel like fixing anything.

“That’s all I ever wanted from you,” Red went on, “action. Showing you still cared. Ela knew you did, but I …” She wrapped her arms around herself and snorted. “It’s stupid, I know, but when your mum started teaching you all those new things, and you began to change, I thought you didn’t. Or maybe I didn’t want to believe you cared, because I was hurting too much and what you were doing looked fun. Pretty gowns and balls – that’s not the same as a street corner. And I knew that what your mum was teaching you and the plans she had for you were only going to pull you away from me. And damn it, Ela had it right” – she swallowed, eyes bright as they looked to the ceiling – “I was maybe even a bit jealous. You escaped, and you never had to sell any part of your body, only the promise of it. And I couldn’t do that.”

Quin stood frozen in place. She’d worked out some of it over the years, but hearing Red say it out loud was something else entirely. The fact Red was even talking to her in this way, that was …

Her gaze slid to the floor. What could she say? There were no words in the world for a friend whose own parents had sold off her virginity and forced her to become a professional. Not when Quin’s scams had skirted so close to the profession, but she’d always kept control of her body and chosen who to share it with.

“You’ve acted, Quin,” she said, taking a step closer, her oxblood leather shoes peeking into view. “Are you going to keep acting or are you going to leave us and go back to sending money from some new city?”

Quin rubbed her hands over her face before summoning the strength to meet Red’s gaze. “Honestly, I don’t know. Things have grown … complicated. I – my usual plans have all fallen apart.” She glanced to the door, the image of Atesh looking through the cabinet burned into her mind. “There are things I want, but I’m not sure if I can have them. I’m not sure how I could even make it work.” She pursed her lips. “You know he’s not just a painter, don’t you?”

Red nodded, mouth flat, eyes soft. “I know who he is.”

“And you know what I do. And if I stay, things are going to get more complicated. Maybe even dangerous for him. Certainly dangerous for me. And it isn’t only me … Livia, Derry, Ariston.” She puffed out her cheeks. “This isn’t a puzzle with an easy answer. It’s a day on the mudflats with no treasure and no dinner at home.” She smiled bitterly.

Red’s eyebrows shot up. She understood what that meant. The day it had all began. The day Quin had stolen a gold pocket watch after finding nothing in the mud. When she’d been desperate. When she’d had to try something new.

“A turning point,” Red murmured, cocking her head. “You care about him, don’t you?”

Quin bit her lip against the trembling in it. Care. That was an understatement. Waking with him along Kahvesi Street arm in arm, it was like a stolen kiss goodbye – a tantalising taste of what might have been if she could stay and truly be with him.

But Talat was caught, and it was time to leave Arianople.

The corner of Red’s mouth lifted. “He seems a good sort. For a posho. Maybe this is another turning point.”

“Maybe.” Quin gripped the door handle, poised to open it, heart drumming. She swallowed. “Do you think I could try something new again?”

Red smiled, the expression slow, soft – her old self. “I do. And with a bit of luck, it might work.” She snorted as Quin opened the door. “But the Blind Lady always did like you, so maybe she’ll grant it to you. If – if you need someone to speak to about … complicated things you know where I am.”

Quin squeezed the doorknob to hide the shaking of her hand. “Thank you.” Was Red right, could she try? Blinking away the threat of tears pushing behind her eyes, she walked out into the shop and took Atesh’s arm. “See you soon, Red,” she called back, and Atesh lifted his hand in a wave. Decimus bowed.

Together, they walked into the bright afternoon, letting the hustle and bustle of the streets engulf them as it pulsed through Kahvesi Street, alive.

48

A Most Scandalous Affair

Two evenings after he’d faced the Destroyer, Atesh stalked Malos’s ballroom. Quite a change from nights spent walking the streets of Arianople and considerably safer, but the place still held threats, even if they were gossip, rumour, and social cruelty, rather than death.

At least it was a masquerade, and he could hide behind a mask. Since the news had broken, newspapers had sent him countless messages requesting interviews, and a gaggle of reporters had even taken up residence at his gates.

This morning there had been more articles about him and the Destroyer, but only a brief mention of Quin. Perhaps he should grant one of the papers a joint interview with her, use it as an opportunity to push her involvement. She was the hero. He hadn’t told her, but he had another ulterior motive in pushing that narrative – if the city loved her, it would surely make Safira and Ilyas more inclined to give them permission to marry. Of course, she had to stay for any of that to be material, but one step at a time.

As well as the fresh newspaper reports, a clutch of letters had arrived, some from strangers, others from acquaintances he hadn’t heard from in years. None of them had written when he’d been imprisoned for murder or freed after his hanging.

His step faltered when he spotted the familiar lines of a tall man with angular shoulders and black hair. Malos.

Atesh’s nostrils flared. His black feathered mask suddenly seemed a good match for his mood. He hadn’t planned to attend the masquerade, as Malos had neglected to invite Quin even after news of her stopping the Destroyer. He had every intention of sticking to his declaration that he wouldn’t attend any function where she was not welcome. However, she’d been insistent she needed the break. He could well believe it – the past month she’d been coiled constantly, tight as a spring waiting for release.

Now he knew why. Carrying the weight of the Destroyer murders on her shoulders must have been a heavy burden. It was no surprise she’d staggered beneath it. She’d more than earned an evening of fun.

He frowned and glanced around the room once more. Decimus, his customary suit completed with a grey velvet mask, lurked near the windows on the far side of the room. Despite Decimus’s reproaches for his Destroyer-hunting mutiny, he’d managed to persuade his grey shadow that the anonymity of a masquerade warranted a longer leash, so the boy only followed from a distance.

No sign of her, though.

Damn Malos for not inviting her. There was no use in confronting him about it, and yet his feet were already carrying him towards the familiar figure.

Malos peered over his shoulder, face breaking in a grin as a breath huffed between his lips. His shoulders sank an inch. “Ah – here he is, the hero of the hour.”

As he faced Atesh, he revealed a willowy woman behind him, her black hair twisted in a simple chignon. Her lips were parted in a genuine laugh, hand brushing her collar bone, but now both fell, her mouth thinning to a cold smirk. Even wearing an emerald-green half-mask, there was no mistaking Lady Kartal.

Perhaps this was why Malos hadn’t invited Quin.

Malos bowed, then clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m so pleased you came, I thought – perhaps you wouldn’t.” Behind his ruby-coloured mask, his gaze dropped.

Lady Kartal’s eyes flashed. “I knew it was all exaggeration.” She tossed her head. “It’s easy to say one won’t go where some chit isn’t welcome, but following that through is a different matter entirely.”

Clenching his jaw, Atesh gave her the most pleasant smile he could manage. “And you’d know so much about integrity, wouldn’t you, madam? Indeed, some would consider it hypocritical to cast aspersions on another woman’s reputation and then attend a masquerade hosted by the most notorious rake in Arianople, alone, unmarried and unchaperoned.” He paused, cocking his head. “Of course, I’d never say such a thing.”

Lady Kartal’s mouth dropped open. Delicate nostrils flaring, her lips pouted in a moue, and she huffed something under her breath before turning and stalking away.

Good. Let her have a taste of her own bitter medicine.

Malos opened his mouth, reaching after her, but she’d swirled too far away. He dropped his hand, sighing, and shook his head, staying at Atesh’s side. “Come now, cousin, you can’t be serious about Lady Sabia still?” He scoffed. “I mean, you were a catch before, but now you’re the Pasha Regent and the hero of the City of Cities, you could have any woman in Europa. And you must’ve heard all about” – his eyes widened – “oh, gods, you haven’t –”

“I’ve heard the lies, yes.” His tone came out low and clipped, harsher than he’d intended. Not as harsh, though, as his heartbeat, hard and fast and ready to boil. He took a step towards Malos, so there would be no danger of anyone else overhearing nor of misunderstanding. “And if I hear those lies once more, I just might call out the man who utters them, family or not.”

Malos scoffed. “A duel? Really? Look, you can’t shove that djinni back in its lamp. Even if it isn’t true, her reputation –”

“Her reputation is no concern of yours.” And didn’t seem to have been fixed by the Destroyer business, at least not yet. “All you need to know is that I’ll protect it with my life.”

Malos’s jaw flexed, his lips thinning. “Then why has your carriage been seen outside her house late at night?” His chin jutted, and his whole body angled closer, crowding into Atesh’s space.

How dare he? The man who’d cuckolded dozens of gentlemen, who never gave a second thought to the reputations of the women he briefly loved and left. At least Atesh would marry Quin if she’d have him. His hands flexed into fists, shaking at his side.

Eyes narrowing, Malos gave a narrow smile. “Hmm? Not so damn noble in your intentions, are you?” He clicked his tongue. “I would have proposed to her long ago, rather than making her my wh –”

“You dare say that word to me.” His blood burned, searing through his cheeks, across his back, down his arms. “You dare.”

Swallowing, Malos backed off. He huffed. “I saw her first, Atesh. It was only –”

“Saw her first?” It came out louder than he’d intended, but Malos had said those words in all seriousness. Atesh gave an incredulous laugh, shaking his head, and leant forward, planting his hand on the mantlepiece.

A pair of women chatting nearby quietened and glanced at them with wide eyes. Fanning themselves, they walked away to another part of the ballroom. Another half dozen people nearby watched him and Malos over the rims of their glasses.

Let them watch.

He swallowed and forced his voice quieter. “Hundred damn it, Malos, she’s not the last pastry on a serving platter. She’s an adult human being. If you think of her – or women in general – like that, she would never have chosen you, even if I hadn’t returned from the country.”

Malos sucked in his cheeks, chin raised, huffing out a sharp breath as his gaze dropped.

At least he seemed to realise how ridiculous he sounded.

Atesh shook his head. Malos was jealous. He’d flirted with Quin before Atesh’s arrival in town, but even by other people’s accounts, she hadn’t paid him particular attention beyond accepting group invitations that included the Uzuns to social engagements. He couldn’t blame the man for finding Quin attractive, but to think that meant he was owed anything or owed her payback in abominable treatment was ridiculous.

Decimus appeared behind Malos, eyebrows raised. He must have been drawn by the raised voices.

Atesh blew out his anger, the heat fading to warmth, and lifted his fingers to wave the boy off.

“Look, Malos, you’d do well to console yourself with Lady Kartal.” With her black hair, light brown eyes, full lips, and pretty face, her similarities to Quin had been noted by Nazli and Derry. Perhaps that explained Malos’s interest, even if she did have a nasty streak. Quin’s involvement in stopping the man who’d killed her friend didn’t seem to have softened her attitude. Maybe if they could find a way to emphasise Quin’s role …

He nodded towards the smoking room. “Now, I’m going over there to try and enjoy your ball before I say something we’ll both regret. You are my … cousin and I don’t have many of those left.”

Hundred damn it, he was further away from telling Malos the truth than ever. But did he even want to call the man brother with the way he’d been behaving under Lady Kartal’s influence?

“Enjoy the masquerade,” Malos said, voice flat. His eyes were already darting across the crowd, most likely looking for Lady Kartal.

He squeezed Malos’s shoulder, forcing a faint smile. “Just remember, Quin saved your life when she took down that elephant. You owe her, personally. And she faced the Destroyer and killed him – this whole city owes her. The least you can do is stand up to Lady Kartal and tell her that whatever she may think of Quin, she’s still your friend and you’ll invite her to your house as and when you please.”

Malos shot him a look, and his shoulders bobbed before he looked away again.

That would have to do for now. Atesh gave him a stiff goodbye and strode towards the smoking-room, Decimus on his heel.

Leaving this whole event sounded a much better prospect, but Quin might be here soon. It was bad enough she had to sneak in, but if she arrived and found him gone, that would be unforgivable.

The sweet, flowery smell of opium drifted from the room before he even reached the door. This was undoubtedly one of Malos’s parties.

Inside, a haze hung over low tables and seats, most occupied by men chatting and sharing pipes. Four men and two women had gathered in one corner, eyes half-closed, passing a nargile between them with languid movements. A copper flower on a chain dangled from the pipe’s brass neck, explaining their slow blinks and distant smiles and the way they lounged against each other, boneless.

To the left, a footman pulled back an empty chair, nodding to Atesh. The squat nargile there had no copper marker – no opium.

Opposite the offered chair sat a gentleman in a dark moss green suit, a large glass of red wine in his hand. He knew that grey and black beard and the determined line of his jaw.

“Ariston?” Atesh murmured and dismissed the footman before taking the offered seat.

A quick smile and Ariston nodded. “Sire,” he murmured, hazel eyes sharp, and drew on the pipe. The nargile bubbled softly.

Their table occupied a quiet corner, far enough from others to afford a degree of privacy. Atesh smiled at Decimus, nodding to an empty chair – there was no sense in the boy hovering in the doorway alone. He’d told Decimus that he didn’t need to stay apart all the time and, although the boy had softened with small groups, in public and larger gatherings he remained stiffly formal.

“When Quin said we all needed a bit of time to celebrate, I hadn’t expected her to be able to get the whole team here.” He smiled so Ariston would understand he was glad of the fact.

“I’ve heard about Malos Aksoy’s masquerades.” His eyebrows flashed at Decimus. “You’re in for a treat, Captain. Even I had to come and see for myself. Besides, relief is a rare thing for our team to be able to celebrate” – he offered the pipe – “at least when in Arianople.”

Atesh nodded, accepting the pipe. Understandable, considering their links to the harem. He took a breath of sweet smoke, gaze skimming the room. “Where is she, anyway?” He angled away to avoid exhaling on his companions.

“Not with me. I managed to sneak in with the butler’s help – I’ve known him a long time, and he took pity on an old fellow. Quin is … using her own contacts to get in.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

The footman returned, offering a tray of sherbet wine. Atesh took one, thanking the young man. He raised his eyebrow at Decimus and nodded at the other glass – it wasn’t as if anyone was going to attack him here, Decimus could relax.

The boy shook his head, though, and the footman retreated.

Atesh sighed. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here. I haven’t had a chance to thank you for involving me in your … project.”

“Your work that night was more than thanks enough for me.” Ariston shuddered.

Atesh nodded in understanding, and he gulped the sparkling wine, handing over the pipe.

Decimus cleared his throat softly. “I’d have preferred if you’d included me in His Highness’s assignment, though.” He cocked his head at Ariston.

Ariston’s lips pursed. He exhaled through his nose and lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps, but it was an assignment requiring discretion. Since there is no His Highness here and anyone mentioning titles at a masquerade would have to be terribly indiscreet, I have no regrets about my decision.”

Ha, a fair point. Atesh barely managed to keep his mouth straight as Decimus’s eyes widened for a second. Eventually, the boy pursed his lips and gave a single nod.

“Besides,” Ariston went on, “I wasn’t even supposed to be involving him, nevermind his entire entourage.”

The corner of Decimus’s mouth twitched. “I hardly count as an entourage.”

Ariston flashed him a grin, then sucked on the nargile’s rosewood mouthpiece. Once he’d exhaled a plume of smoke, his levity vanished, and he turned hazel eyes back upon Atesh. “If you hadn’t been there, Derry and I would have been too late. But Quin lives, and he does not, and he was only unable to finish drowning her thanks to you. So I’m the one who owes you thanks.”

Atesh swallowed and nodded. They all owed thanks to the gods that he’d managed to get through that maze. On his shrine, he’d left a whole bowl of pomegranates and three blood-red amaryllises, and he’d burnt a precious incense of lotus, frankincense, and dragon’s blood – offerings of thanks for their protection and good fortune.

“It seems we’ve discovered a common ground.” He gave a half-smile. “Though I have a secret about that common ground that I wanted to run by you.”

Ariston scoffed, smoke spilling from his lips. “Oh? I thought you were the one who was concerned that she was keeping secrets?” Through his mask’s eyeholes, his gaze remained on Atesh, as sharp and glinting as a rapier’s blade.

“This is a secret about her, and I only intend for it to be kept temporarily.” He leant close and explained about the poison pen letter.

Decimus maintained his military calm, but Ariston’s brows lowered at each of the accusations against Quin and his knuckles whitened on the nargile’s hose.

“Let me just” – Atesh removed the pipe from his grip – “before you break the damn thing.”

Ariston took a long breath and nodded, shaking his hand as if it had gone stiff. “Thank you.” His jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose. “And I suppose you want to know if there’s truth to any of that, don’t you?”

“Not at all.” Atesh shook his head. “Or, rather, I would like to know, but that’s not why I brought it up. I don’t want to know from you. When Quin wants to tell me, she will.”

The tension in Ariston’s jaw dissolved into an apologetic smile. “She does trust you, you know.” His hand fell as a solid weight, clapping Atesh’s shoulder. “In her own way. I think she will tell you eventually. It’s just … it’s complicated.”

Atesh studied him, eyes narrowed. For all that there were things he wasn’t saying, like Quin, Ariston seemed sincere. Ariston’s view of him truly had changed from the day they’d met. And perhaps his regard would have an influence on Quin.

“Thank you,” he said and nodded slowly. “I can wait for her. The reason I brought this up with you, however, was to get your thoughts on the matter. I’ve not told her yet, because she’s been so distressed recently following …” He lifted his hands – how to summarise all that had happened since they’d met? “That woman with a grudge against her, the Destroyer, the …” He’d been about to say the nightmares, but did Ariston know? He’d said enough to give an idea. “I do plan to tell her at some point, perhaps now the Destroyer problem is dealt with, but I wondered if you had any idea who might send such a letter?”

Ariston sighed, staring into the distance, brows low and brooding.

Atesh exchanged a look with Decimus. The boy tilted his head as if to shrug. Were there that many possibilities?

“Perhaps that woman – Erdem’s sister,” Ariston said and pursed his lips, “or perhaps someone with an interest in you, rather than her. Perhaps a relative or friend disapproves of the match.”

The match. A warm glow spread across Atesh’s shoulders to hear them referred to in those terms. He hid his smile behind a sip of wine.

The music changed – no longer a genteel quartet. A zither and drum set a low rhythmic beat. A few guests rose, following the sound.

Ariston grinned and emptied his glass in one gulp. “Ah! The entertainment’s arrived.” He rose and started towards the ballroom, pausing to hold his glass out to the footman waiting by the door, who held up a bottle of sherbet wine and a bottle of red. Ariston nodded at the red, and the footman refilled his glass.

Outside, a sparkling jingle of coins. Dancers.

He and Decimus trailed after Ariston. In the ballroom, they found a space at the edge of the now emptied dancefloor as women hurried in, light on their bare feet, sheer veils over the lower halves of their faces. Their traditional outfits flowed in a riot of colours – crimson, vermillion, sap-green, sky blue, indigo, cadmium yellow, violet. Long, loose trousers, layered skirts, flashing mirrors, and coined belts. Each item sang with the joy of movement. Their sleeveless sheer blouses would have been scandalous, but for the cropped waistcoats, fitted close to their busts, barely preserving decency.

Not that decency tended to be a concern at Malos’s parties – last year he’d employed two exquisite dancers, a man and a woman, who’d removed layer upon layer of clothing, until they’d danced bare but for the veils over their faces. When the dance ended, they’d stood there, straight-backed, eyes crinkled in smiles as they stared back at their audience, perfect in their pride. Whispers the next day said the duo had lured at least two couples into joining them in an out of the way parlour for entirely indecent behaviour.

Tonight’s dancers were all women, and they wafted on a wave of jasmine, lavender, and rose perfumes, their movements liquid, sending trills of sound from their coin belts. The veils only served to highlight their kohl-lined eyes flashing in the candlelight.

They circled the room as even more swept in, each twisting and turning their hands hypnotically. Their arms gleamed, skin shading from amber to smoked quartz.

Braids swept past as one woman turned, beads adding colour to her midnight hair. Another tall woman had only dark stubble, her brow decorated with jewels instead of tresses.

Murmurs accompanied the entry of a pale woman. Red hair peeked out from under an emerald green headscarf.

Derry. So would Quin also –

There she was. His breath hitched.

Her skin practically glowed against the hot coral of her outfit. Above the sheer veil, her amber eyes sparked, rendered sultry by the smudged kohl.

As she stepped into the crowd of dancers, her hips circled in a slow, deliberate movement, that made his fingers twitch. Her gaze swept the crowd, stopping once it landed upon him. Her arched brows flashed up, and she angled towards him, toes pointed with each step, the balls of her feet whispering on the parquet floor.

He yearned towards her. The rest of the room faded, the colours muted, edges dulling. His hands tingled to grab those hips that he’d held how many nights now? Guiding against his own, pulling closer, deeper, softer then harder, angling to better their pleasure.

The drum thundered on.

* * *

Pure movement, Quin turned and let the music and its solid rhythm carry her. Even with the mask, she’d have known him anywhere. She flashed him a smile that would show in her eyes, even if the veil obscured her mouth.

With each spin, she crept closer to him, now shimmying her hips only inches from his, but never quite touching. Her veil puffed with heavy breaths, but to move and tire her muscles when it wasn’t a matter of life and death – gods, it felt good. Even the sting of the cuts on her hand and shoulder were sweet in their own way – badges of survival.

The whisky she’d drunk in the Pearl with Derry, and the other dancers had certainly emboldened her. As Lady Sabia, dancing this way would have been beyond scandalous.

The drum struck three times in quick succession, and she took the cue, forming a circle with the other women, hips bumping up and down as they turned, arms raised. It had taken her away from Atesh, but she could feel his gaze burning into her back.

A thread tugged upon her, willing her to look at him, but she resisted. She smiled to herself. After all, this dance was meant to be a tease.

With the stamping of their feet, the rhythm sped and sped and sped, and their troupe circled.

On the opposite side of the circle, Derry met her gaze. Above the green veil, her eyes creased in a smile. Thank the gods, things between them felt normal again. Pursuing Talat had brought them together, had erased that ugly argument, and they’d been too busy to talk about leaving.

Hells, maybe that was even off the table – she didn’t know anymore. Derry hadn’t asked, and tonight wasn’t the time to think about it. Likewise, Quin had avoided probing Derry about her paramour, but she’d mentioned the woman once or twice of her own accord.

Derry, Atesh, Livia, Ariston, Red, Mrs Tepe. Quin swallowed. Her chest, her life, they were both full.

She matched the drum’s hurtling beat with feet and arms and hips and the shimmy of shoulders and the jangle of her coined belt, like the other dancers.

Faster and faster, each of them broke from the circle, letting the music carry them away until they all danced their own steps, united by one beat.

She stamped and revelled in the tremor each step sent up her leg, the slap of her foot against the floor, the searing of her lungs – it meant she was alive.

Corpses didn’t breathe. Corpses didn’t dance. Corpses’ feet didn’t sting as they thumped into the floor.

She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.

She spun, faster and faster, whipped up by the speed of the drum, skirts kicking out to flash layer upon layer of different shades of burning coral pink.

She fixed her gaze on one spot – his green eyes – and they kept her steady as she turned again and again.

Until, with a crash, the drum stopped.

The dancers dropped.

Her only movement was the heaving of breath in her chest.

The quiet rang in her ears after the frenzy of the music. She pressed her forehead to the floor for long moments, limbs burning.

Applause and cheers erupted across the room.

A dozen footman stepped out onto the dancefloor with pitchers of iced punch, handing glasses to all the dancers.

Before one reached Quin, a pair of familiar shoes appeared before her.

Atesh. She smiled and looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

His throat bobbed in a swallow, and he held one hand out to her. In the other, he had a glass dripping with condensation.

Her fingers twitched – she could grab him and pull him down beside her and mount him right here on the ballroom floor. Then the ache in her muscles would be all the sweeter.

She could, but she wouldn’t.

Instead, she nodded as though acknowledging a stranger and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet, but didn’t back away, leaving them just inches apart. He also didn’t release her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. He offered her the glass. Their gazes didn’t part.

Heat radiated from him, and his chest rose and fell with effort as he moistened his lips. In that stillness, he watched her accept and drink deeply of the zesty punch, slipping the glass beneath her veil. It burned on the way down – strong, then.

Sweet goddess of grain and grape, this was what she needed tonight. And he was what she needed tonight.

She drained the glass and held it out to a passing footman, thanking him briefly, before returning her gaze to Atesh.

“That was …” he murmured as the footman pressed a glass into his hand too, “incredible. If not for all these people, I’d take you right here and now.”

Quin’s chest hammered, and she leant close to him, almost touching, her body drawn to his like a sapling to the sun. “You’re not the only –”

A loud, deliberate throat-clearing at her shoulder. “Move along you two” – Derry put a pair of pointed-toe slippers on the floor next to Quin – “guests wish to dance.”

Quin blinked. A dozen couples stood around them. From the folded arms, they’d been waiting some minutes. A few whispered to each other, eyes on her and Atesh – had they recognised him?

She laughed self-consciously, face even hotter, as she slipped into the gold-embroidered shoes.

Ariston clapped Decimus on the shoulder. “Come along, lad, let’s leave these two in peace for a while.”

Decimus shot Atesh a quick questioning look, and the latter waved him away. With a nod, the bodyguard trailed Derry and Ariston into the crowd.

Atesh gave a low laugh and offered Quin his arm, never taking his heavy gaze away. She clutched his bicep and pressed against him, eliciting a hum deep in his throat, as they withdrew from the dance floor.

Wordlessly, he led her to a doorway, pausing to peer inside – half a dozen tables set up for cards, players already gathered around – before pulling her towards the next open door.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked, peering up at him.

“I’m looking for where there’s no one,” he said, voice husky. With a gulp, he emptied his punch glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

So the dance really had got him hot and bothered. Her body still throbbed, aching with want. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not likely here, but perhaps if we fix the problem with my glass, I could help find such a place.”

His green eyes, searing and dark, shot back to her, a frown etched between his eyebrows. “Problem with your glass?”

“It seems to be broken.” She upturned it. “See? Empty!”

His frown turned to a grin, all glinting eyes and bright teeth, the intensity of his search broken. He shook his head, blinking as if coming back to himself. “How many of those have you had? And” – he bent low, face inches from her cheek, and inhaled – “you smell of whisky, too.”

Her skin tingled at the touch of his breath, and her fingers itched to grab him. “Not enough,” she murmured.

“Perhaps we should go to mine and –”

“Not yet.” She shook her head, squeezing his arm. “I told you, I need to let go, I … I spend so much time clinging on to control, looking after M – Livia and Derry and Ariston and …” She couldn’t say the Gutter Streets. “And I play the part at every ball and party and concert and play. And those three nights waiting for him to step out of every shadow. I thought the tension would break me. I need to let it go, to fall, to lose control.”

Her chest heaved – the core of tension she’d been holding for gods knew how long, still holding out, but fragile. She needed to break it or drown it – rid herself of it, whatever that took. The dance had been a start, spinning and spinning, but her fingertips still clung on. If she could loosen them, just for tonight, she would fling out, free and light, losing Quinta Sabia, the weight of the Gutter Streets, even Quinta Guldan … She could just be.

A shudder shook her at the thought of it. The need for it.

She looked up at him. “But I trust you to keep me safe.”

Atesh’s eyes pierced her, his fingers plunging into her hair as if he were about to kiss her, sending prickling anticipation across her scalp, but instead, he paused, nose an inch from hers, and nodded. Straightening, he led her to the nearest footman, placed a drink in each of her hands, took one for himself and stationed himself at her side – her sentinel.

They drank and talked, sometimes with others, but mostly between themselves. They danced, bodies closer than the steps strictly called for. They weren’t the only ones – laughter and cries rose above the musicians. The dances grew wilder. There was even a waltz, forcing couples into each other’s arms, bodies almost pressed together, gentlemen’s hands at ladies’ waists, thighs brushing together. The intimacy of this new dance meant it had been banned at certain establishments.

But not in Malos’s house. Here nothing was banned.

Couples spun off the dance floor, falling together onto window seats.

A young widow ran through the dancers, beautiful and free in a way that made Quin’s chest ache. A length of fine linen trailed in her fingers, a white flag flowing in her wake. But it was no flag of surrender. Giggling, she glanced back with bright eyes as a young man followed in playful pursuit, shirt neck hanging open, cravat abandoned who knew where. That flag was an invitation.

Quin laughed to watch them, giddy from the whirling dances and the burn of alcohol. She stood opposite Atesh, awaiting their turn to come together and parade between the lines of men and women. Her limbs had grown heavy, and she frayed around the edges, deliciously uncaring if she placed a step wrong or –

Sod it.

Stepping forward, she grabbed the front of Atesh’s jacket and pulled him from the line, lifting her veil and planting her lips against his, her body upon his, a sigh in her throat.

Talat was gone. Red was free, and Ela had justice. The Gutter Streets could rest easy and the women of all Arianople’s districts with them.

She’d earned this. She staggered backwards, still holding him, their kiss searing and deep. Let them dance around us.

He had helped her and was still here, still hungry for her. The growl in his throat and the hands on her waist said it.

She might have to leave, but damn that for now. She pulled back an inch, gasping and searching left and right for – there. Wine sloshed as she grabbed a full glass from a passing footman’s tray and drained it in long, hot gulps. Sweet, sour, fruity, floral – it overpowered her, made her eyes water for a moment, but … What had she been about to …

No matter. Atesh still held her other hand, his pupils wide as he stared at her. She smiled, licked her lips and pressed them against his again, opening to his soft tongue. Then the ground was no longer beneath her feet, and his lips weren’t on hers, but his strong arms were around her. He’d lifted her, and now his intense gaze raked the path ahead as he strode with purpose, pausing to nudge open a door.

The cool breeze caressed her skin, pushing through her gauzy clothes to cool her back in delicious contrast with the heat of Atesh at her front. She gasped, letting her head loll back beneath the night sky.

So many stars. So dark a sky.

She smiled and kissed his throat, the stubble prickling her lips.

“Quin,” he breathed, lowering her to the ground, her back against a dark wall of the house, fluttering leaves against her arm.

His tongue upon her name drove her on, and she tiptoed to his lips, throwing herself into another kiss that said now. But he pulled away, shaking his head. His body, though, every inch of it, was hard against hers, belying his denial.

“Quin,” he said again, hands cradling her face, “we can’t – do you forget where we are?”

“Please.” So what if it came out as a whimper? She needed it, needed him, needed to follow where her body led. “I want you – I want to lose myself in you. I told you – I need to let go. No more control. Just for tonight.” Her hands sought the opening of his trousers, but he caught them and bent close, lips an inch from hers, blowing ragged breaths against her.

“You don’t want control, no, but do you want the consequences of neither of us having it?” His green eyes glinted in the dim light spilling from nearby windows. “Even wearing a mask, there are consequences.”

Consequences. Loss of control for tonight would leak out into other days and nights and on and on for weeks, months, perhaps even years … especially for a Co-Regent.

She might be able to run away, but he couldn’t. She winced.

“I want you to have what you need,” he said, voice rumbling through his chest, “gods, I do. I’d gladly give you anything in this world. But one of us needs to keep their mind.” He held her in his gaze. “Do you trust me to take control?”

She held her breath, and the answer was there, as clear in her mind as her own name.

Yes. Yes, she did. She always gripped the reins so tightly it hurt, but she could let them go, place them in his care. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but wasn’t that what trust entailed? Trust and faith … She’d never seen the Hundred gods, not their faces, but she’d felt their presence and trusted herself to them when she needed their help, when she reached for the Cards.

She had seen and held and touched Atesh and heard his voice call her name in sorrow, in frustration, in ecstasy. Couldn’t she trust herself to him? She clung to his hands as though they were the Cards that would save her.

Damn it, she trusted him, had faith in whatever it meant for him to take control. She squeezed his fingers – instead of the throb of magic, she felt the throb of his pulse. “I entrust myself to your hands entirely – for tonight.”

A second of blistering eye contract, then he kissed her with a ferocity that took her breath away, but, damnation, he pulled away far too soon. “Then let’s take this somewhere you can let go and won’t regret it in the morning.” He gave her a heavy-lidded look and a lazy smile, before sweeping down and hefting her over his shoulder.

“Atesh,” she gasped, but he didn’t respond and carried her back into the house. He instructed a footman to have his carriage brought round and strode through the middle of the ballroom, dancers be damned. It was as though she floated on their gasps and whispers. Many a breath quivered to see them pass, blowing them along their path, until they were in the hallway.

Quin grinned when Derry’s head poked out from a room, her red hair bright against the green headscarf they’d chosen together. Her cheeks were flushed above her veil. She’d been with her lady that afternoon and had seemed cheerful and relaxed ever since. Apparently, the lady in question wasn’t here as she had plans for tonight. That was all Quin had managed to get from her, but at least it was honest.

At Derry’s raised brows, Quin lifted her hands as if helpless, which she practically was – in any case, she didn’t want to fight, and that was almost the same as not being able to. Almost.

Derry’s laugh rang down the hall as she waved Quin away. “We’ll see ourselves and the bodyguard home,” she called before disappearing back into the drawing room.

Atesh’s shoulder shook in a chuckle, as he tightened his grip on her thigh. “You don’t have to worry about anything tonight,” he said, running a finger down the back of her knee so lightly it made her squirm, caught between ticklishness and pleasure.

He ran down the stairs from the front door, her dangling over his shoulder. As they passed, she winked and giggled at the slack face of the footman holding the door.

And to think this was a party she wasn’t deemed worthy of being invited to.

The creak of gravel and wheel sounded before Atesh opened the carriage practically threw her onto the seat. He flashed her a grin and clambered in, sitting opposite and slamming the door. “Are you sure you trust me?” he asked, slowly untying his cravat, eyebrow raised in the most wicked way.

The breath caught in her throat. What did he have planned? Because the way he watched her said he most certainly had something in mind. Her thighs tensed as a shiver trickled down her back. She nodded.

“Then give me your hands,” he said, holding the cravat taut.

She obeyed.

He called the driver’s name out the curtained window. “To Neorion Square, but take the long way.”

49

Roses in the Garden

Quin woke to the rocking lull of the carriage, Atesh’s bergamot and orange scent, mingled with sweat and their hot bodies, the creak of axles and clink of sabrecat harnesses. She smiled and blinked, rubbing her cheek against Atesh’s chest where it rested.

He stroked her hair, touch gentle. “So, you’re awake,” he murmured and kissed the top of her head.

“Hmm,” she groaned, stretching her legs where they rested across his. “How long have I been asleep?”

He shifted, lifting her head for a moment to pull out his pocket watch. “An hour and a half, almost.”

“What?” She jolted upright. There was no way it took that long to get back to her house from Malos’s.

A throaty chuckle shook his chest, and he drew her back against him. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you sleep without nightmares, I didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I told the driver to ride around.” He lifted the curtain, a blast of cool air flowing in the open window. “We’re not far from your place, actually. Five minutes, at most.”

“Oh.” She snorted and sank back against him, limbs heavy and warm, still fuzzy around the edges. Was that because of the alcohol or him? It had been a long time since she’d felt so relaxed. Hells, had she ever?

Holding her close, he reached up, knocked on the ceiling, and the carriage sped up – now purposeful, rather than killing time.

She watched the sway of his cravat, still tied to the handrail running around the ceiling of the carriage, and shivered. He had taken charge, and she had surrendered. And he had by no means abused that surrender. Her trust – if anything he’d rewarded it, filling her with pleasure until she brimmed over again and again, before taking it for himself.

Lids still heavy, she traced lazy lines over his shirt, pressing against his chest, his belly – the linen soft against her fingertips, his flesh taut beneath.

After, he had held her close and whispered a story to her – a nonsense tale of a distant land and its queen who walked amongst her people in disguise, helping them, righting their wrongs, mending their hurts with fantastical magic where she had but to snap her fingers and diseases were healed or meals appeared or … but she’d fallen asleep before the end. Most likely it had no end – he’d been making it up as he went, she was sure of it.

His breath rose and fell, slow and even in his chest – as contented as hers.

Tomorrow, she would decide. Or was it past midnight already? Whenever she next slept and woke and ate breakfast, that’s when she’d decide. She’d given herself permission not to worry tonight, to let go of all responsibility, all cares, all power, even. That could continue for some hours more, while she slept, at least. She sighed – tonight, while the moon ruled, was still theirs. The sun would bring the question but until then …

Her lids fluttered, and as she sank close to sleep again, the carriage drew to a halt. She sat up, blinking sleepily – yes, mostly tired, not so drunk now – as Atesh opened the door and hopped out, telling his driver to stay in his seat. “I’ll see to my lady.”

My lady. As if they were married. The words warmed her before she could begin worrying about whether they were possible or any greater implications.

She always had to ruin it. She shoved thinking aside – none of that tonight.

“Such a scowl,” Atesh murmured, leaning back into the carriage, “have I not pleased my lady enough tonight?” He tsked and shook his head. “Then I shall have to endeavour so very much harder.” He smirked and gathered her into his arms, lifting her from the carriage and carrying her up the steps.

Not having to walk – it was an unusual experience. Not one for every day, but for times like now when her limbs were pleasantly leaden, it would do nicely. She smiled to herself, fishing in her pocket for the heavy iron key. He held her steady as she unlocked the door, then shoved it open with his foot, pausing to turn and wave his driver off.

As he closed the door, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. This man. She sighed. This man.

“Dark in here,” he grumbled, turning slowly. “Where are the matches?”

Quin frowned. No lamps had been left lit. Mrs Tepe had stayed home, keeping an eye on Livia. She’d undoubtedly gone to bed hours ago. But when they went out for the evening, she’d leave an oil lamp lit, the flame low and safe within its glass guard.

But it was dark in the hallway and dark upstairs.

“Put me down,” she said and slid from his arms. She blinked, eyes adjusting quickly, as it had been dark in the carriage and only dim on the street outside.

As she pulled the matchbox from the side table, there was the soft ring of something metal hitting the marble floor – something small by the sound, that circled in place, ringing before settling.

“Do you need a hand?” His voice rumbled close to her ear. “Not sure you should be in charge of fire after the amount you’ve drunk tonight.”

She scoffed, the sound mingling with the fizz of her match igniting. A warm glow lit her hands and the side table. Everything was where it should be – the lamp in its place, nothing around it to get in the way should anyone need to light it in the dark. Then what had she knocked on the floor? Perhaps Mrs Tepe had left something else there in her haste to lock up or because she was tired. Maybe a key from her chatelaine?

“I didn’t drink that much.” She shook her head and lifted the glass hood of the lamp. “I just drank quickly.”

“Oh, yes, very different things.” He chuckled, hand resting on her shoulder. “I suppose Mrs Tepe has gone to bed, then.”

She pursed her lips. “Yes, but …” She frowned – the door leading down to the kitchen and Ariston’s rooms stood ajar. “She’d normally leave this lamp filled and lit if we were still out.” And she wouldn’t leave a door open.

“Perhaps Ariston and Derry have already returned and thought we were already home, so they’d doused the lamp? We did leave the masquerade over two hours ago.”

“True.” She sighed. “But Mrs Tepe’s quite particular about leaving this sideboard clear.” She held the lamp over the floor, searching – a small copper disc glinted.

“What’s that?” Atesh bent and retrieved the object, holding it out in his palm. “A coin?”

“What?” She snatched it from his hand, lifting it to the lamplight. La Serenissima, it read. The breath froze in her throat. Soldo. A whimper escaped her. “Did you drop this?” She searched his gaze, but he returned only confusion. “Did you drop this?” She shook it in his face.

“No, I – you knocked it off the side when you –”

But she didn’t stay to hear the rest. She ran upstairs. “Livia?”

This was a mistake. Talat was dead. He was the Destroyer – the one who’d left the coins. It had to be a –

Or a joke. A bloody sick joke. Someone was toying with her. Alora, maybe? She’d said she had plans. Playing a nasty trick like this was just her style.

“Mrs Tepe?”

Atesh called after her, and the thud of his footsteps said he followed – or was that the thud of her own heartbeat?

She panted, stumbling on a step, but carrying on to the second floor, lamp held high. It was a damn miracle she hadn’t dropped the thing, but instinct kept it balanced.

Livia’s door stood open. They kept it locked at night, so she couldn’t wander outside in confusion or fall down the stairs. Mrs Tepe knew that.

The room was empty, the bedsheets rumpled as if they’d been slept in.

Atesh caught up with her, taking the lamp from her shaking hands. “Quin, what’s going –”

“She’s gone.” She threw open every door on this floor and back down on the first, but the rooms were as they’d left them before the party – right down to the crumpled clothes thrown over the screen in the dressing room. “Livia!”

No reply.

Downstairs – that was more likely than further up, and the door to the basement stairs had been open. She ran down as fast as she’d fled Lucia’s house after the janissaries had spotted her. It grew dark as Atesh failed to keep up, but she was sure enough to jump down the final steps.

“Livia!”

Where was she? If Alora was playing a trick and had touched her, it had gone further than a joke. She’d wring her damn neck.

She shoved the door open, grunting, and ran down the steps and shouldered into the kitchen.

Light – a lamp on the table, flickering. Mrs Tepe slumped beside it.

“Mrs T?” Quin rushed forward. A crack under her slippers – shards of porcelain. A broken teacup – two more on the table and the teapot beneath its tasselled cosy.

Atesh stood in the doorway, lifting his lamp and staring. “Is she all right?”

She shook the housekeeper’s shoulder. “Mrs Tepe?”

Was she –

Above, the rattle of the front door lock. “Quin?” Derry’s voice rose from the entrance hall.

“Derry,” she tried to shout, but her throat was too tight to do anything more than croak.

“Down here,” Atesh called, striding to Quin, “quickly.” He patted Mrs Tepe’s cheek. “I think she’s …”

“What happened here?” Quin shook her head, rubbing her face. Where was Livia? Did she have something to do with this? Two cups. “Is one hers? I don’t understand.”

“One –”

“Atesh?” Decimus entered, Derry on his heel, both pairs of eyes widening as they took in the smashed cup and Mrs Tepe.

“Derry” – Quin covered her mouth – “is she …”

With a firm hand, Derry pushed her aside and bent low to the housekeeper. “Mrs Tepe?” Her voice fluttered in Mrs Tepe’s grey hair. She pressed her fingers to the housekeeper’s neck. A long sigh, shoulders sagging. “She’s alive – still breathing.”

“Thank the gods,” Ariston said from the doorway, Decimus behind. “What’s going on?”

“Livia’s not in her room,” Atesh murmured, the warmth of his hand stroked Quin’s back.

“Livia?” Ariston’s eyes widened, darting around the room as if he might spot something they’d missed.

Derry frowned, gaze skimming over the table. “Livia’s gone? What’s happened here?” She lifted the tea cosy and placed the back of her hand on the teapot. “Cold.”

Eyes sharp, Decimus strode around the kitchen, no hint of his boyish dimples.

Gathering information. Smart. Quin nodded and circled, taking in the room. Other than the broken cup and Mrs Tepe face-down at the table, it was all so normal. The scrubbed stone floor, the cabinets, the jars of rice and flour. The kettle on the stove with a few embers glowing cherry-red amongst the ash. No clues about Livia’s whereabouts in here.

Ariston rubbed his knuckles. “Perhaps she’s in my –”

“Your quarters. Yes.” Quin nodded. His rooms were on this floor, too. He and Livia had known each other a long time, and he’d helped her escape the palace on the Night of the Innocents – maybe she associated him with safety. She could have wandered in there or gone looking for comfort if she was confused or scared. “I’ll check.” She strode past him, out the kitchen door, past the bottom of the stairs, and into his quarters – a bedroom and a lounge, including a small bed intended for a footman that Decimus used when he stayed. She checked the narrow wardrobe and cupboards. Nothing here, not even under his bed.

Where was she? The question blocked her throat. Her chest tightened, breaths speeding.

When she returned to the kitchen, Ariston raised his eyebrows, the ghost of a smile on his face. So hopeful. She shook her head.

Derry lifted the lid of the teapot with a clink and peered inside, sniffing. “Peppermint tea” – she frowned, bending over and inhaling again. “Honey.”

Trying to take deep breaths, Quin scanned the room. There weren’t many hiding places in here, but maybe the larder? She could have hidden there if something had scared her …

Quin opened it – jars of food, a small pat of butter wrapped in waxed paper on a marble slab, empty pots. No sign of Livia.

Derry lifted the teapot, nose almost in it, eyes shut, a frown drawing her eyebrows together. She gasped, eyes flying open. “Laudanum! That’s the faint bitterness. I knew there was something else beneath the peppermint and honey.”

Maybe it wasn’t Alora’s sick joke, just a misunderstanding or an accident … Sometimes Livia asked for laudanum to help her sleep, especially when the aches stiffened her limbs and wracked her body. Had she done this? Maybe she’d wanted laudanum and had added it to the pot instead of only to her own cup. If they could piece together a story from this room, maybe it would reveal where Livia was.

She clasped her hands to stop them trembling, the movement pulling on her stitches. The pain felt dim and distant compared to this. They needed a direction – it would be no use running out into the night, searching blind, when there might be a clue here. Focus. Logic. There had to be answers.

“Laudanum explains Mrs Tepe,” Atesh said, pausing beside the older lady, pursing his lips, a deep line of thought etched on his brow.

Ariston tugged his beard and nodded. “It looks like she smashed her own cup as she dropped.”

Atesh circled the table. “And what about the other two cups?” He touched the back of a chair. “And two more chairs out. Three sat for tea.”

“Three?” Quin’s stomach lurched. She stared at the table – of course, she’d only taken in the two cups on the table and failed to account for the broken one. “One cup empty.” She picked it up and tilted it in the lamplight – the glisten of liquid. “Though it’s been used. The other, still full.”

“Someone drugged Mrs Tepe,” Derry said, pausing near the kettle, “and then didn’t drink their own drink.”

Quin struggled to swallow, throat dry and stiff. “It was deliberate.” Livia hadn’t done it – she couldn’t have kept her mind lucid long enough to remember not to drink the laudanum herself. Or was the third cup hers? She clutched her head – anything to still the thoughts, help this all make sense.

And the coin. The Venetian coin. Her hands shook as she raked them through her hair. “Someone’s been here. Someone’s been in our home.” Her wide eyes went from Derry to Ariston. Livia – where was she?

Derry frowned and gave a little reassuring smile. “Quin, it’s going to be all right. I’m sure Livia’s upstairs or –”

A chill gust blew into the room as Decimus opened the back door. “It’s not locked – key’s still in the hole.” He frowned, glancing at Ariston. “You don’t normally leave it in the lock.”

“Did anyone check the back door before we left tonight?” Quin blinked at how level her voice sounded, albeit an octave lower than usual.

“I did,” Ariston said. “It was locked when I said goodbye to Mrs Tepe and your …”

Quin clutched her chest. Her heartbeat thudded painfully heavy, erratic, tight. If she’d got out – she could be anywhere. Out in the city alone in the dark and cold in her chemise. The cold wasn’t the only threat for a woman alone on the streets of Arianople.

And the coin. A Venetian coin.

But Talat was dead.

She shook her head.

That coin had been on the side table, right by the door, ready for her to see upon returning home. Placed there. Deliberately.

Mrs Tepe had been drugged. Deliberately.

Their back door was open. Unlocked. Deliberately.

A low moan sounded in her throat. She shook her head, backing away from where all those answers led. With numb fingers, she snatched the lamp and ran outside. “Livia!” The leaves, the grass, the trees, the moon above all blurred behind the pressure building in her eyes, as she ran down into the garden, seeking left and right. Any sign. Any clue to where she’d gone.

There was no sound but her ragged breathing and the roar of blood in her ears. Something caught her eye, low, beneath a tree …

Pallor in the night. White cloth on the ground.

Stained red.

Not just cloth, a form beneath.

Quin blinked against the darkness pressing at the edges of her sight. A chemise fluttered in the wind. Pink trumpet-shaped nerines. Bare feet with dirty soles. Pale chrysanthemums.

She shook her head. No, this wasn’t …

She didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to know. It couldn’t be. But her traitorous feet stepped forward and the lamp lifted, though she hadn’t told her hand to rise.

Skin gleamed deep bronze, scars lit with golden lamplight, hands crossed over her stomach. Her eyes were shut. Peaceful but for the …

“Mum?” Quin’s voice soft and tremulous and drowned by rushing blood.

Blood. She wasn’t asleep. Dark at her throat, sticky on the white linen of her chemise, staining the flower petals nearest to her.

But. Talat was dead.

She shook her head. This couldn’t be. No.

The lamp rattled in her grasp.

Somewhere beyond her breaths and pounding heart, a scream. She covered her mouth – closed. Not her scream.

Hands took the lamp; they might have touched her shoulders too. Red hair appeared at the centre of the tunnel her vision had become.

Derry crouched beside Mum, touched her neck, choked, and collapsed to her knees. Her lips moved, and she shook her head. The roar became a deafening ringing in her ears – if Derry spoke, Quin couldn’t hear it.

They’d stopped him. She’d cut his throat for justice for Ela and the other women and for Red and herself, too. They’d saved the city from him.

But … the Venetian coin in the hall.

Wrong. She’d been wrong. The streets weren’t safe. She hadn’t saved anyone. She hadn’t achieved anything. She’d cut Talat’s throat for no one, for nothing.

And while she’d been out celebrating, drinking up the relief, telling herself she’d earned some fun, a blowout, the chance to let go for once, Mum had been lying here alone, in the dark beneath the cold stars.

“No.”

But she was gone.

The darkness dragged Quin down, drowning, deep.

Part III

50

Aftermath

Atesh crossed his arms, waiting behind the library door, fingers tapping on his bicep. The lower ground floor of the house crawled with janissaries. The only ones on this floor stood guard at the front door and occasionally filed in and out between the street and the door leading to the servants’ stairs. Through gritted teeth, he’d accepted the prudence of the Pasha Regent not being spotted at his lover’s home in the middle of the night.

In the middle of a double murder scene.

Double. Poor Mrs Tepe. Atesh had carried her to her bed, but when Derry had gone to check on her an hour later, she’d stopped breathing, and nothing she tried could bring her back.

He squeezed his eyes shut, frown painful with intensity. The poor woman. Derry had told him she was a widow with no close family. He’d have to find out details of any friends or distant relatives who needed informing of her death – perhaps Nald could help.

That would allow him to stay here with Quin.

Because gods, she couldn’t be left alone.

Not after that.

Her face, staring, frozen, pale. The lamp rocking in her trembling grasp. Her tremulous voice – Mum. To say that in front of him without even attempting to correct herself, she must have been shocked – no, beyond shock. Beyond horror. Not even at grief yet.

Mum. It was a confirmation of all he’d worked out, but it felt so far from victory, it made him shudder. Livia was Quin’s mother, not her aunt, and mum was a word used only by working folk – mama or mother were words for aristocrats and the middling sort who mimicked them. They’d die before letting anyone hear them say mum.

He glanced at the ceiling, in the direction of Quin’s chambers. He needed to be back up there with her, but he’d been summoned. When she’d collapsed, he’d caught her and brought her inside – so different from carrying her earlier in the night. Gods, had that only been hours ago and not days, weeks? She’d flopped in his arms, flickering eyelids and faint rise and fall of chest her only movement.

Derry had tried to act, but the sobs wracking her body once she’d confirmed the worst had paralysed her.

Ariston, though, his reaction had been worse. Pale and still in the face, like Quin, but it was as though his body were one of the cogged figures he made – a soulless automaton with only predetermined movements.

After Atesh had deposited Quin in an armchair in the library, Decimus carrying Mrs Tepe and placing her on another, he’d returned to the garden, tears streaking his own face, he realised after seeing the dark drops of dampness on Quin’s cropped waistcoat. Neither Derry nor Ariston had moved – her on her knees at Livia’s side, him standing two feet from where Quin had frozen in place. Atesh took a long breath and clenched his jaw – Quin was their leader and Livia their hub, with one broken and the other … gone, there was no one else. He swallowed back the tightness in his throat and blinked against the pressure in his eyes. Oh, Quin.

“We need to alert the janissaries,” he’d said, “Porto especially.” He patted his pockets – damn it, he’d left his mask in his carriage, now gone. “I – Ariston, do you have a hooded cloak or coat I can borrow, so I won’t look so conspicuous out –”

“I’ll go,” Ariston had said, voice dull and soft. The sound made Atesh fear he’d walk out the door and never return, but perhaps he needed action and needed to be out of sight of Livia’s body not-quite-sleeping beneath the night sky. Away from the body of the woman he loved, Atesh was sure of it. So Atesh nodded and watched him leave, his stiff gait strange compared to his usual fencer’s saunter. Ariston jerked his head at Decimus, telling him to follow. Thank the gods, the boy hadn’t argued.

The air had been cool, breezing through his shirt as he’d taken his jacket off. He crouched by Livia, giving her a sad smile as if saying goodbye – this woman who had created the one he loved. Even the echo he’d come to know suggested a formidable woman, sharp or gentle, whichever the occasion required. What would Arianople be like if she’d ruled after his uncle’s death, rather than Prima?

“Morta, take you on your way,” he’d murmured and placed his jacket over Livia’s face.

“Thank – thank you,” Derry had said, looking up at him with red eyes. “I’m sorry – I …” She shook her head.

He’d nodded, offering his hand. “I understand.” There was no need to explain. “Will you help me with Mrs Tepe and with” – he swallowed, throat blocked at the thought of all he’d seen on Quin’s face – “with Quin?”

Gods, why hadn’t he gone first? As soon as they’d found that damn coin, he should have made her stay in the hall while he went to check the house. And if not then, when they’d found the back door unlocked. She’d raced off, but he should have stopped her – physically if necessary. Anything to save her that sight, that discovery.

He’d found his own mother dead – he knew how that felt. The horrible angle of her neck and that little trickle of blood from her nose – even at that age, he’d known it wasn’t right. He shut his eyes against it but flicked them back open at the pressure of Derry’s hand on his arm. In the middle of all this, she looked up at him, worried for him. He had to be stable for them. He gave her a reassuring smile and led her back to the house.

They’d taken Mrs Tepe up to her bed and then Quin up to her chambers. As they removed the cropped waistcoat, the coined belt, and all but one layer of skirts, Derry’s face didn’t dry for a moment, and she shook with barely held sobs. He patted her arm and took over, placed Quin in bed, while Derry sat on its edge.

“I’ve left her,” she’d gasped, staggering to her feet. “I’ve left her alone out there – I should –”

“I can go.” Though he looked at Quin, loath to leave her alone, either. “But one of us should stay here, in case she wakes. When she does …” He swallowed. What would they do – what would she do?

Derry had nodded. “You stay here – she’ll need your comfort, and I …” She trailed off, chin trembling, gaze on Quin. Gently, she pulled the coverlet up over Quin’s shoulders. “I don’t know what comfort I can be to someone else when I” – she shook her head and scrunched her eyes shut.

He’d rubbed Derry’s shoulder. “You have your own feelings to deal with – you knew Livia well.” Derry shook again with silent sobs and covered her face. “Oh, Derry, here,” he murmured, offering his open arms. “I’m so sorry.” For a moment, she stared, but she soon sank against him, gasping through the tears.

Stroking her hair, he’d stood there – solid for her, as he would be for Quin, for Ariston – until she’d been ready to keep vigil by Livia’s side, awaiting Porto’s arrival. Derry thanked him and left. He stayed with Quin, pulling a chair up to the bed so he could watch her.

After perhaps half an hour, she’d woken. He bit his lip, watching her eyes flutter open. Silent, at first, but her breaths came faster in what must have been dawning realisation. She shook her head. “No.” Her voice low and trembling. “No, it isn’t” – she grabbed his sleeve, the linen straining as she pulled, knuckles almost as white as the fabric – “Atesh, it isn’t true – it didn’t…” But she must have seen the answer in his eyes – there could be no way of disguising the sorrow – because she curled in on herself, covering her face, whispering muffled words.

Atesh had sat there, bent over in his chair, powerless to fix this. One of the two most powerful men in Thanatolia and here it counted for nothing. He could only watch her crumple inward, a slow implosion.

She’ll need your comfort, Derry had said. Comfort and strength – he could give those things, both far more critical than his seat at the Divan Council or his family’s wealth. He slipped onto the bed and slowly placed his hand on her hunched back. He’d never seen her so small – the sight speared him and brought back the threat of his own tears. She shrank away and turned her kohl-streaked face to him. “Go … Get out … You … While she was out there being – I wasn’t here, I was laying you.” She shook her head, covering her face. “It’s my fault.”

The sound had destroyed him, squeezing his chest, his airways, the pit of his belly. Any enemy, place them in this room, and he would crush them. Any feat of skill or endurance and he would throw himself at it until he succeeded. Anything that would end the pain devastating her under its weight, shattering her voice.

He’d managed a ragged breath and gathered her into his arms. She pushed at him weakly at first, then clung to him and let him pull the tight ball of her onto his lap. This was all he could do, and that fact was the challenge he had to endure. So he sat there and stroked her hair and her back, making soothing sounds, telling her it wasn’t her fault, but her body shook and shook, and nothing would bring her even a moment’s peace.

“… She’s gone … My fault … Such an idiot …” Over and over between muttering against his chest that he couldn’t discern. “… I was wrong …”

And he’d argued every time, but his words had made no difference at all. Could she even hear him? She’d gone so far inside, he wasn’t sure she did.

Gods knew how much time had passed, but later, there had been a knock at the door. “Come,” he called, and Derry peeked around. Her usually pale skin was pure white, but for the puce blotches around her eyes and nose. When her gaze fell upon Quin, her face crumbled for a second, but she gasped a long breath, holding it before blowing it out again.

“The janissaries are here,” she’d murmured, voice husky. “Porto’s on his way – he wasn’t on duty, but Ariston was insistent enough that they sent a runner to fetch him from bed. Decimus is with him – he’s a good, solid young man.” She bent close, a questioning gaze flicking to him. “Quin?”

He’d shaken his head.

“Please,” Quin had whispered, face finally emerging from his chest. “Derry.” Atesh swallowed against the needle of jealousy that Derry had drawn her from that distant place where he had not. They were friends – Derry had been in Quin’s life for years. In comparison, he’d been here five minutes. They were tied together, closer than friends, close like sisters. His jealousy was petty and unworthy, especially at this moment. He should thank the gods that anyone could reach her.

“I can’t,” she’d said, puffy, red eyes focusing on Derry. “I need to … I just want to … Take me away. Let me sleep.”

He’d exchanged a look with Derry. Did that mean – please, gods, say she didn’t want to die? Derry shook her head and bent to Quin, stroking wet hair from her face. “Porto will be here soon to look after … downstairs. What can we do for you, my lovely?”

“Sleep. Please?” She’d taken a long breath that shook through her body, rattling in her throat. “Dreamless. I need to get away.”

Derry had licked her lips. “Like we helped Red after …”

Quin had nodded, a sob choking out, as she covered her face. “I thought we’d helped them – oh, gods, it wasn’t Talat. I’m so sorry … I was wrong.”

“No, Quin,” he’d said. He needed to pull her back before she disappeared again. “You weren’t wrong. Talat was the Destroyer. It’s just … there’s something else. Perhaps someone’s copying him, or he wasn’t working alone. We all thought it was only him – perhaps we were all deceived, Porto included.”

Quin’s face had emerged again from behind her hands. She didn’t speak, but she wasn’t blaming herself anymore – at least not out loud.

“I have some laudanum,” Derry had said with a tremulous but grateful smile at him. “I’ll drip it onto a sugar cube for you – that’ll cover the bitterness – and it’ll help you sleep. Just for a while.”

Derry had been good to her word and returned with two sugar cubes soaked with a few drops of laudanum. They’d turned almost to paste, but Quin sucked it off the teaspoon and swallowed and eventually, mercifully had slept, heavy-limbed in his arms.

She hadn’t stirred when Derry had come, body sagging, more tears in her eyes and told him that Mrs Tepe had gone. How many times had Derry gone up and down stairs tonight? He hugged her again and suggested she go to bed, and Ariston too. But apparently, Ariston sat in Livia’s room and wanted to be left alone. Derry nodded and dragged herself away to bed, steps heavy.

Gods, someone would have to tell Quin at some point. He would have to, but when was the right time to do such a thing when she still drowned under her mother’s death?

Frowning, he’d held her until the summons from Porto had arrived in the form of Decimus. His back stood straight as ever, but his eyelids drooped. He gave no hint of complaint, though, and asked if he should stay with Quin.

Atesh had shaken his head and dismissed Decimus, telling him to get some sleep, while he managed to extricate himself from Quin’s bed, placing her carefully on the mattress and tucking the covers around her.

He’d bent to kiss her brow, and now here he was.

He scowled at the clock on the mantlepiece. Half past five. He huffed and raked a hand through his hair – where was Porto? Derry had said the laudanum would keep her asleep for hours, but what if she was wrong? He needed to be there for Quin, to hold her so she wasn’t alone and so the pieces couldn’t crumble away to dust. If he could keep her together long enough, she would heal back in place, like the stitches holding the slash on his thigh shut until the flesh knitted together.

Clipped footsteps sounded in the hall. Something about the speed and the sound painted the image of shiny shoes and professionalism. That had to be Porto.

And sure enough moments later the sergeant entered, back straight and uniform impeccable despite the hour and the fact he’d been roused from bed unexpectedly. He glanced around the room before turning and seeing Atesh lurking behind the door.

“Sire,” he murmured, heels drawing together as he bowed – a brief courtesy, not as low as formality dictated, but once again they found themselves in a situation beyond ceremony.

“Sergeant.” Atesh nodded, pushing the door shut. “What news?”

He sighed and pushed the glasses up from his face before rubbing his eyes. “None of much use, I’m sorry to say.” His hand dropped, and his gaze met Atesh’s, shadowed from the single candelabrum on the desk lighting the room, but earnest all the same. “And I truly am sorry. How is she?”

Gods, this pity was worse than when he’d been awaiting execution. He turned away and strode to the desk. At least he was facing it, rather than Quin – he couldn’t see her enjoying pity any more than he did. “Sleeping. Only thanks to medication.” He ran a hand over the stubble prickling his cheeks. “I’m not looking forward to the morning.” Not that they were far from sunrise.

“Her lady’s companion says you found a coin – was it definitely –”

“Yes.” He fished in his pocket and held it out. “A Venetian soldo.”

Porto approached and took it, brows lowering after a moment’s glance. “The same as the Destroyer.” He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “But we found trophies in his lodgings … Victims’ belongings … Did we have it wrong?” He shook his head, turning away. “Something isn’t right. This is different. The treatment of the bod – the victims. The way they were killed – there was something almost gentle to it.”

Atesh jerked upright, jaw tight. “Gentle?” Nothing that he’d seen tonight had felt gentle.

Porto spun on his heel, raising his hands. “I – my apologies. That was poor phrasing. But none of the others were drugged first. And the flowers surrounding Mrs Chichek – there are so few plants blooming this time of year, she must have been deliberately placed in that flower bed. Her eyes were closed.”

A shiver ran through Atesh. He had a point. “Reverent, almost.”

“Yes,” Porto said, nodding slowly, “yes, that’s a good way to think of it. And the more recent victims – they were all cut post-mortem, parts of them” – he coughed and looked away – “well, I’m sure you know enough of how they were left. Mrs Tepe appears to have been poisoned, and I’ve only seen one injury on Mrs Chichek so far, but we’ll know more after a post-mortem.” His cheeks puffed out, and he released the breath, shoulders sagging. “We’re almost ready to remove them both. If Lady Sabia wishes to see them, I’ll leave details of the mortuary, and I’ll keep her informed of timings of the post-mortems, to avoid any … difficulty.”

Atesh nodded, scrubbing his hands across his face. Post-mortem. Mortuary. After the maze, he’d thought them done with murder and death for a long time. But it was only days later. “Please have any such correspondence sent to me. I’m not sure when she’ll be ready for such things.” He perched on the edge of the desk. “And I have no intention of leaving this house until she is. I’ll let you know if and when you can address them to her directly.” He frowned, gaze slipping to the floor. “Porto – you should have seen her, she …” He folded his arms, but truth be told, it was more an attempt to comfort himself. “She’s gone away inside – as if she can’t face the world out here.” He needed to get back to her. If she woke …

“Very well, Sire.” Porto’s voice was soft. “I’ll direct it all to the house for Lord Sabia. People will assume it’s a family member, keeping your involvement hidden.” Smart man – Atesh hadn’t even considered that. That would be all the scandal he’d need, and Quin certainly didn’t need outside attention upon her now. Porto sighed. “She’s a strong woman, but I’m sure you’ll be a great comfort to her in the days to come. She’ll return to you, changed, I’m sure, but it will still be her.”

Atesh managed a half-smile – who’d have thought he’d be confiding in the janissary who’d led the case that had prosecuted him for Zeynab’s murder? But janissary or no, Porto was a good man, kinder than he’d expected. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t thank me. Not under these circumstances.” His nostrils flared, and he glanced at the door leading out to the hallway. “Of course, I’ll handle everything to ensure utmost discretion – your name will be kept out of this, and I will do everything in my power to keep the whole event out of the press.”

“You are a diamond amongst green-jackets.”

Porto snorted a soft laugh. “I assure you, I am not. It’s as much self-interest as helping you and Lady Sabia. After all, how do you think my investigation would go with so-called journalists crawling all over it? And as for the reactions if word got out that the Destroyer had struck again after his supposed death … That doesn’t bear contemplation.”

“An excellent point.” Atesh pushed himself up from the desk. “The city seems to have uncoiled from the fear he held over them. Things grew tense for a while, but they’re starting to get back to normal.”

“Exactly.” Porto’s smile was tight and brief, then he slid his glasses back into place. “I will leave you to return to …” He gestured upward. “I’ll try to delay her questioning as long as I can, but I’d appreciate it if you could keep me appraised of her condition and inform me when she’s ready to talk.”

“Of course.” Atesh walked him to the door, where he paused and held out this hand. “I know you said no thanks were necessary, but there are things you’re doing that aren’t only to make your own job easier. To say I appreciate that is a severe understatement. Thank you, Sergeant Porto.”

He looked at Atesh’s hand, mouth tight for a moment, but eventually nodded and clasped his fleshy hand around Atesh’s. “I will do Justice’s work, Sire.” He stepped away, bowed, and left. Out in the hall, he called to another janissary to come outside to check something – clearing the way for Atesh to emerge from the library and sneak upstairs.

Atesh blew out a long sigh. The past few months had thrown him in the path of a gentlewoman, a butler, a lady’s companion, and a janissary who were none of them what they seemed. For all that he was an observant painter, perhaps he’d seen the world incorrectly all along.

As soon as the hall was empty, he strode out and trotted down the servants’ stairs, ducking his head at the sound of janissaries murmuring in the kitchen. He peeked in the room Decimus customarily occupied in Ariston’s quarters. The boy lay on his back, snoring softly. One person safe and well.

Nodding to himself, Atesh hurried up the stairs – the entrance hall was clear, so he continued up to Quin’s chambers. She still slept in precisely the position he’d left her in. She was usually a fitful sleeper, so that laudanum must have knocked her out. Thank the Hundred Derry knew enough about dosing to save her from Mrs Tepe’s fate.

He paused in the doorway. Before he settled with her, he could check on the others. He bit his lip. That wasn’t an activity to relish, but it was necessary. Swallowing, he returned to the landing and went upstairs. Livia’s room was up here, and he had the impression Derry’s was too.

Creeping to the door of Livia’s room, he held his breath. It was half-open. He paused to listen. Nothing at first, but after several seconds, the rustle of moving fabric and a heavy sigh. Ariston.

Should he go in? Derry had said he wished to be left alone, but … If he were in that position – if Quin were dead … He shuddered at the thought. But if it were him, he’d want to be alone at first. He’d retreat, because the only person he’d need, the only one who could comfort him, would be the one who was gone. He’d want Quin’s touch and Quin’s words and Quin’s warmth and no one else’s would do. Anyone else would be a pale imitation there to remind him of what he’d lost. And Quin looked so like her mother, for Ariston her presence would be an even stronger reminder.

Her mother. He shook his head. That was what she’d been hiding, and in her shock, she’d confirmed what he’d theorised. He wouldn’t press it, of course, but at some point, past the shock and denial and grief, it would slip into her mind, and she’d have to address it in some way. How would she react to knowing he knew she was a daughter of the harem?

It made no difference to him. If anything, it made him feel he knew her better, but would it make a difference to her? Would she withdraw, ashamed or fearing his reaction? Would she pretend it hadn’t happened? Maybe she wouldn’t remember saying Mum. He backed away from the door. He’d have to do everything he could to show her that she had nothing to fear and bore no shame, as far as he was concerned. And damn everyone else.

From the layout of the rest of the house, he guessed the chamber above Quin’s was Derry’s. He knocked softly – if she was asleep, he didn’t wish to wake her, but if she was still awake, he’d want her permission to enter. Even pressing his ear to the door, there was no reply.

Slowly, he turned the handle and inched the door open, giving her every opportunity to spot it and respond.

“Derry,” he murmured. Still nothing, so he peered around the door.

The décor was like Quin’s – tasteful, but not quite the latest fashion – but unlike Quin’s chamber, Derry’s was full. Wooden figures of bears and mammoths, stylised and sleek. A leather case on the side-board, next to a stack of books. Small brown bottles in a rack, labelled with neat writing. This was Derry’s room – it was full of her.

That day he’d come to the house after they’d fought the elephant, he’d looked in the drawing room for signs of Quin, of who she was, and he’d been frustrated to find none. Her chambers weren’t much different. The only personal touch was the model of Hira that Ariston had made.

This wasn’t home to Quin. With her threats to leave, it made sense. She was holding back.

Was there anywhere she’d ever feel at home? Was there anywhere she’d truly be herself, rather than holding onto control so tightly, she’d felt the need to spin out of it tonight? He sighed, heart aching for her and for the distance she still held between them. Perhaps one day she’d see that she could be at home with him – wherever that might be. He’d gladly create a place for her, anything she desired or needed, it wouldn’t be too much. Nothing would be too much.

A sound made him jump – Derry mumbling in her sleep and the shift of sheets as she moved. Her auburn hair covered the pillow, and a small frown drew her eyebrows together, but she slept. That was all he needed to know. He’d impose no more. Backing into the hall, he clicked the door shut and returned downstairs to Quin.

She still hadn’t moved. She was so still, she could have been dead. Leaning low, he held his cheek close to her nose – air brushed his skin. Thank the gods. He slipped off his boots and slid into the bed before leaning over the lamp on the bedside table. The same one that Quin had held as she’d run into the garden.

“Why didn’t I go?” He sighed, shaking his head. He could have saved her that horror. If he’d known, he’d have taken that burden. But he’d let her go ahead. Swallowing, he turned the knob on the side of the lamp until the flame sputtered out.

He rolled over and gathered Quin against him, kissing the top of her head, and stared into the night.

* * *

That night was a kind of nightmare, where the horror was in the waking, and the only escape was in sleep. At some time when the curtains glowed with daylight, Quin woke in quiet confusion, blinking, and in a flashing instant remembering. Red and white. Wet and dry linen. Flowers bright in the night. Cold stars twinkling up above. The serenity of Mum’s closed eyes and the outrage of her red neck.

A whimper sounded in Quin’s throat – a pathetic noise. But Mum was gone and pathetic was all she’d be without her. She held her breath, fighting the pressure in her lungs, her throat, the back of her eyes. If she could hold her breath long enough, she wouldn’t cry. Her eyes were so sore – no more. No more.

Warm beside her, Atesh shifted, pulled her in close. The slow rise and fall of his chest mocked her burning lungs. But if she breathed, she would break all over again.

Mum had been the hub at the centre of the wheel of fortune Quin had spent her life spinning upon – the still centre that she clung to. Mum, even sad and desperate as she’d been when Quin was small, before the day with the gentleman’s watch … Mum had been all she’d had for how many years? Before Red, before Ariston, before Derry, before Atesh – before she’d been anyone to anybody else, she’d been Livia’s Guldan’s daughter.

And who was she now?

A wretched creature who couldn’t keep her own mother safe, never mind anyone else. She didn’t deserve to think she had anything she could offer the Gutter Streets. Who was she fooling to believe she could have stopped the Destroyer murders? Such pride. Such stupidity.

Mum’s disease would have claimed her eventually, but she’d had time left. She’d still had lucidity at times – moments of happiness, even. And when the end came, Quin would have been there. She’d have clawed her way through mountains barehanded to be with Mum at that moment.

But because of her stupidity, those last moments had been alone. Had Mum thought she’d abandoned her?

What had it been like? Gods, had it hurt? No, the tea had knocked out Mrs Tepe, and another cup had been empty. Hundred, say it had been enough to stop any pain.

Had she sat down for that tea in fear or confusion? Let it be confusion – that would be a mercy compared to the terror of knowing she was about to …

Her face had not been afraid. Had it been quick and quiet and painless? Please, Blind Lady. Morta.

Please.

Even the Hundred all working together couldn’t bring her back, but Quin could ask them for this. Beg it. They could take anything, just let her not have suffered. Not like the others.

Not her mum, who’d taught her everything. Who’d been her one constant in life. Who’d made her who she was for good or ill. Who’d been clever and beautiful. Who’d loved her from the instant she’d been born, despite the danger she brought. If Prima had known of her, she’d have considered her a possible daughter of Ibril Sultan. Mum had carried her in her belly, kept her safe from Prima’s guards when they’d swept the city in the weeks after the Night of the Innocents, scrimped and sold everything to keep her alive. She’d fed her, clothed her, raised her alone.

Her only family.

Dead because of her.

The breath exploded from her, and she gulped another one in, the sound sharp in her throat, as she fell apart, drowning in the sobs, the horror at what her own pride had wrought, and the crushing weight of guilt.

But thicker than it all was the loss, that empty space that would never be full again.

51

Small Kindnesses

It was three days before Quin left her chambers. At the top of the staircase, Atesh offered his arm and a soft smile, and she clung to him. Gods, her limbs ached and shook, as though Mum’s disease had passed to her when she’d …

She squeezed Atesh’s arm and took a long breath. She had to think it. She couldn’t evade the word forever.

When she’d died.

There.

Pressing her forehead against Atesh’s arm for a moment, she bit her lip. Would it always be so damn hard to think it, never mind say it?

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, covering her hand with his. “You know you don’t have to come down yet. Or if you want, you can come to my home, if being here is too …”

She nodded. “It – does it get any easier? Your mother … passed … when you were young. And yet when you spotted a painting by her, you could talk about her so easily. How did you do that?”

“Oh, Quin.” He sighed through his nose. “It’s been a few days – do you think it was easy for me after such a short while? When I saw that painting, it had been 20 years. Years. Please don’t put that pressure on yourself.” He paused half-way down the stairs and lifted her chin so she couldn’t help but meet his gaze.

Her eyes stung. She hadn’t looked in the mirror, but her lids felt tight and hot, so they must be puffy. And her hair must have been a state before she left her chambers because he’d offered to brush it for her.

Hair brushing. It hadn’t even crossed her mind.

That was a normal thing. And these were not normal days.

She’d only eaten because the food had been placed before her. Repeatedly. At first, she’d wrinkled her nose and turned away, stomach turning at the very idea, but after a couple of days, it had growled interest, and she’d nibbled at some cheese and bread. It was hard and dry in her mouth, but she’d choked it down with a glass of water.

She’d have killed for laudanum in a glass of wine. Derry had other ideas, though, and had cut her off after a couple of nights. Addictive. Deadening. Only postponing what must be done. She was right, of course, but gods, facing this thing and its barbed edges with full clarity, in the harsh light of sobriety – it was too much.

Again and again, it sliced her apart.

But again and again, Atesh was there. Patient. Constant.

He’d simply held her and whispered he loved her or nodded at her nonsense and stroked her hair and listened. He’d brought the food up. He’d opened letters and pulled out a lap desk to write replies where they were needed. He’d set his attorney to the task of discovering Mrs Tepe’s remaining relatives and notifying them of her death. He’d only left the room to check on Ariston and Derry or to take visits from Porto and one from Nald. When he’d returned, he’d passed on the valet’s condolences.

And this morning he’d held out the hairbrush. When she’d stared at it blankly, he’d circled behind her and taken a section of her wild hair and begun to work through the tangles. It was careful work, and he stayed quiet throughout, but that silent attention, the care of his hands on her scalp, it reminded her senses how to work.

The gentle tug on her hair and the brush’s bristles at the nape of her neck. The dry rasp of brushing and his steady breaths. Movement in the mirror – a bird swooping past outside. The sour taste in her mouth. It was only in feeling these that she realised how dull her senses had been since that moment.

When he’d finished detangling and tied a ribbon around the fluffy halo her hair became post-brushing, she’d asked for water and her toothbrush. He’d fetched them himself – a pasha, the nation’s sodding Co-Regent, not even batting an eyelid about carrying water – and had gone to the window to give her some privacy. His silhouette against the mid-morning light had still given the comfort of his presence.

She’d quickly washed over the bowl, too, and decided she’d have a bath later. The warmth would soothe her aching body, even if it couldn’t dull the ache within. That was when she’d told him she would speak to Porto today. He’d raised his eyebrows and asked if she was sure. She’d nodded, and he’d written the message while she dressed.

And now Porto was here.

It seemed hours since she’d paused at the top of the stairs, but at last, her feet landed on the hall floor. How long since she’d been down here? That night, before she’d gone down to the kitchen. She clutched her head and shut her eyes. Would she ever be able to face the garden again?

Atesh stroked her back. “If you’re not ready, I can tell him to go. You don’t have to do this yet.”

Her body shook, but she nodded. “I – I’m fine. I just … this house. I don’t believe in ghosts, but … this place haunts me with it. I don’t think I can go in the kitchen. And don’t – the garden. I can’t. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to. Perhaps it will help you all to find a new home – I don’t think you’re the only one who feels this way. Would you like me to ask Nald to make enquiries?”

She sagged towards him, leaning her head on his shoulder. A new home. That meant staying. She wanted to. Truly. Deeply. Achingly.

“And perhaps you could stay with me until then – if you like?” His breathing stilled, as though he were nervous about her answer.

“Thank you,” she murmured, placing a hand on his chest. Warm. Firm.

He’d been her solid ground in the middle of this raging earthquake. How on earth was she to repay all the multitude kindnesses? The huge – putting his life on hold to be here, holding her together as she broke over and over. And the small – that simple act of brushing her hair.

To pay that back? Impossible, but she could try.

“But,” she continued with a sigh, “I can’t go until after …” The funerals. Another word that made it all real. Final. Death bound a person to a place. Their souls would inhabit this house until their bodies were laid in the earth. “They’re still here, and I won’t leave them. Not yet. Not until they rest.”

She’d see to Mrs Tepe’s funeral as well as Mum’s if no family came forward to make the arrangements. The poor woman. The house felt so quiet without her humming while she baked, so dull without her chatter or dimpled smile.

And without Mum, it was cold.

Atesh exhaled hard and nodded. “Of course,” he murmured, bending to kiss her brow.

She stared at the door that led to the servants’ stairs. Mum’s laughter echoed up – the day they’d been playing cards in the kitchen when Atesh had seen her portrait. The night he’d met her, she’d sat by the parlour fireplace, smiling in the warmth. Red’s words made sense now: she died here, but she was alive here, too.

He smoothed her hair. “Do you want to go back –”

“No,” she said, voice firmer than the rest of her. “Let’s speak to him.” She looked up at Atesh and nodded. The attempt at a smile only tightened her lips.

They found Porto in the library, standing in the window, looking out onto the street with hands clasped behind his back. He turned at the sound of their steps, gaze quickly crossing her before he bowed.

“Sire,” he said, “madam. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Sabia. Please accept my sincerest apologies both for your losses and for my imposition. I fear my job forces me into people’s lives during their most difficult moments.”

Porto the Polite. Another time, it would have made her laugh.

“Being a janissary must be a thankless job at times,” she said, glancing at Atesh, “but we both have reason to be thankful to you.” She gestured to a chair by the desk. “Won’t you take a seat?” Just coming downstairs, her legs shook, weak and heavy. Despite the days spent in bed, sitting would be welcome.

His mouth opened, but the breath paused in his raised chest. “Of course,” he said eventually and sat.

Atesh pulled over an armchair from beside the fire, and she sank into it, sighing with relief. He brought over its partner, forming an inward-looking triangle between the three chairs.

“So” – she raised her eyebrows – “do you have any news?” Maybe they had a lead by now – if the two Blind Ladies of Justice and Luck were smiling upon them, they might even have caught someone …

Porto gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions first. I wouldn’t want my ideas to colour your responses.”

Swallowing, she nodded. Of course.

They discussed the details of that night. He nodded and jotted a few notes – for the most part, what she said simply confirmed what Atesh had already told him. He asked about enemies – hers, Livia’s, Atesh’s. Maybe someone was using her to get to Atesh or wanted to split them apart.

Mum had certainly had enemies – there were plenty who’d turn in a former harem wife to curry favour with the Tulip Throne. But there was no way they could be sure Livia Guldan still lived, never mind that she was in Arianople.

Could Prima have done it? She had already ruined Mum’s life once. She’d had other harem wives killed. But how would Prima have discovered her? Unless it was through Atesh – not deliberately, but a careless mention, perhaps. She’d have to ask him in a roundabout way, but it didn’t feel likely. He mentioned they’d argued recently but hadn’t said why. Surely, he hadn’t then gone back to her and shared details about Quin’s life.

Even if Atesh had told Prima everything and she’d pieced it together, it wasn’t her style. For starters, she wouldn’t have done something like this herself. She was more the type to have assassins or guards do the work as she had on the Night of the Innocents and in the weeks after.

Even if she’d employed someone for this dark task, what was the point of the Venetian coin?

Besides, if Prima knew, she’d air it publicly. No way would she have spared Livia or Quin the humiliation of being exposed. Once they were revealed, she’d have them executed, all legally. No need for the risk of working on the wrong side of the law.

No, she was safe to keep quiet about Mum’s true identity. Let Porto keep thinking she was Livia Chichek, a woman who didn’t exist. If anything came to light that suggested Prima might be involved or that Mum’s identity might be a factor, she could decide whether or not to tell him the truth.

She shook her head, giving Porto an apologetic smile. “They had no enemies that I know of.”

They had to be dead because of a random act, a moment when the Blind Lady hadn’t smiled on them. Or else it was because of her.

After all, didn’t she have enemies?

Half a dozen men she’d conned, for starters. But before she’d returned here, she’d made sure the Bey, her first, her only in Arianople, had moved away.

Then there was Alora. She was in town. She’d recently made her survival known and had threatened her. Quin had even thought of her first – frightening her with a soldo was the sort of sick joke she could imagine Alora taking great joy in. Even kidnapping Mum to scare her wasn’t beyond Alora. But to do this was extreme, even for Alora. Much like Prima, this didn’t seem her style – getting her hands dirty? No, she preferred to have others, like Erdem, do that for her.

Plus, Alora’s mother had been part of a harem, too – they had a strange sisterhood in that. Surely that would make her have some sympathy for Livia’s plight, at least enough to stop her doing something like this.

No, Alora had just got under her skin. Their conversation at the concert had shaken her up and left her afraid – paranoid, even.

Atesh cleared his throat softly. “What about Lady Lucia Kartal?”

She stiffened.

Porto’s gaze slid to her, and she gave him the slightest shake of her head. Atesh didn’t know about her theft. “She only turned me away from a ball – that’s quite far from …” She lifted her hand.

They spoke about Lucia’s enmity and agreed it seemed unlikely she was involved since Atesh had seen her attending Malos’s masquerade that night.

“Although,” Porto said, “it being someone who knows you would explain Mrs Tepe letting them in the house so late. I’ll make enquiries, even if only to confirm Lady Kartal stayed at the ball all evening and thus eliminate her.”

She nodded. “So, now can you tell me whether you have any news, any leads?”

His lips thinned. “Only speculation and theories at this time” – he sighed – “I’m not sure they count as either news or leads.”

She fought against the sagging disappointment, but he must have seen it in the dip of her shoulders.

Atesh leant forward, elbows on his knees. “What theories?”

“That someone’s copying Talat or that he worked with someone else.”

“So he was the Destroyer?” Her back left the chair, and she gripped its arms. Please say it was so. “Definitely? You’re sure?”

Porto nodded. “We’ve found the set of rooms he was renting in the Ninth District, and there was enough in there to implicate him beyond doubt – items taken from the victims, clothes stuffed in the back of a cabinet covered with blood, plus there was a pouch of soldi on his body.”

Sighing, she flopped back against the chair. Thank the gods for that. She hadn’t been mistaken; she hadn’t killed the wrong man.

“So,” Atesh said, frowning, “you think this might be someone copying him because they admire him?”

“Perhaps” – Porto raised his hands – “it’s one possibility. They could even have come here looking for Lady Sabia.”

“For me?” She swallowed, flesh crawling. It might be a frightening prospect, but at least she would have been able to fight back, unlike Mum or Mrs Tepe.

“As revenge for killing him.”

Of course. The news reports included her, even if they gave Atesh most of the credit, and he would have been significantly more challenging to reach, with his gated home and bodyguard. She nodded, rubbing her forehead. They could have come here, but, finding her absent, settled for Mum and Mrs Tepe instead.

Atesh covered her hand with his own, warm against the chill creeping through her. “You said his apartments were in the Ninth,” he said, glancing at her. “And he’s from the Gutter Streets, yes? So how could he afford that?”

The Ninth District was all middle-class homes and harbour buildings on the south shore. It bordered the Third District, though, so not far from the Watergardens. He’d left money and expensive jewellery, like Aurelia’s ruby necklace, on the victims and he hadn’t stolen anything of value from the shop. How had he got hold of the funds to rent apartments anywhere, never mind in the Ninth? And the expensive coat he’d been wearing, the shiny shoes. Someone else must have been giving him money – a good deal of it. She nodded, sitting up. “Unless he wasn’t the one paying. What name did the landlord have – perhaps someone –”

Porto sighed. “His own name, I’m afraid. And he paid upfront in cash – no invoices to a named account. That was the first thing I checked, but it gave no clue.”

“Well, it did,” Atesh said. She and Porto cocked their heads at him. “He must have had a wealthy friend. Not only one who gave him expensive clothes, but who was willing to pay for a comfortable roof over his head. You said he had no” – he gestured vaguely between his legs and cleared his throat – “right?”

His missing cock. She nodded.

“So it’s unlikely to be a lover,” Atesh went on. “That’s the normal reason to lavish such expense upon someone.” He had a point, after all, hadn’t he given her an expensive tiara? “What other reasons would they have?”

Porto’s lips pursed, and he nodded. “A bastard child?”

“No, Talat’s father is dead,” Quin murmured. “He was found floating in the Golden Horn when Talat was – hmm, maybe ten? And his mother has no way to pay for such luxurious housing.” Even if she had such a sum, she wouldn’t have spent it on her son.

Atesh raised his chin. “Perhaps this is the artist in me speaking, but could it be his wealthy benefactor is, in fact, a patron of his work?”

“A patron,” Porto said, stroking his cheeks. “It’s a macabre idea. But perhaps someone is finishing that work?”

Quin blinked, stomach churning, bile coating her throat. Not only had Talat done these things to thirteen women – that fact was terrible enough, painting the world dark with the red of blood and rage … But had another person known what he was doing? And instead of reporting him or stopping him, had they spurred him on? Lavished him with gifts – the rented home, new shoes, a luxurious coat –

She gasped. The coat. Finishing his work.

Oh, gods.

Cloth torn at the back gate. Expensive black wool.

Goosebumps pricked across her arms.

“Quin,” Atesh said, hand soft on hers, “are you –”

“He’s been here.”

52

Cloaked in Night

Quin’s chest shook with the heaviness of her heartbeat. Atesh and Porto stared at her, matching frowns of confusion on their faces. She swallowed. “Last month – it was the 18th, I found a scrap of this gorgeous black wool at the garden gate. I assumed it was the flash livery of one of the neighbours’ drivers, but …” Where had she left it?

“The hem of his coat had a jagged hole with fabric missing.” Porto pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s possible. Maybe he tried to break in but was interrupted, or maybe it was reconnaissance, ahead of …” He sighed, shoulders rising and falling. “I fear we underestimated him. He had more of a plan than we realised.”

Atesh shook his head, brows fierce. “He intended to come here, for you –”

“Or Derry,” she said, “or Livia or Mrs Tepe. And after I killed him, his rich patron came here on his behalf.” She shivered, hugging herself and sinking into the thick upholstery of the chair. She was the one Talat had hated, though, wasn’t she? That was what had made her such irresistible bait to him. Maybe Atesh was right, and she’d been his intention.

He angled towards her, as if protective at the thought. “That’s many steps beyond expensive gifts.”

“Indeed, it is,” Porto murmured. “I don’t suppose you have that cloth, do you?”

“Somewhere.” She nodded, staring at the window – had Talat peered through from outside, watching, waiting? “I’ll find it for you.”

“If you could,” Porto said, nodding. “It would be helpful. If it matches, it confirms he’d been here before. In my mind, that makes it more likely this is someone who knew him and his work completing it, as opposed to a copycat who’s simply heard about him.”

“What other reason would an aristo have –”

She bit her tongue, she shouldn’t have said aristo, but it was there now, and Porto’s brows had already shot up. Gods, what was Atesh’s reaction? She didn’t dare look at him, but there was no movement in her periphery. She shook her head. “What reason would they have to help him if not to support his work? I’m sure it’s a patron who” – her throat blocked with the words, with what had been done to Mum and Mrs Tepe – “who came here.”

Atesh squeezed her hand, careful to avoid her stitches. “I think you’re right, grotesque as the prospect is.”

Porto nodded, exhaling slowly through his nose. “It would make my job a lot easier – finding someone directly linked to Talat would be easier than starting an investigation for a copycat who, frankly, could be anyone. I won’t close the imitator line of enquiry, but we’ll focus on the idea of a patron.”

He sat back, gaze drifting up to the bookshelves. “Although we didn’t find much useful evidence here, what we did find could fit with that theory. The coin and the method of Mrs Chichek’s death suggest some familiarity with the Destroyer killings.” His eyebrows formed a sharp V over his spectacles. “This patron used laudanum to subdue both women, ultimately killing Mrs Tepe, which is a departure from the previous crimes …” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“But that’s not an uncommon substance,” she said. “And it would have made it easy for them to …”

“True” – he nodded thoughtfully – “it seems more a matter of opportunism – easier to overpower both women and rid themselves of a witness.”

They continued along that line for a short while, agreeing that the use of laudanum and the way Mum had been left suggested less anger, less taste for violence than Talat’s fondness for mutilation. Plus, there had been no sign of forced entry, and Mrs Tepe had apparently willingly sat down for tea with her killer after letting them in. Did that mean it was someone they knew? Who would she have invited in? It seemed more likely to be a woman, and a respectable one, though not an aristo since they sat in the kitchen to drink tea. If not a friend or acquaintance, maybe it was someone who claimed they knew Lady Sabia.

Porto sighed. “We’ve been trying to discover who Talat associated with, but it’s hard to get the Gutter folk to talk. Someone left an anonymous note mentioning seeing ‘an equipt woman’ in the area some weeks ago, but what –”

“It means well-dressed.” Sod any questions that came from her knowing that. A well-dressed woman in the Gutter Streets – it was unusual, yes, but was it related?

“Ah.” He nodded. “I can see why that would stand out and why they might think it significant that Talat was talking to her.”

Talat had spoken to her? Definitely related, then. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Atesh raised his eyebrows, leaning forward. “Could that be his patron?”

Porto lifted his hands. “Perhaps.”

He explained that they’d also asked around his apartments if he’d been there with anyone else, but the neighbours and landlady had only ever seen him alone.

With a delicate clearing of his throat, he turned the topic to Mum. The post-mortem had confirmed her only injury had been the one across her throat. The lack of defensive wounds and the high levels of laudanum in the peppermint tea suggested she’d been unconscious at the time of death and would have felt no pain. The report also said she’d died hours before they’d found her – before they’d even left the masquerade.

When he said that, Quin covered her face and gave a low sob. Her worst fears dispelled with a few words from Porto. No pain. No awareness, even. And dallying in the carriage hadn’t meant the difference between life and death.

Atesh knelt before her, holding her close and rubbing her shoulders until the weeping faded.

At last, she pulled back and nodded, palming the tears away, breaths full and deep. “Thank the gods.” Her lungs felt free, as though she’d unlaced them from a too-small pair of stays at the end of a long day.

Porto explained the post-mortems had also confirmed their suspicions Mrs Tepe’s death was due to a high dose of laudanum – it could suppress the respiratory system, and as she’d paid unconscious, she’d simply stopped breathing.

He asked a few more questions before finally rising. “Thank you, madam, I think I’ve gathered all I can.” He nodded, folding up his notebook and popping it in a pocket. “Send over that cloth if you find it but try not to worry too much.” He managed a tight-lipped smile.

Quin heaved herself from the seat, suppressing a grunt at the effort. She could sleep for a week. “I’ll find it. Come back this afternoon.”

Atesh rose, at her side in an instant, his arm held out in offering. She squeezed it, leaning against him. She’d need to stand alone again soon, but not quite yet.

“That Venetian coin,” he said, voice drawn out in a thoughtful drawl, “do you still have it, Sergeant?”

“Of course.”

“Could I perhaps borrow it?”

Porto arched an eyebrow, but Atesh gave no explanation. The janissary tilted his head to one side, almost a shrug. “I don’t see why not. We, unfortunately, have plenty of them, after all.”

Plenty of them. Each one representing a woman murdered by Talat … and his patron. She frowned, the thought heavy.

“I’ll have it sent over,” Porto continued, making for the door.

Atesh nodded. “Thank you.”

They said their goodbyes, Porto assuring them he’d do everything he could to find this wealthy accomplice of Talat’s, as well as continuing to suppress news of events at the house. Surely the neighbours had spotted the janissaries and heard the commotion that night, but the effort was appreciated. At least they wouldn’t know exactly what had happened or that it involved the Destroyer.

Once Porto had gone, Atesh closed the door and turned to her, holding his arms open in invitation. She sank in, closing her eyes. Orange and bergamot – would that scent ever grow old?

“How’re you feeling?” he murmured into her hair.

“Tired.”

He scoffed and rubbed the small of her back. “You did fantastically, you know? You’ve earned –”

The clock on the mantlepiece chimed ten. Atesh flinched.

She looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

He tore his gaze from the time, jade-green eyes resting upon her. “Nothing to worry about.” He shrugged and massaged circles up her spine.

Maybe not something to worry about, but it wasn’t nothing. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, not releasing eye contact.

“Just a Divan Council meeting.” He shook his head. “But I’m not going.”

“Because you’re staying here?”

Another shrug and a soft noise in his throat.

“You’re going, then.” She tugged on the back of his jacket. “You have duties outside of this house. And this is your chance to make a difference, Atesh. All those things we discussed – if you don’t go, who knows what Ilyas or one of the others will do or block? If you’re there, you can argue, and your vote will count.” She smiled and ran a finger along his jaw. “And I’m sure you can charm at least some of them into agreement.”

Atesh scrutinised her, gaze roving across her face before he cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead. A soft laugh brushed her brow.

She frowned at his odd reaction. “What was that for?”

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in days,” he said, hands coming to rest on her shoulders, “and if it was at the prospect of me going to the meeting, then I’ve no choice but to go.”

Snorting, she shook her head. “Your city needs you. Your country needs you. I’m not selfish enough to keep you all to myself any longer. And I must admit it, I’ve been selfish – oblivious. You’ve been holed up here for days, but there’s a world outside these walls, outside my …” She closed her eyes, hand resting on her own chest – her heartbeat felt almost normal. Solid. Regular. “I can cope without you for at least a few hours. Porto – his visit was actually a comfort.”

His brows rose in question, as his thumb stroked her collarbone, sending a tiny shiver through her.

“The post-mortems,” she murmured, looking away as her eyes blurred with yet more tears, “there was no pain for either of them. And … we were right when we got Talat, it’s just – we didn’t have the full picture. Now we know there’s more of it to find.”

“And Porto will do so.” He nodded once, emphatic.

Or I will. “Besides, if you go, it’ll give me time to find that scrap of cloth for him.” And to think. So much had come out of their conversation – she needed to sort through it all, digest it, work out what the hells it all meant.

“Very well,” he murmured, hands sinking to her back, pulling her close again. “Though it pains me to leave you, I’ll attend to my other responsibilities and come straight back.”

He bent close and paused as if for permission. She lifted her chin, angling towards him, and he kissed her briefly on the lips. The first time since before. He’d kissed her head, her brow, chaste signs of affection, of love, small comforts, but not once on the mouth. It was as though he were holding back, using his strength to make space for her to feel and be. He resolutely guarded that space, not invading it with the needs of their bodies, his feelings for her or hers for him.

But it was all still there.

She took a breath. “I …” love you.

But she couldn’t say it. Because she knew him – the true him, all of him, no secrets or lies.

And she loved him.

That was the truth of it, no question anymore, and it filled her like the bright warmth of the sun when she lay in it on a summer’s day. Like they had at the picnic before the elephant had attacked. A lifetime ago.

He’d told her he loved her, more than once, but he only knew a fraction of her truth. He didn’t have the full picture. And he deserved to, even if that meant losing him. But she couldn’t bind him to her with I love you, the words he’d been waiting to hear and that she now wanted to say. To overpower him with that before telling him the bad would be unfair.

She couldn’t sugar the medicine. If he would swallow its bitterness, then she would wash it away with the sweet.

No. That was unfair, too. Even if he couldn’t swallow it – if she told him her secrets and he rejected her – she’d still tell him how she felt. It was part of the truth that he deserved and had more than earned.

“I’ll see you here later,” she said at last. This wasn’t the time.

For now, she’d go and speak to Derry and Ariston – she’d sunk too far into herself for long enough, and they needed her, as the city needed Atesh.

And maybe they would have ideas about Talat’s wealthy patron.

53

Forget Together

Derry had spent the past three days drifting through the house. Now she stood in her room, pulling on her coat in front of the tall mirror.

None of it felt real. Her days had been spent with other people – for other people. She’d gone to Ariston, spoken to him, sat with him, listened to him. She’d been with Quin in the library, spoken, sat, listened.

She leant close to the mirror, pushing a loose strand of hair back, baring her teeth to check them. Presentable. That would do.

Sighing, she stepped back and straightened her skirts. Livia’s death was a weight on the house, Mrs Tepe’s too. Atesh had checked on her, his eyes and words kind, considerate, but his attention and focus were all for Quin.

She’d spoken little since that night and much of her time had been spent with Atesh. And that shouldn’t have needled Derry with jealousy, but it did. It was him sharing her bed every night since. He was the one who’d accompanied her when she’d spoken to Porto this morning.

And although she’d come to Derry and Ariston, a little improved after Porto’s visit, she was … changed. She didn’t fill her clothes. Her wit and energy had become slow lethargy, and when her eyes glinted, it was with tears. All she wanted to talk about was the possibility of Talat having an accomplice. So Derry had pushed to try and cheer her up – fetching a pot of fresh coffee, a one-sided conversation about the play she’d seen with Tacita, reading amusing stories from the newspaper.

And Ariston had sat there, barely saying a word.

Their grief was a yawning hole that no matter what Derry threw in, it never filled. And she had her own grief to bear. The more she gave to them, the more hollow she became.

She patted beneath her eyes where the tears had begun to spill. She’d only been able to shed them alone – Quin and Ariston needed her.

But she needed someone, too.

With another sigh, she nodded in the mirror and hurried downstairs and out the front door. She lifted a hand to the janissaries standing guard outside – there in case Quin had been the killer’s intended target.

The fresh air was a blast to the face, but a welcome one. She drew long breaths – how had the house become so stuffy? They’d had the windows open every day. It wasn’t the air, though, it was the thickness of everyone’s sorrow, stilling the rooms, stifling.

The shrubs and trees in the centre of Neorion Square swayed in brown, gold, and vibrant evergreen – brighter than she’d ever seen them. Had they been those colours last week or was it that the world inside the house had grown so dark, they seemed bright in comparison? She paused, breathing in the clean pine scent of the cluster of red-barked trees growing in this corner of the small park, before trotting on her way.

It wasn’t far to Tacita’s house. She hadn’t sent a note before, though, and she dawdled on the pavement over the road, biting her lip and looking up at the facade, still imposing despite all her previous visits.

She shouldn’t have come. Or she should at least have sent a message first, giving warning, as she usually did. Tacita might not even be home. But she needed a space away from everyone else and their grief, somewhere she could express her own. Her hand went to her aching chest – her own feelings were so tightly bunched, they’d formed a permanent knot in her throat. Combined with the other constant knot she carried for Sigrid, it was any wonder she could swallow or breathe.

With a long and low exhale, she gathered herself and crossed the road. No sooner had she knocked on the red front door than it opened and the butler – stout Mr Karga – looked out, nodding when he saw her.

“Miss Bowyer,” he said, accent clipped, “might I be of assistance?” His mouth rose in a smile, but his voice lacked its usual warmth.

“I’m sorry, I – I know I wasn’t invited, but I …” She looked up at him, eyes stinging, the knot in her throat blocking speech.

His grey brows rose, and he glanced back into the house. “I – madam is –”

“Please.” It came out so broken, it was more a wheezed breath than a word.

He ducked to scrutinise her, brows drawn, lips pursed, but his eyes softened, making the expression more thoughtful or confused than unkind.

“Do come in, miss” – he held open the door and bowed – “I’ll see if madam is available.”

Her toe scuffed on the last step as her legs sagged with relief. He would have been wholly within his rights to turn her away – a lady’s companion showing up uninvited wasn’t guaranteed an audience with anyone.

He showed her to the pale blue drawing room at the back of the house where she’d sat many times before. At this time of day, it was bathed in gold light from the tall windows. He excused himself, leaving Derry alone.

The windows lured her closer, and she gladly followed their call, leaning on the frame and closing her eyes with a sigh. The sunshine filtered through her eyelids and warmed her face, her arms. Just being in a different house was a relief, even if it turned out Tacita couldn’t see her.

“Derry.” Tacita’s voice from the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

Derry turned, eyes blurring at that simple question. How silly.

Tacita rushed to her, hair in a braid over her shoulder, face ashen, shadows beneath her eyes.

Frowning, Derry touched her cheek when she was within reach. “What’s wrong with me? I should ask you the same.” She tilted her fine-featured face left and right, confirming her first assessment – tired. Haunted.

Now she took the time to look her over head to toe, even her outfit told the same story – black trousers and white shirt, collar open, with a tailored jacket over the top, unbuttoned. Like Quin, she favoured masculine attire for relaxing at home for comfort and ease. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Tacita in such an outfit, but it was the first time she’d seen her so dishevelled – the unbuttoned shirt collar and jacket, the hair braided and thrown over one shoulder. The woman who typically cut such a fine figure in the sharpest tailoring wearing a crumpled shirt – that wasn’t right.

Tacita shut her eyes and pressed her cheek into Derry’s hand. Skin soft and smooth as washed silk beneath her fingertips. Eddera Rye with her hands on a fine lady. On, if she wasn’t mistaken, her fine lady. Her belly fluttered at the thought.

Gods, that was the first time she’d been able to think of anything other than Livia or Mrs Tepe or Quin or Ariston or death in days.

“Oh, Derry,” Tacita murmured, opening her eyes and letting them rove over Derry’s face. “It’s such a comfort to see you …” A delicate frown creased her brow, and her full lips pouted even more than they did naturally. “Though I’m pained to see you so pale. You look tired.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Though I suppose I’m one to talk – I know how awful I must look.” She pulled away and ran a hand over her face as though suddenly embarrassed.

“No” – Derry caught her hand and pulled it away – “never awful. Tired, but still beautiful as ever.” It was true. She hadn’t come here with any such intention, but those full lips called to her in a silent siren song.

Tacita stilled, mouth open, eyes soft and shining on Derry. She’d never looked so … vulnerable.

Before this, Derry would have declared it impossible for Tacita, imperious, pert, strong, to be vulnerable, and yet here she was. What had happened?

She sighed at last and tugged on Derry’s hand. “Come, let us sit and share our woes – it seems we both have need of comfort.” She led Derry to the chaise longue and urged her to sit before she went to a cabinet. “And wine. Yes, I think we have need of wine, too.” She opened it and pulled out glasses and a decanter that sparkled as she swirled the deep crimson liquid within. “Here.” She set them down and poured, then joined Derry. “Now, my dearest one, please tell me what has so dulled those blue eyes of yours.”

Derry sighed. “Where do I begin?”

A throaty chuckle from Tacita. “That long a story, is it? Then we’d best get settled.” She turned, so her back was against the sloping arm of the chaise longue, took her glass in her left hand, and lifted one leg, bringing it behind Derry.

Derry’s heart throbbed against her ribcage at the touch of Tacita’s thigh against her back. As sad as she was, as haunted as Tacita was, this touch, this thud of her heartbeat – it felt like life again.

“If you turn around” – Tacita patted her chest – “you can lean on me.” The intensity in her eyes gave it more than only one meaning.

Derry swallowed, throat thick again. She obeyed, wriggling into place between Tacita’s legs and slowly leaning back. Her breath caught at the softness of Tacita’s breasts against her. She wore no stays beneath her shirt. Derry’s face burned.

“Relax,” Tacita said, voice warm in her ear, “you’re coiled tight as a sabrecat at the start of a racetrack.”

Derry’s laugh was deep and honest, her limbs loosening with it. That was the first time in days she’d laughed. Gods, it felt good. And Tacita felt good against her back and around her – firm and soft and warm all at once. “Is that better?” She asked, peeking over her shoulder.

“Much.” Tacita smiled and looped her arm around Derry’s waist, hand resting on her ribcage. “Is this – are you happy sitting like this, though? Not uncomfortable?”

“Not at all.” Derry sighed and sipped her wine.

“Then tell me your long story.” Tacita unpinned Derry’s hair and stroked the nape of her neck, pulling a soft groan from her lips. “So straight,” she murmured, running her fingers through the auburn lengths.

Shoulders dropping, Derry began a halting, abridged version of Livia’s death – how Lady Sabia’s last remaining family member had died, a lady Derry had cared for. She’d been ill, but her death had come too soon. And whoever had done it had also killed their dear housekeeper.

The tears streamed down her face, unchecked for the first time since that night. Poor Livia. She’d been ill with a disease that could not be cured, only alleviated, but she could have had more time – years, even – and ended it with the comfort of a warm hand upon hers and the love of her daughter and their odd little rag-tag family.

Instead, she’d been snatched from them by a stranger in the dark.

Swallowing, Derry knuckled the tears away. “Gods, this is the first time I’ve cried in front of anyone since that night. It – it’s been hard to talk about it. As you can imagine, Lady Sabia is so distressed …”

“I should imagine she is.” The same cool tone she always used for Quin laced Tacita’s voice. Surely she had to realise by now there was nothing other than friendship between Derry and Quin. But then jealousy wasn’t always logical like her own towards Atesh and Quin. “The poor housekeeper, caught in the crossfire. I should imagine the whole household is grieving.”

Derry nodded. “I haven’t had anywhere for my own grief.” It sounded selfish to put it that way as if her own grief really mattered. She hadn’t lost a family member. “I – I’m sorry I came unannounced, I needed to get away.”

Tacita sighed against her neck. “My dear, you can come here whenever you need to. You’ll always be welcome, always safe, and you can always express yourself, your feelings, whatever you wish, here. You may be entirely yourself with me.” The brush of Tacita’s lips upon the side of her neck made her skin tingle.

So kind. And more than kind – attentive. Warm in an unexpected way compared to their first meeting. “Thank you.” Derry finished her wine and sighed, resting her hand on Tacita’s thigh. She swallowed – was that too much? But Tacita’s firm flesh lifted, pressing against her fingers, and the hand at her waist flexed, pulling her closer. Derry swallowed “You said you’re tired. What’s been keeping you awake?”

Tacita shifted behind her and then the wine bottle appeared as she refilled their glasses. “Well, I know what will be keeping me awake tonight,” she said, voice low in her chest, reverberating through Derry. “In case my tone didn’t make it obvious, I meant for that to be the thought of you, here with me, close and relaxed and lovely. You are quite wonderful.” She kissed Derry’s neck again, her touch sweet and firm. “But indeed, I’ve not been sleeping well.” Her sigh stirred Derry’s hair and tickled her ear, sending a shiver chasing across her shoulders.

“Tell me.” She took Tacita’s hand from her ribs and kissed the palm.

“I had to … do something I didn’t want to.” Her fingers curled as if capturing a butterfly.

“Hmm?” Derry cocked her head and lowered her lips to the delicate flesh of Tacita’s inner wrist, where the veins threaded greenish-blue. She smiled at the sound of Tacita’s breath hitching. It made a change to be the one doing the surprising.

But she was meant to be listening – whatever this thing was Tacita had been forced to do, it haunted her. She wasn’t a woman to be easily affected. Derry rested her head against Tactia’s shoulder and clasped her hand, resting it over her heart. Hopefully, its steady beat was a comfort. “Go on.”

“You know I’m something of a collector of sabrecats?” At Derry’s nod, she went on, “Well, I had an old queen in the stables. She’d been with me many, many years.” A gulp as she drained her wine and another sigh, regretful. “She was a lovely creature, beautiful, intelligent, strong, but she was old and ill.”

Nodding, Derry absently stroked her thumb over Tacita’s knuckles. Had. Was. Another loss.

The dull clink of glass on the end table, then Tacita’s other arm wrapped around her. “I had to put her down. I didn’t want to, but it needed to be done.”

Derry twisted and peered up at Tacita – she stared ahead, brows low over brooding eyes, jaw clenched. So affected.

They lay there some minutes, Tacita far away in her thoughts. “I know it’s not the same thing – to lose a family member and lose a sabrecat” – she scoffed – “they are worlds apart. I know that. But she was a special creature – quite unique and I am full of regret that she ended in that way. Although I had no choice, it still weighs upon me.” Her frown deepened, and when she met Derry’s gaze, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry for her. I – I want to forget her warmth fading under my hands, her blood upon them, her body growing still.”

“Oh, Tacita.” She turned, so they were face-to-face and cupped Tacita’s cheeks, holding her gaze. “What you did was a kindness, but that you care so much for a sabrecat…” She smiled and shook her head. “This is a new side to you.” With the pads of her thumbs, she caught the tears that trickled from Tacita’s dark eyes. Who’d have thought this woman could have this hidden facet? All along, smartness and sharpness and flirtation were a front for this. “You – you can be soft with me, you know. You don’t need to fear it.”

Eyes wide, Tacita gazed up at her, eventually nodding. “I don’t – I don’t fear you. But I wish to forget, just for a while.” She lifted her lips to Derry’s, gentle at first, but heating, deepening as their breaths grew ragged. She tasted sweet like the wine, and her body lifted against Derry’s.

Gods, turning had brought them flush together in a way Derry hadn’t foreseen. She lifted away a fraction of an inch, head spinning. Tacita’s thighs around her, breasts against her, their curve clear beneath the fine linen of her shirt, where her open jacket had fallen back. All the time they’d spent together so far, they’d only kissed and cuddled together, but this …

She wanted this.

“Let’s forget together,” Derry whispered, lips brushing Tacita’s as she spoke.

As though that was the permission she’d sought, Tacita surged against her, strong, irresistible, flipping their positions in one swift movement. Derry gasped to find herself beneath Tacita, trapped in the most glorious cage of her arms.

They stared at each other, and a small smile traced over Tacita’s lips. “Are – are you sure?”

Derry nodded, tugging at her shirt to show how sure.

Breaths heaving, Tacita shrugged off her jacket. She cupped Derry’s face and kissed her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “I’ve waited a long time to forget with you.”

With a soft sigh, Derry closed her eyes and surrendered her burning flesh.

54

Detective

Three days after Porto had questioned Quin, she sat in the library with him and a stack of boxes. “And this is all of them?” she asked, eyeing the pile.

He nodded, lips pursed.

“What is it?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He sighed. “It’s – are you sure about this? Do you understand the things that will be in these files? Things about …”

When she’d first made the request, he’d argued. When he’d finally agreed to bring the boxes, telling his orta he was taking them home to review, she thought she’d won.

It needed to be done. She needed it. Since they’d suggested Talat might have a wealthy accomplice, the thought had turned over and over in her mind. There had to be some clue that would lead them to this patron. Had to be.

And she needed to know whether it was Alora. That woman’s face had circled in her head so many times, but could she really have done this? Or was Quin only suspicious because of their past, because of her fears, because she needed an answer? If the Blind Lady smiled upon her, there would be evidence in these boxes one way or the other.

She’d managed to ask Atesh in a sidelong way about Prima – he hadn’t spoken to her since around the time of his investiture, and that was before he’d even known about Livia’s existence. There was no way Prima knew from him; she wasn’t involved.

Quin clenched her jaw, lifting her chin. “I know it won’t be easy. None of this has been easy. But it must be done. Atesh is going to help me, and he and I know the aristocrats of Arianople, so perhaps we can spot something you’ve missed.”

He sighed, gaze slipping from hers. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve been made keenly aware that I don’t know the aristocrats of Arianople.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “My enquiries amongst them, looking for this patron, have been, shall we say, challenging? They’ve not been nearly as forthcoming as they were when I was investigating the Sultana’s murder.” His face screwed up in a wince. “I fear I might have made some enemies.”

“They feel they’re being accused?”

He nodded, lips pursed.

“They’ll survive some ruffled feathers.” She chewed her lip. “But I’m sorry if me doing this ruffles yours.” She nodded to the stacked boxes. “It isn’t meant as any slight on your ability – I’ve seen you at work. That’s not what this is about.” She sighed. “Selfish as it sounds, it’s about me. I need to be doing something. Honestly, the distraction will be welcome. What else am I meant to do?” She lifted her hands helplessly.

“I didn’t take it as such, but thank you.” His bunched shoulders sagged and he blew out a breath. “If you’re sure you can handle it all, an extra pair of eyes will be helpful. This box” – he tapped one that sat alone on the desk – “this is the one about … the latest crime.” She’d never officially told him that Livia was her mother, but he was a detective, after all, he must have worked it out. Yet he hadn’t said a word. “Perhaps you might consider asking His Highness to go through that box … particularly some elements.”

Quin smiled tightly and nodded. “Thank you for your concern.” She smoothed her hand across its lid. She would find the person who’d done this. She had to. “I do appreciate it. And all the things you’ve done – especially the less orthodox ones.”

Porto shook his head and looked away. “You know I won’t be able to help forever, don’t you?”

“I know.” She nodded. He’d said as much before, the day after he’d discovered her theft. He’d taken pity on her because of Mum’s death, that had to be why he was helping. But no, it couldn’t go on, not with his ties to the law and the risks to his career. “But can things at least rest until after we’ve settled the matter of the Destroyer’s accomplice?”

“Very well, but after that, any further crimes involving you will be fully investigated.” He peered at her over the top of his spectacles. “By the book.”

Considering they’d caught her robbing Lucia’s house, that was more than fair. She was getting off lightly. Dipping her head, she exhaled through her nose. She’d have to be beyond careful in future. “Thank you.”

He nodded and turned. “Oh, and” – he rapped his knuckles on one of the boxes – “His coat – I haven’t been able to bring it. As you noted, the fabric is rather fine, the buttons are unusual too, but there was no label inside. Still, we’re taking it to all the drapers and tailors in the city to see if we can get any information about his accomplice. I’m sure this mystery accomplice had it made for him. Maybe there will be a name or an address in their receipt book. I’ll be doing the rounds with it tomorrow, so I’ll be able to drop it off for an hour or so.”

She thanked him again before saying goodbye. With the reminder that he’d collect the boxes on Thursday, he left.

“So this is it, all of it.” Ten boxes – everything on the Destroyer murders, barring the bodies and larger physical objects removed from the scenes. She glanced at the clock – just after ten in the morning. Atesh would be arriving soon, but she could begin without him.

She cleared the desk of everything but an inkwell, a couple of pencils, a copper-nibbed pen, and the box on Mum and Mrs Tepe’s murders, returning books to shelves and throwing anything else in the deep bottom drawer. From the top drawer, she pulled out a stack of paper she’d gathered from all over the house. Backs of invitations and messages, old theatre programmes with blank back pages, anything scrap that she could write on. It went on the table in a motley pile.

Standing back, hands on hips, she nodded, blowing out through her nose. Let the work begin.

Bound in ribbon, an inventory sat on the top of the stack of boxes. Ah, so they were numbered by victim – that would make things easier.

She took each box and placed them in order, left to right, starting by the fireplace. The early murders had two or even three to a crate, there was so little evidence on them. Ela took up box number four to herself.

Quin’s hand lingered on its lid, and she squared her shoulders. “I will finish this. I promise.”

The next boxes were heavier – these related to the deaths of middle and upper-class women. Aurelia Tiryaki in the park and the women who came after – the ones the janissaries had paid a lot more attention to. Then a box of Talat’s effects taken from his body, his apartments, and his mum’s place.

And last of all, Mum and Mrs Tepe’s box.

Ten in total. This was it, all information on those awful murders. Somewhere in here, there had to be a link to Talat’s rich beneficiary.

She ran her fingers through her hair, chewing her lip. Where to begin?

This was a puzzle that needed solving. Somewhere in these crates were clues that needed finding.

But from another angle, it was also a plan. Or, rather, signs of someone else’s plan. Not so dissimilar from her own plans before a con. And with those, she always started at the beginning.

She lifted the lid of the first box. Not even full, only a scant stack of papers at the bottom. And this was meant to cover – she glanced at the inventory – three women’s killings?

Sinem. Özlem. Belinay.

“I’ll end this for you too,” she murmured and crouched by the box to start pulling out the papers.

No post-mortems, just reports from the first janissaries who’d arrived on the scenes and arranged removal of the bodies. Throat cut. Slit throat. Incision across the windpipe and artery. All killed the same way, all in the Gutter Streets.

She went to the second box, repeating the process of stacking up different types of information – witness reports here, janissary reports there, post-mortems next to those, and so on.

Where had these women been found? By the time she’d finished with this box, the fourth, fifth, and sixth murders, it was too hard to keep track of them all. She circled to the desk and smoothed out the largest of the pieces of paper she’d gathered – the plain inside cover of a theatre programme. A bigger sheet would have been better, but this would have to do.

Reyhan had come yesterday and removed the few stitches on the back of her right hand – the wound was healing well, just a raised, red line less than an inch long. Without the stitches, it was much easier to use a pen. She roughed an outline of Arianople’s main peninsula – none of the murders had occurred on Galata or over on the eastern shore, so she could leave those out. With a dotted line, she inked in the outline of the Gutter Streets and drew in the major roads as she knew them. An X and date for each murder. The janissaries seemed to think they’d been found where he’d killed them. She returned the pen to the inkwell and crouched by the next box.

As she opened Ela’s crate, Atesh arrived. “Oh good, the map was getting a bit complicated,” she said, waving at it, “I think your artistic skills will do a better job of it than I have.”

He stood in the doorway, brows raised, Decimus at his shoulder. “You’ve been busy already.”

She took a breath and looked around – stacks of papers surrounded her. And the map was a bit of a scrawl. She gave him and Decimus an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Hello as well.”

Atesh held up his hands and went to the desk. “Oh no, don’t apologise on our account.”

Decimus gave her a quick nod, dimples ghosting on his cheeks, and excused himself to check around the house as he always did upon arrival. He mentioned he might look in on Ariston, too.

Peering at the map, Atesh raised his eyebrows. “This looks … involved. Are these locations where the women were found?”

“Yes. Well, as best as I could draw it, anyway. I’m not exactly a cartographer. Nor a painter.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

“I’ll have some larger sheets of paper sent over, so we can make a fair copy of this, but this works as a starting point.” He shrugged off his coat and placed it over the back of the desk chair, rolling his broad shoulders. He’d barely sat down, when he tapped the copper nib on the inkwell, draining away the excess ink. “Right, where’s the next one?”

Ready and willing to help.

Gods, she more than owed him an explanation and it was selfish of her to delay, but not yet. She needed him and not only with the investigation, but to keep going. And right now she couldn’t even formulate how to explain – every time she tried, her thoughts circled right back to two things. The identity of Talat’s wealthy patron and Mum’s funeral on Wednesday. Once they were clear, then she would tell him.

She smiled at him and took a long breath before leafing through the papers in her hand.

By the time they’d finished sorting through the boxes, it was gone noon.

“There’s so much,” she said, standing and arching her back. Her shoulder popped and Atesh winced.

“Surely that’s a good thing – the more that’s here, the greater the chance we’ll find a hint of this mysterious patron. We’ve only just begun, don’t lose heart.” He looked up at her from the map and gave an encouraging nod.

He was right, of course. The map hadn’t revealed anything new – no intriguing clustering of murders around a particular area other than what they’d already noticed. Those in the Gutter Streets had been spread out, with Ela’s the furthest east, closest to the edge of the district. Aurelia had been taken in the Watergardens. The three other killings outside the Gutter Streets had taken place in the Third, Fifth, and Sixth Districts, all within a few streets of the park. If he’d managed to kill Quin, that would have been two in the Watergardens itself.

She shivered and shook her head. He’d failed. “Let’s go over the mortuary reports and collate those. We’ll need to do the same with the janissary reports, too.”

“Agreed. You take the janissaries, and I’ll take the post-mortems.” He rose and circled around the desk, looking down at the stacks of paper and picking his way between them.

“Protecting me from them, are you?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, frankly, I am. You’ve seen enough of this in person, you don’t need to read about every horrific detail as well. Especially not Livia’s.”

She bit her lip, chest tight. He was right again. Just thinking about reading the details in that clinical way the mortician would have …

Talking about her mother like she were nothing more than an anatomical specimen …

She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Thank you. I’ll take the janissaries, but if the post-mortems become too much, say, and we’ll swap for a while. As long as I don’t do hers or Ela’s, I think I can manage.”

He nodded and pulled a second chair up to the desk. “We can work side-by-side.”

So they did, working through lunch and dinner and by candlelight into the night. Quin read until her eyes stung and the words started doubling on the page. She wrote note upon note upon note, pulling together information from different documents, continuing until her fingers stiffened and refused to bend any more. Rubbing her eyes, she looked up from the page, almost expecting to find Atesh asleep at the desk, but he sat there, reading, wearing a slight frown that made her want to kiss his brow.

“I think that’s enough for today,” she said and sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed.” She ran her hand over his shoulder. “Thank you.” She looked intently at him, but it was impossible to convey quite how grateful she was.

He smiled at her over the paper he was reading. “You can thank me when we find this person. Go up and warm the bed, I’ll finish reading this and join you shortly.”

And that was how their first day’s investigation ended.

The next morning was Mrs Tepe’s funeral, a quiet, small affair in the House of the Living and the Dead. No family had come forward to arrange it – a grand-niece lived in Angora and was dealing with the aftermath of their recent earthquake. She’d asked if Arianople’s authorities could take care of the matter, but that wouldn’t do. Atesh had made most of the arrangements and had paid for it all.

After, even though there was no formal wake, they drank their traditional shots of raki before returning to the library and their investigation. The rest of that second morning went much the same as the first, with Quin sitting cross-legged by the box of Talat’s personal effects, as she searched through.

Shortly after lunch, Porto dropped off a brown paper parcel, promising he’d be back for it in an hour. Talat’s coat.

She fingered the soft, smooth wool. So fine, it was almost silky. Familiar. And, sure enough, on the corner of the hem, a hole.

In the box of personal effects was a similar, smaller parcel: the piece of cloth she’d found at the gate. There was a chance the matching fabrics were coincidence, but when she held the scrap to the coat, it fitted the missing section perfectly. She heaved a long breath and leant back on her hands, staring at the ceiling.

So Talat had come to the house.

If only she’d taken that cloth more seriously. If only she’d thought to ask, rather than assuming. If only … If only … If only.

She took a long breath. She had to stop thinking like that – there was no way she could have known. To find a torn piece of fabric in her garden and to link it to Talat would have been a leap, to say the least. She blinked against the sting of tears. She had made mistakes, but she couldn’t blame herself for this.

She gritted her teeth. She couldn’t.

“Quin?” Atesh’s voice pushed past her thoughts.

She huffed and leant back over the evidence. “I’m all right. Just confirmation he came here before. He’d planned to kill Livia, perhaps Derry or even me. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Whoever his friend is, they’re tying up his loose ends.”

He frowned, tapping his long fingers on the desk. “Porto mentioned that he’d stationed guards here and at the shop, keeping an eye on Red, so if there are other loose ends, this friend won’t be able to tie them up. And I don’t need to tell you that Decimus is on high alert.”

Quin nodded with a faint smile – he was certainly dedicated to his duties.

Back to the coat. She held it up to the sunlight, looking at the stitching around the neckline and the frog closures. It was indeed beautiful and painfully expensive. To have a coat like this made must have been at least ten zeri – more than a footman earned in a year. Certainly more than anyone in the Gutter Streets could spare. This had to be a gift from his wealthy patron.

Hundred, let Porto find the tailor who’d made the thing and let them have a name.

She crumpled the scrap of wool.

There had to be some other sign of his wealthy patron in this box. She checked the inventory.

Trousers, shirt, cravat, all nondescript.

Long knife. Flick razor, broken. She’d had a close enough view of those. Chances were he’d had them long before he’d met his patron.

One half-mask, black.

One theatre ticket.

The theatre? Talat wasn’t exactly known for his love of the theatre or stories in general. She couldn’t picture him going to a show alone – or indeed choosing to go at all. Maybe his patron had taken him. Or maybe it was one of his trophies. If she could find which theatre it was for, perhaps they kept a record of ticket sales.

But there was no ticket inside the box. She frowned and sorted through all his personal effects again – a pouch of soldi, a scarf, a black mask. Gloves, handkerchiefs and jewellery from his victims. The coat and matching wool scrap. The broken razor blade, some Thanatolian coins, his knife. No ticket.

The only other mention was in this box’s report: A theatre ticket was found on the suspect’s body; however, the item was not present at the time of writing this report. Item lost.

Her hands clenched. Sodding lost.

She noted the ticket as a possible lead if it could be found. It was one lead on a very short list. The coat was another, but the janissaries had that in hand. How many tailors and drapers were there in Arianople? There was no guarantee it hadn’t been imported – it might even be from Venetia, like the coins.

Venetia. Was that place destined to haunt her? Where she’d first met and rescued Derry from a slaver. Where she’d first met Alora and earned her ire. She bloody owed Venetia.

She pursed her lips. The ticket was a lead, but a lost one.

And so far that was the entirety of her list. Perhaps Atesh had more. Well, the only way to add to it was to keep reading. She delved back into the stacks of papers.

As she moved along the crates, she found a small, unlabelled tissue paper parcel tucked between witness reports on the early murders. She checked the inventory – no, all the items listed were accounted for. This was something extra. She frowned, unwrapping it.

“Ah.” The theatre ticket – not lost, just misfiled. Not for a cheap theatre, either – the Palace Theatre. Box 9. The Baron of Monte Alba. She blinked closely at it. Was it from his accomplice? A ticket for a box was far beyond Talat’s means or interest.

Or was it from one of his victims? Perhaps Aurelia? Although the trophies had all been found in his apartments rather than on his person.

She turned the ticket over. On the back, a cloakroom stamp noting a man’s hat and black coat. Surely that meant it was Talat’s.

Her chest thrummed. Now, this was a proper lead. Breathless, she leapt to the desk and added the theatre name and showing to the list.

Atesh raised his eyebrows at her in a questioning look.

She shrugged, biting back a smile. “Might be nothing. Might be something.”

Even if the theatre kept records, this might be like his apartments, in that the accomplice gave him the money and he’d bought the ticket himself. But maybe they’d booked the ticket.

She sank back down amongst the papers and continued reading.

Hours and countless pots of coffee and cups of peppermint tea later, Quin’s back shot upright, cold prickling down her spine.

This could be something.

A couple of witness reports from Gutter folk who knew Talat mentioned a tall woman seen with him. Well-dressed and with deep chestnut brown hair. Tall. Well-dressed.

She cleared her throat. “Atesh?” She managed to keep her voice light. “What colour would you call chestnut brown?”

He cocked his head, blowing on wet ink. “Reddish-brown – you know that deep brown that goes redder in the sun.”

She swallowed and nodded. “That’s what I thought – just checking.”

She reread the description. She lowered the paper to the floor to hide the shaking in her hands. It might be her. It might not be, too, but it might.

Alora.

She glanced at Atesh from the corner of her eye – whatever he was reading, he was absorbed in it, head bowed over the page. Rising, she tiptoed into a full-body stretch. “I think I need a break. I might go and fetch dinner – that place yesterday was good, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t have to do that, I can ask Decimus to –”

“No, I think I could do with the walk and the fresh air.” She swallowed. “You should take a break, too – maybe see if you can persuade Ariston to spar with you.” She and Derry had managed to get him to speak a bit, and she’d caught him talking to Decimus in a low voice, but he was still ghosting around the house and drinking too much whisky and red wine. She hadn’t seen him touch a sword since before.

As for Derry, she’d been spending a lot of time with her paramour the past few days and seemed brighter for it – at least she had somewhere she could find comfort. Quin winced. She hadn’t been the best friend – it was all she could do to cope with her own grief and try to lift Ariston from his.

“I can come with you,” Atesh said. “I’ll wear a hood, so no one will notice their Co-Regent fetching food.”

She smiled, padding over to him and running her fingers through his hair. The cuts and bruises on his face from their fight with Talat had largely faded, leaving him as gorgeous as ever. It would be easy to just look at that face and pretend everything was well in the world.

But it wasn’t.

She swallowed. “Truth be told, I could do with some time alone. I’ve got all this running around in my head, a walk and some quiet will help me sort through it all.” Truth be told. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. She bit the inside of her cheek. She was trying to be more honest with him, but seeing that description …

It was tenuous. Chances were, it wasn’t Alora – she was seeing something that wasn’t there. After all, the woman haunted her dreams, and it was only a couple of weeks ago that she’d shown her face again.

Maybe she was losing her mind – she wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking it.

But she needed to check it wasn’t Alora, put her mind at ease.

Atesh nodded and wrapped his arm around her hips, fingers squeezing gently. He sighed and dropped his hand away, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve not been smothering you, have I?” He looked up at her, brows raised. “You can tell me honestly. I can handle it, I promise.” He flashed a quick smile.

“Oh, Atesh.” Hundred, was that what he thought? “Of course not.” She took his arm and returned it to her hip, leaning against him and holding his head against her belly. “Not in the slightest. You’ve been … Words fail me – that’s how amazing you’ve been. If not for you I wouldn’t even be downstairs in my own house, never mind doing all this. I can’t imagine …” She shook her head. “Gods, I probably would have raided Derry’s chambers for laudanum and stayed in a stupor, perhaps forever.” She stroked his head, fingertips running over his scalp in the way she knew he liked. His groan rumbled into her body. “You haven’t smothered me at all. If anything, you’ve helped me breathe, helped me keep going. So, no, no smothering here.” She smiled down at him, and he squeezed her backside with a quick grin, before releasing her.

“Well, if you’re sure. But please tell me if you want me to go, if you want space. I do know you’re allowed your own home to yourself if you want it.”

“Don’t worry, if I want to, I’ll kick you out, Pasha Regent or not.” She winked and gave him a quick kiss before saying farewell and going out to the hall to put on shoes and coat, fingering the almost scratchy wool.

She couldn’t go to hundreds of tailors and drapers. But she could go to one theatre.

* * *

Quin arrived at the theatre. She’d concocted a tale on the way here. Surely, they’d help a poor wife with a cheating husband, if it meant she could obtain the divorce she so sorely needed. Especially if she were ever so charming and would be ever so grateful to the theatre following a lucrative divorce. She nodded at the middle-aged man behind the counter whose grey hair gleamed in the foyer’s lamplight.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, eyeing her outfit and evidently deciding a pleasant smile was the appropriate greeting. He folded his hands neatly on the counter.

“Good afternoon.” She threw her most charming smile at him and placed a hand on the counter, a zeri hidden in her palm. That would grease the negotiations at the opportune moment. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m” – she glanced around as if checking they were alone – “I’m here on rather – ahem – delicate business.”

His head tilted, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I have reason to believe my husband attended this theatre last month with – well, not with me.” She gave him a meaningful look. Gods, it was a wonder anyone got anything done in society, so hampered by the rules of what could and could not be said.

He nodded. “I see.”

“However much I know what he’s been up to, I cannot petition for – oh, it’s such an ugly word” – she leant close to whisper the next word – “divorce, without some evidence.”

“I’m sorry, madam, I –”

“Indeed, it’s a sad state of affairs.” Particularly when the requirement for evidence wasn’t a factor for men – they only needed to believe their wife had committed adultery to petition for divorce. Without it, a woman could only obtain an informal separation, leaving all land and wealth in her husband’s possession. Yet another injustice to add to the list of Thanatolia’s legal failings. “However, such an arrangement, if it can be made would be very beneficial to my position, and I would be very grateful to the theatre in general and to you in particular.” Without letting her smile waver, she removed her hand from the counter, revealing the gold zeri. “Do you keep records of bookings or attendance?”

His dark eyes went to the coin, and his hand rose, drifting towards it. Before he touched the coin, his brows twitched, and he drew a short breath. “I’m sorry, madam” – he let his hand drop and gave her an apologetic smile – “but our clientele sometimes have reason to rely on discretion – I can’t very well go around showing our booking records to everyone who comes and asks. What gentleman would buy tickets for himself and his mistress from us again if word got out that I’d showed you the ledger?”

Quin sighed, shoulders sagging. “I understand.” Investigating had been a lot easier when she could threaten Porto at the end of a dagger, but if he discovered she’d done that again, it would surely count as a breach of their uneasy truce. “You said ledger, though, so does that mean you keep a record of such things?”

“Well, we have a ledger with records for the boxes only. Many are reserved as a long-standing arrangement, such as the Sultana’s box and of course we know such people on sight, but others are booked on a per-showing basis. The ledger means we can avoid any embarrassment if someone forgets to bring a ticket or perhaps if one is stolen. After all, imagine if we had no such record and a ticket was picked from a lady’s pocket, and any old riff-raff showed up to take the seat. It would put us in a difficult position, indeed. However, the ledger” – he patted a thick leather-bound book at the far end of the counter – “means we can check names of those who’ve booked and purchased such tickets.” He glanced at the doors leading further into the theatre, then leant closer. “Perhaps your attorney could make a formal application to access it,” he murmured. “Not that you heard about it from me, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” She smiled tightly. That book would list the name of the person who had booked the box that night. She bit the inside of her cheek. If she could look at it, she might be able to find out who’d helped Talat, confirm whether it was Alora. She would have her answer.

The need to know was an itch under her skin, insistent and creeping, like fleas. She had to know. Now.

She sighed, slipping her hand into her pocket. The counter blocked his view of the gesture. “Oh well,” she said, injecting low defeat into her tone, “I’ll have to see if my attorney can make the necessary applications. Thank you for your help, though.” She glanced at the zeri she’d left on the counter. “I am very grateful. While I’m here, what performances do you have coming up? It’s been so long since I’ve been to the theatre, and I do so love it.” She smiled and cocked her head as if in genuine interest, but her fingers flicked through her Deck. Lady Deception, yes, she would do nicely – and there was a certain irony in using the Card of actors in a theatre. The Card’s eagerness throbbed through her arm, tugging her into the stream.

She fixed the smile on her face as he started to explain the new show due to start soon – something about a lady musketeer and her companions.

But behind the smile, she focused on the slinking magic of Lady Deception. Today, after the initial surge, she was slippery, trying to pull out of reach. With all that had happened since Mum’s death, Quin had neglected her Cards and the shrine at home. No wonder Lady Deception wasn’t pleased.

Please.

The trick was not to squeeze harder, but to allow the magic to flow, like water slipping between her fingers. The stream might slip through her grasp, but her hand was still in it.

Behind … Back there … Noise …

At a crash from the back office, he jumped, mid-explanation, and shot a look over his shoulder towards the door that must have led into a back office. “What was that?”

Quin’s brows rose, and she lifted her empty hands, Card back in her pocket. “I don’t know, it sounded loud though.” She cocked her head. “Perhaps one of your colleagues has knocked something over?”

He shook his head, lips pursed. “No, they’re all backstage.”

She gasped, hand on chest. “Could someone have broken in? Or maybe a smallcat has climbed in an open window? Or rats?”

“Hundred, not a smallcat again! Last time one got in the office, it brought in a pigeon. The thing wasn’t even dead yet.” He looked from the back office to the front doors, biting his lip. “Blood and feathers and – ahem – everywhere.”

“Oh dear!” She widened her eyes. “That sounds like an awful lot of trouble. I should be getting home, but – look, if you need to go and check for any intruders hiding about, I can wait here and keep an eye on the front desk for you. If anyone comes to buy tickets, I’ll tell them you’ll be right back.” She turned towards the front door, leaning against the counter and slipping her hand back into her pocket as if demonstrating how she’d wait and greet any potential customers.

Perhaps he needed an extra push. With a slow exhale, she dipped into Lady Deception’s slippery magic. Another clatter, something metallic crashing to the floor.

She swallowed, a fuzzy headache starting behind her eyes.

He gasped and nodded. “Thank you. Thank you, madam. I won’t be a second.”

As soon as he was through the door, she went up on tiptoes and reached over the counter. Heart thudding, she turned the book around and threw it open.

She leafed through and found the start of the records for October. “1st, 2nd, 3rd …” Next page. “7th.” Evening performance of The Baron of Monte Alba.

Almost there. She swallowed, glancing up at the door – sounds of opening drawers, rustling, and footsteps floated through as though he were searching for the culprit of all the racket. Box 1, box 2, 3 … 7, 8. Box 9.

Alora Eshekarisi. Quin stared. Ran her hand over the page. Blinked. Booked by Alora Eshekarisi.

The world tilted, and Quin had to grab the counter to stay upright. She shook her head, fighting the dizziness. It was her. It was really her. The woman had even taken a leaf out of Quin’s book and hadn’t changed her alias’s first name.

“Got you,” Quin whispered. Unfortunately, the records didn’t include addresses, only the name of the person booking, the amount paid, and the number of additional guests. In this case, one.

Footsteps from the office.

She closed the ledger and sank down from the counter, resuming her earlier pose. She popped her jaw, trying to force it loose, but gods her heart was pounding so hard, he’d surely hear.

When the door opened, she turned and smiled, lifting her hand as if she’d been here the whole time. “Mystery solved?”

Her own mystery was a step closer to being solved. Alora had been Talat’s wealthy patron. But how had they even met? And why had she been helping him? Had she –

“No sign of anything and I couldn’t even find what had been knocked over.” He gave a confused frown, shaking his head and stroking his chin.

“How curious. Well, no one arrived while you were gone. I’d best be going myself – thank you for your help.” She smiled and nodded to him before starting for the door.

“Thank you, madam. Remember to speak to your attorney – I’ll be glad to share it with him.”

“My attorney? Oh, of course.” She waved as she rushed out, composure crumbling. Her hands shook, balled into tense fists. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, and her breaths came as sharp gasps burning her throat.

She’d known Alora was alive, and yet she’d been too frightened to face her. Coward. She’d done nothing about it. If anything, she’d retreated into catching Talat to distract herself from Alora’s threats. The bloody irony! To think they were, essentially, one and the same problem.

She charged homeward, teeth gritted against the tears of frustration and anger at herself. Might she have been able to prevent this? If she’d made sure Alora was dead that day in Turnaround Alley … If she’d started looking for Alora as soon as she suspected she was alive …

If she’d chased that bit faster at the concert …

She arrived at the house, empty-handed. Bloody hells, she was meant to be fetching food. If she walked in without it, there would be questions. She pressed her hands against the glossy paint of the front door. She couldn’t tell Atesh and the others yet.

How could she tell anyone it was her fault Alora was still alive and that she was the one who’d killed Mum?

She turned and started towards the tavern.

At least she knew who Talat’s accomplice was now. She bit her lip, the pain focusing her.

By coming into her home and killing her mother, Alora had made this so much more personal.

Quin would find her, face to face, just the two of them, and show her exactly how personal.

“Oh, Alora, I’m going to kill you, if it’s the last thing I do.” She dipped her hand in her pocket, running her fingertips over the edges of her Cards. “On all the Hundred gods, I vow this: I will kill you.”

55

Fortune Told

The morning of Livia’s funeral, Atesh climbed into his carriage, nodding to the driver as Decimus clambered up beside him. “The Tower of the Card, fast as you can.” He had just enough time to run this errand.

So far the janissaries’ paperwork had only given them a few leads on Talat’s accomplice, but rather than obsessing over the work, Quin had grown brooding and quiet. Maybe she’d lost hope the boxes would contain anything helpful.

He sighed. He’d been little help with this problem, but perhaps there was another he could solve.

As they’d worked through the Destroyer files, he’d asked Quin more about her investigation of Zeynab’s murder. She’d told him haltingly, bit by bit over brief meal breaks. Discovering her friend dead, meeting Erdem’s sister, rescuing Derry, racing to reach Kediler Square. Last night she’d mentioned taking objects to the fortune teller Suheyla. Apparently, she could read them and discover information about the owner.

Hadn’t Suheyla been the one to warn him to leave Arianople before the masquerade?

He stroked his freshly-shaven chin, lips pursed. Perhaps she would have answers. He leant one elbow on the window ledge and stared out at the street rushing by in all the normality of city life – carriages, sabrecats, and people ambling along.

The poison pen letter and the coin in his inside pocket burned against his chest.

He arrived at the ivy-clad tower, instructing his driver to wait, and hurried up the stairs, Decimus close behind. If someone saw their Co-Regent visiting the Tower of the Card, they’d assume it was for a reading about love or fortune or political auspices, particularly after speculation about Quin’s recent absence from society. That he was involved in any ongoing Destroyer investigation would be the furthest thing from their mind.

Before he knocked on the door, it opened. As it creaked, he and Decimus exchanged looks, eyebrows raised.

A slight woman whose softly lined face placed her in her forties, perhaps fifties, looked up at him. Her dark eyes, grey-brown like the Davy’s grey pigment he liked so much, sparkled up at him above a warm smile.

“Ah, Your Highness.” She bowed and backed away, inviting him into a room heaving with scrolls and books and candlesticks and old patterned rugs.

Her eyes hadn’t widened in the slightest at his presence on her doorstep.

Three seats surrounded the table, three cups of peppermint tea steamed.

“You were expecting me, then?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he took the offered chair. Decimus took the other.

“Of course,” she said, sitting, “I know there are more magics in the world than the Inland Sea’s Decks. And I know something weighs in your pocket, so let’s have a look.”

“Huh.” Suheyla had warned him to leave the city before the masquerade, so she had ways of knowing things. But still, a gentleman wasn’t used to anyone other than his valet knowing the contents of his pockets. Shaking his head, he pulled out the coin, and it clicked on the table between them.

Her brows shot up, and a breath hissed between her lips. So, she hadn’t expected that.

Slowly, her gaze passed from the coin to him. “You’re too late for that one. Your paramour already brought one of these to me. Unfortunately, coins are too generic – they pass through too many hands and these point overwhelmingly to Venetia. No surprise there. And I doubt it will lead us to the Destroyer.” She frowned and tapped her index finger on the table, an inch from the coin. “The Destroyer has been caught though, no? But – oh – he wasn’t the whole picture, was he?”

Atesh sighed and ran a hand over his face. Of course Quin would’ve already brought a coin to Suheyla. And being Quin, of course she hadn’t told him. Finding the Destroyer’s patron this way would have been too easy.

Telling him the truth would have been too easy.

“Your Highness,” Suheyla said, head tilting, “there’s no need to look quite so distraught. This person will be found, but I fear not because of my reading.”

He swallowed and nodded. She’d guessed his thoughts incorrectly; she didn’t know the inner workings of every person’s mind, then – that part was only rumour. “When did she bring the coin?”

“Hmm” – she smacked her lips – “it must have been at least a few weeks ago.”

That was something, at least. If Quin were to seek a reading with Suheyla today, would she tell him? They’d worked together on the files from the janissaries, and she’d told him about her investigation into Zeynab’s death – that had to mean she trusted him now.

“Was there something else?” She tilted her head back, a shallow line between her brows, thoughtful.

“Yes, actually” – he pulled the letter from his pocket – “this. Can you find out who sent it or is that also too generic?”

“A letter?” At his nod, she pursed her lips. “Letters can be tricky – ink and paper can lead in all different directions. When she was fighting to prove your innocence, Quin brought me the designs for the forged Shahin dagger, you know? I couldn’t get a helpful reading from them, but a letter is … more personal, I suppose you’d say. I suppose designs can be drafted by anyone for hire. There’s a slightly better chance of me finding somewhere useful with a letter. But it’s only a small chance.” She peered at the folded letter, not touching it. “With this quality of paper, it might have been hanging around the author’s home for longer than with the cheaper stuff, but I’m more likely to tell you the mill or the stationer where the paper or ink came from.” She sighed. “What I’m saying is: don’t get your hopes up.”

“Understood.” He took the cup of peppermint tea and blew on its surface. Perhaps this would be a wasted trip.

Decimus sat with his hands in his lap, eyes rapt upon Suheyla as she bustled around the room, bringing items to the table – a sheet of paper, a pencil, and a map, which she weighted in place with dented candlesticks.

She resumed her seat, nodding to the paper and pencil, and flipped open her Card case. “You might want to note down the locations I point to.”

The hairs on his knuckles stood on end at the hum of magic and Decimus crumpled the paper as he picked it up.

Strong stuff.

Atesh shook his hands, clenching and unclenching them to try and get rid of the buzzing feeling like the air was thick with bees. With a shiver, he craned forward to watch the map. Decimus leant on the edge of the table, pencil and paper ready.

Suheyla swallowed, drew a gilt-edged Card and placed it face-down on the letter. With one hand, she covered the Card and closed her eyes, breath slowing.

Atesh could have sworn the room shook, but the candle flames didn’t even flicker. He forced his breaths steady, but gods, he’d felt nothing like this before.

Her fingertip landed on the western edge of the map. Most likely a papermill in Italia.

Next, she pointed to the First District. There weren’t many stationers there – perhaps this was the culprit’s home. He frowned and craned over to catch the exact address. Dead in the middle of Siyah Row.

Ah, that made more sense. Koyu’s – the royal stationer. It was where all his official paperwork came from, though he preferred a different stationer in the Third District for his personal papers. Koyu had supplied the card for the masquerade ball invites – specially imported for Zeynab. They provided the ledgers used by the Divan Council. And any royal wedding – including one day his – used their stationery, too.

That had to narrow down the clientele. He murmured the address to Decimus who dutifully noted it down.

Suheyla’s eyes were still shut, the frown between her eyebrows had deepened to a crevasse.

“There,” she breathed, finger landing at a spot on the border between the first and second district.

When he looked at the road she’d pointed out, he gritted his teeth. He didn’t need to tell Decimus to write down that address.

Aunt Prima.

Suheyla exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “Spite and glee. So much, it’s left a strong impression.”

That sounded like the Prima he’d seen in her garden. His teeth ground and he could feel his pulse jumping in his neck.

She’d damn well promised to stop.

He dropped his head, an edged laugh bursting from his mouth. And he’d been a fool to believe her.

“You know who it is.” Suheyla’s gaze was on him, flinty now.

“I do.”

“Then” – she shook her head, the lines between her eyebrows even deeper – “you … I can’t place a finger on it, but the woman who wrote it.” She shuddered. “There’s something familiar about her – who is it?”

Prima had no right to protection now. She’d broken her word and treated him like a fool. What did it matter if he told Suheyla? “My aunt, Prima.”

Suheyla’s breath caught. Even Decimus’s brows shot up.

Shaking her head, Suheyla ran a hand over her eyes. “Of course. I should have known it was her. You’ve spoken to her recently, haven’t you? An argument?”

He nodded.

With a dry rustle, she ran her hands over the map. “There’s something she said in that conversation that Quin needs to know. Tell her everything you can about the meeting. It will help her … and you.” Her hand fisted over the spot marking Prima’s home, and she thrust her face at him, dark eyes glinting with intensity. “Go to her right away. You must tell her now.”

* * *

Where was he? Pacing the library, Quin frowned at the clock on the mantlepiece. The funeral carriage hadn’t arrived yet, but it was due in the next half hour.

It was bad enough they were burying Mum today; it would be worse to do it without his steady presence beside her.

Her hands tingled, and she swallowed against the threat of bile in her throat. To be burying Mum when there was still no sign of Alora … She shook her head.

Maybe it had been a mistake to keep it to herself. It had undoubtedly been a mistake to vow on her Deck to kill the damn woman. That had been a knee-jerk reaction – the Hundred had been dealing with mortals for thousands of years, they’d surely understand. She’d even burned a spoonful of the most expensive incense she could afford at her house shrine in offering and apology for such a rash promise.

She didn’t want to kill anyone, she just wanted to talk to Alora, find out why. Why Mum? Why use Talat? Why all those other women? If Alora hated her so much, why punish so many others who’d done her no harm?

The plan was to find her, capture her, and talk, then hand her to Porto.

But she’d had no luck with even the first step of that plan. Maybe her hot-headed vow had pissed off the Blind Lady.

She glanced out the window – no carriage pulling up outside. Sighing, she continued pacing.

The problem with getting Porto involved in the hunt was that Alora knew far too many of her secrets. And if she told him, which she was almost guaranteed to do, they’d have to flee Arianople. As a daughter of one of the exiled harem wives, being here was technically a crime and hadn’t Porto said he wouldn’t be able to protect her from the consequences of another offence?

Gods. What a bloody mess.

After the funeral, Mum’s soul would be free of the place, and Quin would be able to tell him Alora was the killer. It would take the janissaries time to find that woman, which would give Quin time to settle her affairs and prepare their getaway in case Porto was forced to arrest her this time. She’d need to say goodbye to Atesh.

She sighed at the clock again. Twenty minutes.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Derry said from her seat by the fireplace.

And she’d need to have a chat with Derry. Would she choose the life she’d started forging for herself in Arianople or would she want to stay with their family, back on the road? She paused in her pacing and stared at Derry. “It’s not that, it’s –”

A rapping at the front door made her jump, and she was running for it before Derry had even stood. She flung it open. “Atesh.”

He whipped in, limbs stiff, jaw clenched, Decimus close behind. “Where are the others?”

“Derry’s in the library and –”

“I’m here.” Ariston stood at the top of the stairs, sombre in black.

“Decimus, please mind the door. Come on” – Atesh grabbed her hand and marched into the library – “quickly.”

The tingling in her hands worsened, making his touch almost painful like a limb waking from numbness. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I have some important information,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure how it’s important, but I think it relates to the sudden drop in your social standing. And I think it might take all of us to make the connection.”

“My social standing” – she scoffed – “Atesh, can’t this wait, I’m about to bury –”

“It can’t.” His sigh was heavy, and his face screwed up as if pained. “I’m sorry, but it can’t.”

She exchanged a look with Derry who looked as puzzled as she felt.

Ariston appeared in the doorway and Atesh waved him in. “Good. Right. Well. I went to the Tower of the Card.” He rested one elbow on the mantelpiece. “She told me I needed to tell you about this.” He held out a folded piece of paper – a letter on closer inspection, his address and name written on the outside.

She plucked it from his fingers and placed it on the desk, Derry and Ariston leant over each shoulder as she bent to read it.

Her face burned to discover a list of accusations. She gulped long breaths, mouth twisting.

A lot of it had been said about her before, either by others or herself. The orgy was a new one, though.

At her sides, Derry and Ariston gasped and stiffened.

Was this how Terzo had got the idea she was a courtesan? Was this the only letter of its type or were there more elsewhere in the city? Bloody hells, no wonder Lady Kartal had uninvited Quin from her ball if she’d heard these sorts of rumours.

Her jaw ached, but she managed a sardonic smile at Atesh. “What charming correspondence you keep.”

Atesh’s hand rested on his chest, the fingers splayed. “I received it the morning after we first went out hunting Talat. I’m sorry, Quin, I didn’t want to tell you until I had more information. Without knowing the sender, it was just a nasty letter and no use to anyone, but I thought if I could find out who’d sent it, then that might take us to the root of these terrible lies.” He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. “I knew part of it – after that fool in the library – and I thought I’d shut it down, but” – he gestured to the letter – “apparently not.”

“Atesh,” she said, leaning on the desk and closing her eyes, “much as I appreciate this, do we have to go through it now?” He’d kept it to himself for weeks, it could wait a little longer. She had more than enough to deal with right now. “It can wait until after the funeral.”

“Suheyla doesn’t think it can. I’m sorry. I’d leave it for another time, but she said right away – she was most insistent. Considering the help she’s been in recent times, I don’t dare gainsay her.”

“Suheyla?” Ariston’s brows shot up. “If she said right away, then you better get on with it.” He cleared his throat. “Er – please, that is.”

Atesh scoffed. “No offence taken. Terzo – after I saw you so upset, I went and questioned him. He told me that he’d heard rumours about you from my dear Aunt Prima.”

The name was like a punch to the belly, making her puff out a breath, body tense, almost doubling over the desk.

Prima. She tried to inhale slowly, but her breath shook, and her hands still balled into fists. That woman – it wasn’t enough that she’d ruined Mum’s life, now she’d started on hers.

“Prima.” Ariston’s voice was a low growl at her shoulder.

“I went and confronted her, and she promised to stop, but …” Atesh shook his head, fist knocking into the mantelpiece with a solid thud. “Look, Suheyla said to tell you everything about that conversation, so …”

He outlined a discussion they’d had in Prima’s garden, where she’d admitted to telling people Quin was a courtesan. “… And I asked her where she had it from since she thought it was on such high authority, but all she’d say was that a little wasp told her.”

She gasped. Every hair stood on end.

Wasp. Eshekarisi – the name Alora had given at the theatre, it meant hornet or wasp. Her mouth ran dry.

“Wasp?” Derry murmured.

“… I thought it a strange phrasing, so it stuck in my mind,” Atesh continued, brow creasing as he glanced from her to Derry and back again, “after all, it’s normally little bird, isn’t it? And I see it means something to you. What is it?”

And the pin – at Yildrim’s concert. Not a bee, but a wasp.

She was staring at him, mouth open, chest heaving. She shook her head, swallowing, fighting for breath. “Alora. At Yildrim’s concert, when she snuck up behind me … As she left and finally took that dagger from my back, I turned and spotted a pin on the front of her bodice – yellow and black. I thought it was a bee at the time, but maybe it was a wasp. There was a definite point at the end, a little black diamond.” She shook her head. That glinting black jewel – sharp and cruel. Of course it was a wasp and not a bee.

At her side, Derry gave a low moan, no doubt as shocked as she was.

“That could be a coincidence,” Ariston said, arms crossing.

“If it was only that, perhaps. But there’s more.” Quin winced, scrubbing her hand over her face. “I – yesterday, I went to a theatre. The one Talat had a ticket for. I thought perhaps his patron had bought it for him.”

Atesh’s mouth opened, eyebrows gathering together. “What? I thought you took a while to get dinner. Why didn’t you say?”

Her gaze dropped to her hands shaking before her. She clasped them together, squeezing so tight the nails dug half-moons into her flesh. Little shards of piercing pain. “Some of the witness reports – they’d seen a woman with Talat. The description – it sounded like her, but I thought I was leaping to conclusions, and if I mentioned it, I’d sound mad. But I had to know. So I went and checked their ledger. The name of the person who booked that box for that performance was Alora Eshekarisi.”

“Wasp,” Atesh breathed. He rubbed his cheeks with both hands. “That damn woman has her finger in every pie going.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to share it with you all until I had a plan.” She snorted softly. “A bit like you didn’t want to share this with me until you had information that we could use.” Bloody secrets. How much had they delayed things?

A low moan sounded from Derry, forcing Quin to turn. Her face was almost pure white – as pale as it had been that night. She shook, tears streaming down her face.

“Derry?” She hadn’t realised Derry so feared Alora. Gods, had she and Erdem done something to her when she’d been their captive? She caught Derry’s trembling hand. “You don’t have to fear her. I’ll stop her. She’ll never touch you again. I promise. Now we know –”

“That’s not it,” Atesh said, approaching the desk, stopping opposite them, “is it, Derry? You reacted when I said wasp. But you didn’t know the things Quin just told us, did you?” His voice was gentle, coaxing.

Quin froze, the chill deepening to her bones.

Derry’s face, so pale, sweat on her brow, though the room was cool. Her mouth parted with trembling breaths. She looked stricken. Her eyes darted to Quin’s hands on hers, then Atesh. With the slightest movement, she shook her head.

“Derry?” Atesh said. “You know something else – wasp means something else to you. What is it?”

Quin frowned, teeth gritting. She pulled Derry’s hand. “Look at me. What is it? What do you know?”

With a jerk, Derry escaped her grasp, stumbling back a few paces, catching herself on a chair. “It can’t be. It can’t be.” The shaking of her head grew stronger. She tugged her lips, glassy gaze on Atesh. “Her name – di Vespa.”

“The wasp,” he said. “Whose name?”

But it was obvious. So obvious. “Your woman.” The ice in Quin’s bones burned away, making her muscles shake. No … No. How could she have been so stupid?

“It could be a coincidence,” Derry whimpered from behind her fingers. “When Alora took me – no, I’d recognise her. It’s not –”

Quin exploded towards Derry – the chair shrieked across the floor as she slammed into it, pain throbbing in her thigh from its arm, her hands fastening on Derry’s shoulders. “You said you never saw her face. She wore a mask, you told me that.” Was this why Alora had hidden her face? Did she already know Derry, even back then?

“No, it can’t be.” Derry shook her head, brows fixed low in determination.

“Is this woman of yours tall with reddish-brown hair?”

Her hands dropped from her mouth, and her blue eyes finally met Quin’s.

She nodded.

The world blurred, leaving only Derry’s cool blue eyes, wide, desperate, horrified.

“It’s Alora,” Quin cried, “it’s bloody Alora.” Her fingers bit into Derry as she shook her. “You’ve been cuddling up with Alora this whole time. How could you –”

“I didn’t realise. I didn’t …” Derry was a ragdoll in Quin’s grip; she made no move to escape.

All this time it was Alora she’d been sneaking off with. What secrets had she revealed?

As for didn’t realise …

“Quin,” Derry sobbed, “you’re hurting me.”

“Quin,” Atesh said, close by, “let’s –”

She thrust her face into Derry’s. “What have you told her? Did you whisper sweet nothings in her ear while you laid her? Tell her things about us, about our house? Did you?” Her voice echoed around the room, dampened only by the rush of her pulse in her ears. Her skin burned, her blood too. It couldn’t be. How could Derry do this?

“Quin, please,” Derry whispered, squirming in her grasp. “I’m sorry. Is that what you want? I’m sorry, all right.”

Quin pushed Derry away and paced the room, hand digging into her hair. “Sorry? You’re bloody sorry?” She laughed, and it sounded mad in her ears. “You’ve exposed us to her. Gods, I bet it was her encouraging you to stay, wasn’t it? She sought you out, and she knew exactly what she was doing. She only came to you to get to me.”

“It isn’t only about you,” Derry said, though her voice wavered, “she came to me, for me. And we only have a name, it could all just be –”

“It is no bloody coincidence.” She said each word slowly, spitting them out between gritted teeth, volume almost normal. “She’s the one who killed” – but Atesh was on the periphery of her vision, so she had to gulp a breath instead of saying Mum – “who killed Livia and Mrs Tepe, and you might not have meant to, but you helped her.”

Derry’s face crumpled before she hid it behind her hands.

The rage shook through Quin, and she barely swallowed it down enough to force the words out. “So I’m going to ask you this once, and you’re going to tell me. Where is she?”

Derry shook her head. “We – we’ve always met by prior arrangement.” She stood there, shoulders heaving, broken. Her hands dropped, and she looked up at Quin with a frown of confusion or disbelief on her blotchy face. “I don’t know.”

“No.” Quin surged at Derry, hands clawing, but Atesh’s arms were around her, lifting her from the floor. “No, you don’t get to not know this. You must know where she is. You must know.” Quin kicked and wriggled in Atesh’s grasp, but her muscles were weak from days of stillness and little food, and his hold was as strong as ever.

“Quin,” he said in her ear, breath cool against her burning flesh, “we will find her. This isn’t Derry’s fault. We will –”

A knock at the front door.

Quin froze, the only movement her breath panting in her throat and chest.

“Livia’s here,” Ariston said from beside the window. His first words since the revelation.

Mum.

She sagged in Atesh’s hold, and he lowered her to the floor. Alora’s visit at Yildrim’s concert was one thing, but it turned out she’d only been an arm’s length away this whole time. Gods, how much she must have laughed at Quin’s ignorance. How could Derry have been so foolish? How had she been so foolish? Hundred, why hadn’t she made Derry tell her more about her lady love?

“We need to go,” Atesh said, hand landing on her shoulder. He pulled on the hooded coat he’d brought to hide his face.

Biting her lip, Quin glared at Derry. “I never thought you’d betray me. Of all people. But you have. And now she’s dead because of it.” Shaking her head, she turned her back on Derry.

Ariston gasped, Derry sobbed, but Quin strode away from it all. The air outside cooled her as she climbed into the carriage Atesh had hired to hide his identity – there could be no Shahin insignia or royal coat of arms at the funeral, that would make it state endorsed.

She collapsed into the seat and covered her eyes. The thick smell of roses filled her nose from the bunch already waiting in the footwell. The coach rocked as Atesh entered and clicked the door shut.

“Do you want to talk about all that?”

She scrubbed her face.

“Not right now, no.” Her hands dropped, and she sighed, limbs suddenly heavy. “I need to get ready to say goodbye to Livia.”

56

City of Graves

Drizzle blew in from the west, the type the wind carried easily, creating heavier drifts of rain that could hit suddenly, drenching and heavy. It darkened the stone of the city walls that gleamed in the diffused light from the grey sky.

Quin huddled beside the open grave, arms wrapped around herself, hunched over and frowning at Mum’s shrouded body waiting to be lowered. Atesh stood beside her, back angled against the rain. Like most cemeteries, this one was outside the walls, forming a strip of dead man’s land. A secondary metropolis of mausoleums and tombstones outside the city of the living. As a child she’d played here – it was one of the only green areas the children from the Gutter Streets were allowed in. Today there was no play. The rain kept the children away, kept everyone but their little group away.

Quin knotted in on herself, unable to look at Derry, who’d arrived with Ariston in the brougham. They stood at the foot of the grave, out of reach. Past them, Decimus waited, his grey suit effective camouflage on a day like this.

It was something of a contrast with Zeynab’s funeral, but the name Livia Guldan couldn’t be spoken in the House of the Living and the Dead – too many ears.

So. Prima was somehow friends with Alora if it could be called that. Prima trusted in her word. She must not know what Alora was. Prima had tried to get rid of every child of the royal harems she could find, if she knew Alora was one, she’d never agree to be in a room with her, never mind listen to her gossip.

A little wasp. Why hadn’t Atesh told her sooner? If she’d heard that phrase, surely she’d have made the connection to Alora’s brooch. But he hadn’t wanted to add to her worries, had he? And in the absence of any useful information, he’d kept it to himself.

And didn’t it cut both ways? If he’d known about the brooch or Alora’s false name on the theatre ledger, the phrase would have stood out to him more, and he’d have told her. He’d have made the connection himself.

But she’d never given him the full picture – not about this, not about anything. Over these months she’d given him dribs and drabs of information, but had kept her secrets close. He knew Erdem’s sister hated her and had tried to kill her to stop her reaching Kediler Square the day of his hanging, but he had no idea of her personal enmity and that it stretched far beyond Quin’s investigation into Zeynab’s murder.

If they’d told each other the truth, one of them would have worked it out. They might have understood what was going on in time to realise Alora was working with Talat. Perhaps even in time to prevent Mum’s murder. At the very least they wouldn’t have been bathing in relief at a party while she was being killed.

A low sound strangled in her throat, and she covered her mouth. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.

When she forced them open again, her gaze flicked to Derry’s black shoes, shiny leather on the grass. And if Derry hadn’t kept her paramour a secret, surely Quin would have realised it was Alora all along. Or she might have made the connection with this di Vespa woman and the wasp pin when she saw it. Or she might not, but it would have been a chance. She sighed, bowing her head and rubbing her eyes.

But it was all done. Some secrets kept and some shed.

Atesh squeezed her shoulder, and she looked up. The gravediggers had lowered her, six feet below, and were pulling their ropes back up. Mum was in the cold earth.

Ariston cleared his throat and shuffled closer. “Livia … Chichek was –”

“No.” Quin swallowed and took a step forward. Enough secrets, enough what if. She had to say goodbye now. Honestly and forever. “Enough lies. This is her end, and we’re sending her off with the truth.”

Ariston looked from her to Atesh and back again. “If you’re sure …” He returned to his spot next to Derry and nodded.

She’d put it off too long. She’d been selfish, and she’d let fear rule. No more. When they got home, she’d tell Atesh the rest of the truth. But this, now, had to be for Mum.

“Livia Guldan – we come to wish you farewell.” Let the gravediggers hear her name. If anyone discovered it from them – well damn them. Who’d believe them?

She met Ariston’s gaze, then Decimus’s, then Derry’s. Gods, her eyes were red. Quin bit her lip and nodded in Atesh’s direction. Looking directly at him was impossible – it was one thing to decide to tell the truth, but facing it was something else entirely.

“Before I was born, she was the envied rose of the harem.” She took one of the velvet-red roses from Atesh and pressed the tip of her little finger against a thorn. It burst through her flesh – the pain piercing the fog that had clung to her since the library. With a fortifying breath, she stepped forward and dropped the rose into the grave. “And after I was born, she was my mother. She was brave and clever and beautiful. And she kept me alive in a world full of danger.

“For a time, she was lost to sorrow. She’d fled the palace and been forced to hide for months on pain of death, both for herself and for the baby she carried. As a child, she’d been taken to the palace, taught its ways, and she’d thrived there. Is it any surprise she found the outside world such a difficult place? Especially when she had nothing. So, for a time, I cared for her.”

Those days when her hair had matted into knots, because she couldn’t rouse herself from misery to brush it. When she’d disappear in the night and sometimes come back with money. When Quin tried all the harder to dig through the mud and search the shore for anything they could sell, because it meant they could eat and it meant that Mum could go and sell those things, rather than herself.

She held her breath until the threat of sobs died in her throat. When she exhaled, it shook, but she could go on. “But she came back to me eventually, and she was a woman reborn. She had a focus. And Livia Guldan with a focus was a sight to behold.” She smiled, the image of those amber eyes bright in her mind, even though it had been over a decade ago. “She taught me everything she could – languages, etiquette, dancing, history, to sing and play the zither, even though I was a terrible student of music. A lady’s toilette, flirtation, and everything a young gentlewoman should know. And anything she didn’t teach me, she placed in safe hands.” A slow nod to Ariston. “So although it was an orthodox upbringing, it was a rich one. She took me to the theatre, to the Watergardens, and public masquerades. And eventually, we travelled all the Inland Sea.”

She sighed, heavy and deep. “But as they say, all good things must come to an end. And Livia’s end began years ago. With the gift from Ibril Sultan. Even in death, he was generous.” She smiled bitterly, biting the inside of her cheek – she had to go on, the secret-spilling had begun, and there was no way to close the floodgates now. “She grew ill, began to forget things, including me sometimes. But she was always my mum. And even if she didn’t remember it, I was always her daughter. And I always will be.” Her voice cracked as she squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to hold together a little longer.

It was fitting that losing the woman who’d taught her to hide her emotions was what had wrecked her ability to do so.

“Thank you, Mum, for everything you did for me, and for clinging on to your memories as best you could. Travel on now, safely on Morta’s boat.”

She backed away, arms folded, the pressure in her eyes burning.

Atesh’s arm circled her, pulling her close.

Her breath caught. He hadn’t turned his back.

He said nothing, at least not for now. Too shocked, maybe. And too good – of course, he wouldn’t walk away when the gravediggers were shovelling soil over her mother’s shrouded body. He wasn’t a monster.

She sank against him, eyes closed. She’d give him the full explanation, the parts about her and him that hadn’t been right to say here. The things he’d earned the right to know. No more secrets.

The full story.

Today.

57

The Truth

They’d stayed in the grey drizzle, Quin watching as Ariston and then Derry had said their goodbyes. Atesh had squeezed her hand when Derry stepped forward, holding her in place. Even Decimus had spoken to briefly pay his respects. As the gravediggers had finished filling the grave and securing a temporary wooden marker in place, the rain had eased off, but the sky remained glowering.

All the way home, she remained silent, staring out the window, the prickle of Atesh’s gaze upon her. When the rented carriage drew to a stop on Neorion Square, she inhaled. “We need to talk.”

He paused outside the carriage, hand held out. “To Derry?”

The name made her flinch, and it took a few seconds before she could calm her breaths. “No. Just you and I.” She clutched his hand. He had to realise what she meant.

It was time.

Her heart clamoured against her ribs as he followed her into the house and upstairs to the drawing room. All the words she’d never planned to tell anyone outside their group – her odd little family. The secrets she’d locked within their circle. Things that could see her hang, that could turn him away.

And she was going to tell him it all.

“Please sit.” She circled the low coffee table and motioned to the settee opposite, muscles coiled.

He sat, shoulders, knees, hands, every angle of his body towards her.

Throat closing, she wrung her hands behind her back.

Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him. Don’t …

She shut her eyes and forced her breath to slow. In, then out, then in, then out.

One breath at a time. One word at a time. Swallow the panic, the urge to run.

Muscles unwilling, she sank into the seat. It was exactly as they’d been that day months ago when he’d confronted her in this very room, in these very seats, and they’d seized each other in their first kiss by that door. First, she’d tried to pretend there was no secret. Then she’d told him that she couldn’t say.

And now she would say.

“I know that what I’m about to tell you might be too much.” She pulled in a tight breath. “And that I’ll likely lose you because of it. But I don’t want to hold back any longer. I’ve kept my secrets long enough, and I’ve started to see the damage secrets can do. And you” – she leant forward, biting her lip, fingers aching with the yearning to touch him – “you have more than earned the truth.”

“Quin,” he said, voice low in his chest, soft in the quiet room, “if you don’t want to –”

“Please.” She lifted her hand. “I want to, but … this is hard. And frightening. And I need you to be quiet until I’m done, or else I might not get through it.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll say this one thing before I sit and listen. I love you. All that you are, I hold dear. And I will still love you when this conversation is over.”

Her smile was tremulous, and she tried to turn it into a sardonic smirk. “We’ll see.” She rubbed her face.

She had the floor.

Shuffling back on the settee, she hugged her knees to herself, letting her gaze fall to the ceramic bowl at the centre of the coffee table. The slender blue and white tulips painted on its surface were as spiky as her heartbeat. “Livia is the Livia Guldan of the harem. As I said out at the cemetery. And she was my mother. And I was born almost exactly nine months after the Night of the Innocents, though we are not cousins. As a girl, I always thought Ibril Sultan was my father, that one day my big sister, the Little Sultana, would come and fetch me to live with her in the palace.” She gave a small smile – the foolish dream of a child.

“Of course, that never happened. Later I discovered I was no more the Sultan’s daughter than I was a sabrecat. I must have been conceived just after the harem was ended. I know nothing of my father’s identity. And now Mum’s gone, I suppose I never will.”

He shifted, elbow resting on the arm of the settee, fingers brushing his lips, but he remained silent.

She couldn’t bring herself to meet it, but his gaze still pierced her with an intensity that made her recoil and stare at her knees. “So, I’m a bastard. And a daughter of the harem, which you probably worked out at the funeral. And I say Mum, so it might not be entirely a surprise to you that I’m no contessa.

“I’m not even a gentlewoman. But I am from Arianople – I’m as Thanatolian as you are.” She scoffed. “As you guessed at the picnic. When I said my mother was from Thanatolia, that was no lie. And now you realise my use of the present tense that day was a slip. From the start, you’ve always been frighteningly good at prying off my mask.” She swallowed. After this, she’d need a new mask. What anger must be snaking its way through his body? He’d thought himself in love with a common bastard. He’d been tricked by a schooled accent and etiquette lessons from a harem whore.

No, that was Alora’s phrase. She’d never heard Atesh say anything like it. And it certainly wasn’t Quin’s phrase. She frowned, knotting her fingers over her knees.

Mum had been beloved, a wife, the same as Prima, whatever that woman later claimed.

The breath dragged from her for long seconds before she could continue. “After Mum was expelled from the palace, I was born and grew up in the Gutter Streets – a commoner, one of the Gutter folk. I’m sure you can imagine it wasn’t an easy place to grow up. That’s how I know Red, Ela, and Talat. The Kasim of Ariston & Kasim – he was the friend I …” Her voice cracked, and she gulped down the tightness in her throat that threatened to choke her, but the tears came all the same. “I told you Alora killed. I …” She shook her head, rubbing her hand over her face with a heavy sigh. “I’m getting off track.”

She dared a glance at him. Stillness. A thoughtful frown. Hand loosely clenched before his mouth as if he was holding in all that he wanted to say.

Gods, why had she told him to keep quiet? What did he think of all this? She hadn’t even got to the worst part yet … Or was the harem daughter the worst thing? No, that she’d always intended to betray him had to be worse, didn’t it?

She’d come here to steal as much of his fortune as she could – that was far more personal, far more cruel. Morally wrong, perhaps, depending on who you asked. And from his point of view, he’d have to think that.

Lowering her head, she scrubbed her eyelids against the black silk of her dress where it sat taut over her bent knees, leaving dark, damp patches. She flinched when she looked up and found he’d moved – his hand hung in the space between them, a pure white linen handkerchief held in his fingers. A white flag of surrender in the No Man’s Land the coffee table had become.

A white flag of surrender – what a ridiculous idea.

She leant forward and took the handkerchief. “Thank you.”

They weren’t at war. After this, they would be at nothing. He wouldn’t turn her in to the janissaries, even when he learned of her crimes, she was sure of that now – he was too kind, and she’d saved his life. To him, that meant something.

But he would no longer be hers. He would want her out of his life, out of his sight, out of his city and the country he ruled. Somehow she’d have to find it in herself to con again.

Sour bile hit the back of her throat, and her stomach knotted, painfully tight.

She had chosen this. She had started it, and she had to finish it.

58

The Whole Truth

Quin drew a shaking breath. “I started stealing as a child – pick-pocketing here and there at first. I was good at it – small and swift, light hands, and I knew the streets well enough to disappear with the goods. It meant we could eat and pay our rent – it helped Mum. But she had bigger ideas – that was why she taught me all those things I mentioned at the cemetery. She … taught me to pass as this.” With a gesture, she indicated her silk gown, the room, the trappings of wealth.

Now. She licked her lips. This was the final moment. He’d returned to his earlier pose. His gaze was unreadable, his face shadowed against the window behind. He might still love her now, but in a moment, he wouldn’t.

There was no turning back. Not without betraying him.

She lowered her eyes. She would forge on. “She wanted me to be her revenge upon the aristocracy. The people who’d loved her, but had so quickly forgotten after the Night of the Innocents. And I” – she sighed – “I wanted to help the people around me – my friends in the Gutter Streets, their families, the ones who couldn’t put food on the table or who slept in doorways. So I dressed up, and I played the part of a young gentlewoman to pass among them – amongst you. To steal from the rich and remain above suspicion is easy when they believe you’re one of them. After all, if your gold watch goes missing, you don’t suspect the young woman beside you who has her own gold watch chain hanging from her jacket, do you? If someone has, why would they need to take?

“But that wasn’t the end goal. Stealing was a mere entrée to the main course.” She swallowed, working her tongue around her parched mouth, even as sweat dampened her back. “The real work was to lure in a rich young man and use his affection to con money from him.”

That wasn’t clear enough. What use was the truth if she was only going to dance around it? “I’ve been engaged six times, though never married and never in my true name.”

His brows raised, but he was true to his word and said nothing.

She gulped a long breath, staring into the stinging grey light outside. “Engagement rings, gifts, cash … I took it all and then I ran. On to the next city to do it all over again, sending money back here to the Gutter Streets, using the rest to help with the aristocratic masquerade. That is what I have travelled Europa doing.”

This was the final step off the cliff and into the precipice. As she met his gaze, her stomach lurched, as though she were falling. He must’ve put it together by now, but she had to say it. And she had to look him in the eye while she did so.

“And that is why I came back to Arianople. For you. To meet you, to charm you, to elicit a proposal, and to leave you poorer and the Gutter Streets richer.”

His gaze was level, somehow, though his chest had paused in its slow rise and fall. Eventually, he took a long breath and his head tilted, resting on the settee’s high back, his eyes closed.

The handkerchief crumpled in her wringing grasp, and she hugged her knees. A faint waft of orange and bergamot and something uniquely him rose from the linen where it had sat in his pocket, close to his heart. Where she would never again be.

Her feet thudded to the floor, and she bent over her knees, face in her hands. “You have to understand … I … You weren’t what I expected. Gods” – laughter bubbled in her tight throat, choking, even as tears smeared her hands – “you were so far from anything I could have ever expected to find in a pasha. I – I found myself not wanting to con you, but wanting to kiss you for my own sake. Wanting to spend time with you for the pure pleasure of your company, to speak to you as myself, rather than as Lady Sabia. And that was who you seemed to like best – me. Not her. And that was dangerous, but, gods, I loved it. It was like nothing else. Intoxicating. You were intoxicating. I had to leave. At the masquerade, when we kissed – that was me saying goodbye because I didn’t trust myself around you. You’d seen my mask slip, you’d seen through it, and you’d seen me.

“I knew, if I stayed, I’d lose myself to you. And I couldn’t afford that – not with a string of crimes to my name and the Gutter folk counting on me.” Her hands clawed through her hair, and curls fell around her downturned face like a curtain. That was safe – a veil to hide behind. “But when you were arrested and charged, I couldn’t leave. You know that and what came after. And now you know why I had the skills to do it all.”

Silence yawned on. Beneath her feet sat knotted tufts of carpet in red, blue, and fawn. Her black leather shoes stuck out from her petticoats, gleaming. The dark curtain of her hair wafted. A clock ticked on the mantlepiece. The rasp of her breath in her throat. Her cold fingers rested on her forehead, elbows digging into her thighs. A bird sang outside.

“Is that everything?” he said at last.

She smiled bitterly. “You mean it’s not enough?” It was so much when she said it all together like that. She’d never explained it all at once before, like an avalanche. Huge. Overwhelming. So much. Too much. How had she ever dreamed he’d be able to swallow it all?

His chair creaked, and her face shot up. She’d defend herself if she had to. But he stood calmly and walked around the coffee table, no violence in his movements – not that she expected it from him, but hadn’t she hurt Derry this morning? Betrayal could destroy a person, wring out horrifying reactions, things that shocked even themselves. Her side of the settee rose as he sat angled towards her.

“First,” he said, voice soft, “thank you. That – it can’t have been easy telling me all this, and it wasn’t easy hearing all of it, but I want you to understand how much I appreciate you doing so.” His fingertips brushed her temple as he stroked the hair from her face. He lifted her chin, forcing eye contact. “Thank you.

“Second, I have an admission of my own.” His hand dropped from her face and his gaze from hers.

This was when he was going to admit he no longer loved her – that he’d been wrong when he’d said his love would last through whatever secrets she had. She tried to smile in encouragement. He had a right to his feelings however much they might hurt her. He was right to have changed his mind. “I understand.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you do. You see” – he bit his lip – “not all of this was new information to me.”

She blinked, forcing out more tears – gods, would they never bloody end? Deciding to tell him this on the same day as Mum’s funeral had been a terrible idea. Had he already worked part of it out?

“I – I already knew about your mother.”

Of course. She sighed, shaking her head. “I’ve always struggled to fool you. When did you realise that Aunt Livia was, in fact, my mother? Was it when she – that night in the garden or earlier? What gave it away?”

“The painting.”

Her mouth dropped open. So early. So easily. “Huh.” Almost a surprised laugh. “But you didn’t know who she was before today. The full –”

“I did.”

She blinked.

“The painting.” He gestured towards the hall where it had been stacked that day he’d visited, the day after they’d fetched Mum from the asylum. “My mother kept records of all her works – the number in the corner, by her bird signature, was a reference number. I found the details weeks ago.” He huffed and shook his head. “I’m saying this all out of order – you had a much bigger tale to tell and did it so much better. Almost as soon as I saw the painting, I knew the likeness was no coincidence – she had to be a close relative of yours, most likely your mother. And she had to be someone of importance in Arianople – I recognised the background as a screen from the palace. It was a room my mother loved – we’d often take tea there with Zeynab and Fehim. I didn’t know who I expected her to be, but I hungered for answers.”

He took her hand in both his and stroked her knuckles. She winced. Touching him was painful now she knew it was about to be taken away. “I know I’d promised to not pry into your secrets, but I thought … I thought if I could work them out, I could tell you and save you the anguish of having to say them. I’m sorry, Quin, I did search through my mother’s papers, looking for clues. I did pry. Please forgive me.”

She laughed – a short, surprised huff of air. He was asking her forgiveness? Hundred bless this man. It had to be what he needed before he walked away. He’d behaved more admirably than she would have in the same position – nothing could have stopped her prying and prying at the puzzle box until it broke.

“Of course.” She tugged at the hand still trapped in his grasp, and he let her fingers slip away.

But then, shouldn’t she make the most of it? This would likely be their last conversation. Now Mum was buried, she could leave this house. Gods knew where they’d go. Maybe they’d find somewhere quiet in the country. Somewhere simple and calm.

They. She still had the Derry problem to deal with. And the Alora one. The sigh became a groan in her throat.

But that wasn’t now. This was now. He was now, and this might be the last time they were in a room alone together. She looked at his hands, empty of hers, traced their long lines with her gaze. “I mean,” she said, “there’s nothing to forgive. It was unfair of me to ask you to trust me when I gave you nothing in return, no reason to do so.”

“Only saving my life and proving my innocence.” He snorted, shaking his head. He stilled, spearing her with his gaze. “When I saw my mother’s notes and learned who the woman in the painting was, I realised that was one of your secrets. And I realised why you’d so guarded it and that I was a fool for digging for it.”

Because of course she’d be ashamed of being a daughter of the harem. Maybe he did think of them as harem whores, after all. Better for him not to know. Had that changed how he’d looked at her? With pity, perhaps? Or expecting erotic artistry? Wasn’t it after that he’d tied her up in his carriage? Was that one of the tricks he thought a harem whore would teach her daughter?

No, he’d done that in response to her begging release from her own control and he’d more than delivered.

“So I kept quiet,” he went on. “Because I understood it was something you had to do for yourself. What was it you said about Ariston and my father? Not his secret to tell? Well, this was your secret, not mine, and I was wrong to take it from you. You had to be ready to lower your barriers and tell me for yourself. And I was prepared to wait, even if that time never came.” The back of his fingers caressed her cheek, soft as his smile. “But I was sure you eventually would, and here we are.”

“You” – she blinked, he was still smiling, still touching her – “you mean you’re not … shocked … horrified … disgusted?”

“Oh, Quin,” he said, shaking his head.

Ah, the let-down. He was being gentle. She winced.

His fingertips threaded into her hair, trailing over her scalp as he pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. A chaste kiss. He was a good man, and he was slipping through her fingers. But at least she’d told the truth.

“I remembered something recently,” he went on. “Isn’t it funny how finding something from the past can trigger a memory that comes to life so vividly you wonder that you ever managed to forget it?”

She frowned in answer, cocking her head. What was he talking about?

A slow smile claimed his lips. “Where I first saw you.”

“At the hanging – the day of the gallows party.” She sighed. “I engineered that – I was looking for you in the crowd. I wanted a glimpse of you before we were introduced. I –”

“No. Not then. Long before that.” He watched her as if waiting for an answer or some recognition, but when she shook her head, he exhaled softly. “When I was putting my mother’s ledger away, I found some old sketches of my own, including an oil painting of a pair of eyes, hastily daubed in the corner of what was meant to be a study of the Watergardens. When I was nineteen or so, I had an odd encounter there with a young woman with amber eyes, and I tried to capture them before I forgot.”

She blinked. He was two years older than her, so she’d have been seventeen. What had she been doing then? Training with Mum, starting to go out into society, practising passing amongst aristocrats. She’d started in the Watergardens not long after her birthday …

The fountains had sparkled in the late autumn sun, catching little rainbows in their spray. A painter, a young man, attractive and tall, green-eyed. She’d been failing to talk her way in, cheeks burning in mortification. It was meant to be a test, see if she could pass as one of them, but a guard had stopped her. And the painter had appeared, acted like they were due to meet there and offered his arm.

She covered her mouth. “That was you.” How could she not have realised? But hadn’t she thought him familiar? She’d assumed from his portrait, but her mind must have been tugging on that memory. “And – and we met again at a masked ball.” Hundred knew there were things from that time she’d fought hard to bury. Talat’s dank breath on her skin, his fingers on her throat, the wandering hands of her first mark. And those encounters with the handsome young painter had gone with them.

“From that memory and identifying Livia in the painting, I had a good idea you were from Arianople and not as well-born as you pretended but had learned to pose as an aristocrat. And so well, too.” His look raked over her in a way that warmed her cheeks. “So, no, I’m not shocked or horrified or disgusted. If anything, I’m impressed.”

I’m. Present tense. She held her breath, straining to listen. She must have misheard.

“Quin,” he said, hands poised above hers, brows raised as if to ask permission. She had pulled them from his grasp, after all.

She gave the slightest nod, breath still held, throat aching.

“As far as I’m concerned” – his hands enveloped hers, all strong grip and soft skin, punctuated by the rasp of fencer’s calluses – “nothing has changed. You might have initially set out to steal from me, which I’ll admit was a surprise – though it explains much – you have in your actions towards me and in my observation almost from our very first meeting only proven yourself to be worthy of my utter trust and deepest regard.” He took a sudden, sharp breath. “But, no, one thing has changed.” Gods, surely he wasn’t playing with her so cruelly, had she read him so poorly? “You. In telling me all this, you’ve let down the walls you were holding around yourself, and you’ve allowed me in. Hundred” – he chuckled – “I want to start raving like some moon-struck poet about the wondrous city of you that now sprawls before me, but I’m realistic enough to know my artistic skill lies with colour and line, not with words, so I’ll spare us both the embarrassment of my amateur verse.”

Despite herself, she laughed, the corners of her eyes damp. “Let’s both steer clear of self-penned poetry.”

“An excellent idea.” He nodded. “I’ll speak plainly, instead. What I was trying to say with my terrible city metaphor is that far from horror or disgust or betrayal or whatever reaction you expected or feared from me, I can only marvel at you and quite what you’ve achieved. I –”

“No.” She pressed her finger to his lips. Not yet. Her chest was full of it, and she needed to say it at last.

At long sodding last.

“Atesh.” Her fingertips trailed to his chin, the stubble rasping her skin.

She swallowed.

Took a fluttering breath.

Smiled.

“I love you.” She swallowed, but nothing could stop the words now they were out. And damn it, she didn’t want to stop them. “I love you. And I already knew that before today, but I didn’t want to tell you until you’d had the chance to hear all this and take it in. I didn’t want you to feel beholden or bound to me because you’d already said it and because you were happy or blinded by the fact I’d said it back at last. I had to tell you the truth first. I had to stop holding back, even if I risked losing you because I love you. So, here I am.” She held her hands wide. “I’m not holding back anymore. I am yours if you’ll have me.”

A slow smile spread across his face, from the delicious, sinuous lines of his lips to the sea-green glint of his eyes. “As if you have any chance of me saying no to such an offer,” he said, voice husky and low. He leant so close, his breath touched her lips, but he did not, he simply paused there, a tantalising distance away. “And I need to say this before I kiss you, because when I start, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to stop, so my apologies if we both die of starvation from being locked here forever” – the corner of his mouth quirked – “but, Quinta Guldan, I love you.”

And he kissed her.

59

Nothing But the Truth

Where the hells was Quin? Derry pursed her lips. She’d sat in her room until near twilight and then she’d searched the house from basement to roof garrets, but hadn’t seen Quin since she’d left the funeral in Atesh’s hired carriage.

They needed to talk. Tacita couldn’t be Alora. Surely. And yet …

Walking downstairs, she clutched her hands to stop the shaking. It wasn’t …

She shook her head. Quin had to understand. There was no way she’d ever expose them to Alora or anyone else who was a threat. Just no way.

And Alora might have been masked when she’d captured her, but surely she’d recognise her, the voice or manner or stride or something. Surely.

But the pin. A little wasp told Prima. Di Vespa.

Derry clutched her aching chest. The crushing weight was unbearable as if someone were standing on her ribcage. It had to be a misunderstanding. A coincidence. She hadn’t laid Alora.

The look Quin had given her. She believed Tacita was Alora. She blamed her.

Footsteps came from the library.

“Quin?” She ran the rest of the way down the stairs and threw open the library door – she’d catch Quin by surprise before she had a chance to avoid her and –

“Oh.” Not Quin. Atesh. “Oh.”

He stood at a shelf, fingertips on a book’s spine as if he’d been perusing. He turned to her with sparkling eyes and a bright smile, but it fell the moment his gaze met hers, becoming a stiff turn at the corners of his mouth. “There’s no need to look quite so disappointed to see me.”

Derry sighed and closed the door behind herself, sinking against it.

“Sorry,” he said, eyes crinkling in a wince, “you’ve had a hard day, I shouldn’t really be joking, should I? That was a bit caddish of me. I apologise, Derry. Are you – how are you?”

That was an impossible question to answer. After the funeral, she’d sat in her room, head in her hands, going over and over every meeting she’d ever had with Tacita di Vespa. She’d made the odd comment about Quin, but it seemed more as though she were jealous of their friendship. There was no way Alora who apparently loathed Quin so much could hide such a strong feeling.

No way.

And why would Alora pay for all those medicines she’d used to help the Gutter folk? If she had indeed been Talat’s accomplice, she was helping the families of the very people she’d enabled him to kill. That made it an even more mad thing to do. It was too much.

Derry crossed her arms, wrapping her hands around her elbows. “Is Quin not with you?” His brows raised at the question. “Sorry – I mean, thank you. I’m – I’m not quite sure what to think at the moment. It doesn’t … I can’t believe it’s true. There’s no way …”

Atesh tilted his head. “There’s no way that Alora, who persuaded one of my cousins to kill my other cousin, who kidnapped you, and who tried to kill you and Quin to prevent you from reaching my execution … There’s no way that woman could also trick her way into a relationship with you?”

Derry’s gaze slid to the floor, and she pursed her lips. She pressed herself into the door. She should have turned around when she’d seen Quin wasn’t here. “It’s no trick. She …” She shook her head. “You don’t understand – the amount of time I’ve spent with her, it’s no lie. What we have. I can’t believe that. And I won’t. Tacita cares for me.” Quin was an excellent actress, but if Tacita was lying in the looks she gave, the way she touched her, the way they talked, then she made Quin look like a rank amateur.

He scoffed softly. “I do understand. Very well, in fact. A person can lie about one thing and tell the truth about another all at the same time.” He raised an eyebrow. “Quin told me everything.”

She froze. Swallowing was suddenly an effort. “Everything?”

“Her mother, her childhood, her … work. I suppose I should be flattered that you all came here for me.” He gave a lopsided smile, brows rising.

She’d actually done it. Told Atesh the truth. Trust Quin to do it in the middle of all this like she’d decided to save Atesh the night before his hanging. Gods, she had a terrible knack for timing. “And you’re … all right with that?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Apparently so. On any other day, she’d have whooped for joy and grabbed them both in fierce hugs.

But this was not any day.

She sighed, fingers digging into her arms. “Then I’m pleased for you both. But, I need to – is Quin here?”

“No,” Atesh said shrugging. “She said she needed to go to Prima herself – ask her about the –”

“She’s gone to Prima? And you let her go on her own?” Gooseflesh prickled her arms.

His shoulders stiffened. “Yes, she said it was something she needed to do alone, and I respect her decision. After all, the gossip and the letter were about her. She was going to see if she could persuade Prima to tell her where Alora was.” His brow creased, eyes narrowing at her. “But you don’t believe that – what’s wrong?”

Derry swallowed and shook her head. “Oh, I believe she’s going to Prima, all right, but where do you think she’ll go after that? Because, believe me, she’ll get any information she can out of Prima.”

“To Alora.” He lowered his chin, gaze dropping from hers. “She lied to me. I thought –”

“She didn’t lie.” Derry shook her head, raising her hands. “At least not deliberately.” For a change. She scoffed. “She’s lying to herself. She believes she’ll merely go and speak to Prima, but as soon as she knows how to contact Alora, she won’t be able to help herself. She’ll go to her and as soon as she sees her, she’ll kill her.” And that was precisely why she’d lied to Quin about knowing where Tacita was. If she thought Tacita was Alora, she’d march straight in, blade drawn, and any further confusion would only lead to bloodshed. By keeping that information to herself, she was keeping Quin and Tacita safe.

Atesh flinched and gave a small shake of his head. “No, she wouldn’t … She …”

“Quin is no murderer. The only people she’s ever killed have been in self-defence and even they haunt her.”

“Her nightmares,” he murmured, barely audible.

“Exactly, imagine how she’d feel if she killed in cold blood. But Alora killed her mother – she won’t be able to help herself. Especially not when it’s still so raw and when she thinks I –” betrayed her.

She closed her eyes. She hadn’t betrayed anyone, this had to be a misunderstanding. A coincidence.

There was only one way she could prove that.

She went to the hall and grabbed her coat, shoving her feet in the nearest pair of shoes.

“What are you doing?” Atesh asked, following. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get answers. You go and get Ariston – he’s in Livia’s room – I think Decimus is hovering in the doorway, keeping an eye on him. The three of you go after Quin. Quickly. The mood she’s in, she might even hurt Prima, and however vile that woman is, we don’t want the janissaries after her for that, do we?”

His eyes widened, and he nodded, backing away towards the stairs.

He might love Quin, and he might know her secrets, but after five years Derry knew her better.

“Derry,” he said, pausing at the bottom of the staircase, breaths loud, eyes wide, “thank you. We’ll stop her doing something she regrets, between us, won’t we?”

He looked afraid, but the way his brows lifted was a glimmer of hope. He needed reassurance right now that the woman he loved wasn’t about to become a murderer and so break even further.

She took a long breath and nodded sombrely.

With a momentary smile, he turned and ran up the stairs, then Derry opened the door to the servants’ stairs and ran down. The fastest way would be to ride, and she had a sabrecat of her own now.

Sabrecat. The story Tacita had told her on Friday night before they’d …

Derry stumbled against the wall, legs weak.

How had she phrased it? She was old and ill … I had to put her down.

No …

She pressed her fingers against her lips, but a low moan escaped. Her mouth dried, and each breath rocked her whole body, the gasping loud in her ears. It couldn’t be Livia. She swallowed, working her tongue around her mouth.

It had to be a misunderstanding. A mad, mad coincidence.

Had to be.

She would go to Tacita herself and find out. She had to be sure. She hurried out the back door, careful to lock it behind her, and ran past the flowers with the flattened space in the centre where they’d found Livia.

Tacita couldn’t have been the one to do it.

Could she?

Derry had to know.

60

The First

It had been shockingly easy to sneak into Prima’s house.

Wearing practical sellsword gear of breeches, boots, and coat, she’d walked past the walled grounds as the sun set, scout the place in the fading light. A tall camellia stood close to the wall. She’d chosen that as her spot, returning once the sun had set completely and fastening a mask in place. She hid her rapier in its branches and used its shadows to cover her climb up the wall. Then it had been a matter of lowering herself to the floor, creeping across the grounds, keeping to the generous shadows of shrubs and statuary, before climbing up a trellis covered with a thorny rose. That had been the only difficulty, but the scratches were nothing to what Prima had done to Mum. They’d fade in a few days.

She’d dropped in through a parlour window. Pausing to listen and watch for servants, she crept the halls until she found a small drawing room. Twisting floral wallpaper, botanical watercolours, and inked drawings vied for space and attention on the walls. The windowsills were covered in pots: frothy ferns and ghost-pale orchids, pink, white, and yellow. Their pallor and the way the branches of some splayed out over the edges of their pots, unable to support themselves, made Quin grimace.

A freshly lit fire flickered in the grate. An open book and part-finished embroidery in a hoop said this was a private room, somewhere Prima spent time alone. And the fire said she’d be here soon.

The perfect spot for an ambush.

Quin snuffed each candle and settled in the armchair by the fire, hidden from the door by its high back. The only light came from the burgeoning fire.

Jaw set, she stared into its flickering depths. After all these years, she’d be facing Prima and – she scoffed – it wasn’t even Prima she was most angry at right now. Her fists clenched.

Alora.

Prima would be their route to her – she’d get an address or some way to send a message. Then she could give the information to Porto and be done with the woman. Maybe she could trick her into an ambush – send a message arranging a meeting, pretending it was from Derry.

She covered her face. What had Derry done?

The door opened with a quiet click.

Bolting upright, Quin held her breath, listening. Light bloomed into the room – a solitary candle or perhaps a lamp turned low. Soft footsteps – the tap of women’s shoes.

“That idiot girl can’t even manage to light a few candles.” A woman’s clipped tones. The huff of an annoyed sigh. “As always, if you want something done properly, you have to do it your damn self.”

Prima. Even though she’d kept her distance, she’d heard her voice at Zeynab’s funeral and Atesh’s investiture. This was definitely her.

Quin gave a gritted smile and eased her fan from her pocket, turning it anticlockwise to reveal the glint of steel. Breathing slow and deep, she waited.

Candle by candle, the light grew, but it was still only dim in the room when Prima passed, going to the candelabrum on the mantelpiece, a taper in hand.

“You just can’t get the staff these days, can you?” Quin said, and her smile broadened at the harsh gasp as Prima’s whole body jerked.

Prima spun on her heel, wide eyes finding Quin. They glittered in the low light, at once dark and bright. Long grey hair snaked over her shoulder, caught under the hand spread over her heaving bosom.

A fearful old woman. Lined face, open mouth, jowly. Hardly the face of a child murderer.

And yet that liveliness in her eyes – they were eyes that could narrow at a rival, that could preside over poison, that could unblinkingly order the deaths of children.

The taper lay on the rug at her feet, small flame angled upward, but close to the fibres.

Quin watched it for a second. She could leave. Let it all burn, let Prima burn. She shut her eyes, shook her head briefly, then swept to her feet and stamped on the flame, grabbing Prima’s wrist.

“Make a sound, and it will be your last,” she said, holding the fan where the blades could gleam in the dim candlelight.

Prima’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, eyes flicking between Quin and the fan.

“Now, I trust you won’t scream, since I’ve explained the consequences of such a foolish action.”

Prima’s head bobbed up and down.

The great Prima, one-time Sultana Valide, architect of the Night of the Innocents, poisoner, child-killer, and here she stood shaking in Quin’s grasp.

Quin gave a fierce smile, and Prima shrank away. She’d threatened Porto in the Fortress of the Seven Towers but had taken no pleasure in it. That had been a matter of necessity.

But this …

It burned and twisted, awakening something inside her. Something that perhaps had never been there before or maybe had always lain in wait.

Something frightening.

She swallowed and took a steadying breath. “All I want from you is information, are we clear?”

Prima nodded, and Quin caught her as her legs crumpled. Her jowls shook, and she was lighter than expected. She was just an old lady. Quin sighed and placed her in the chair she’d waited in.

Gods, what was she doing?

An old lady who’d spread rumours about her – rumours that had almost got her raped, Hundred sake. And a cruel letter that had been a clear attempt to break her and Atesh apart. So although it might’ve been decades since Prima had killed, she was no kindly aunt.

Quin bent over her, fan near her throat. “You may whisper your answers, but that’s the only sound I want to hear. Understood?”

“Understood,” Prima rasped, eyes never leaving hers.

“You have a friend, a young woman who’s been telling you about other women at court – cruel little rumours. Describe her for me.”

“Rumours?”

“Like the ones you put in your letter to your nephew. He’s given it to the janissaries, you know. It’s only a matter of time before they realise you wrote it.” It didn’t matter if it was a lie, it made Prima squirm, and that was the least she deserved. “Or have you forgotten Suheyla’s little parlour trick? Find any object’s owner.”

Her gasp shook. She had forgotten. “The woman who told me … Tall, not far off six-foot, perhaps a little muscular for a lady.” Her glittering gaze flicked over Quin, and she raised an eyebrow. “Though perhaps that’s the fashion nowadays. But she – ah, she has beautiful lips – full and pouting. And long hair, the colour of mahogany.”

The hairs on the back of Quin’s neck stood on end.

That was Alora.

She swallowed. “And her name?”

“The name she gave me was Alora Eshekarisi, but that’s not a family I know of, so I’m sure it’s fake.”

Quin grinned in triumph, a snort of laughter blasting through her nose. “Oh, Prima,” she said, shaking her head, “you foolish woman. You mean you didn’t realise that all this time you’ve been helping a daughter of the harem?”

Prima blinked. “A – what?”

“I’d suggest you don’t take any further visits from your little wasp. And if she’s given you any gifts, especially food, you might want to throw them away. It may come as a shock to hear, but you’re not exactly popular with children of the harem. And she’s the nastiest one I’ve met yet.” It would be too much if Alora had gifted Prima poisoned chocolates or something similar. Deliciously appropriate. But that would be a triumph for Alora … Besides, it didn’t seem likely she was finished with Prima. “Although maybe the gift hasn’t come yet – you’re still useful to her. But perhaps I can save you from that fate. Tell me her address or how you contact her.” Quin watched her intently, searching for any signs of a lie, but Prima simply nodded, breath shallow and fast. She was more frightened of the woman with the blade at her quivering throat than of Alora.

“11 Deniz Road. I’ve not visited her, she’s always come here or at social events, but I’ve written to her at that address, and my messengers have seen her butler there, so I’ve no reason to believe that isn’t where she lives.”

Alora’s address. She bit back a laugh of triumph. Alora would have no idea …

Another long, steadying breath. “Madam, you have been far more helpful than I’d ever dared to hope.” She straightened and made a show of closing her blade fan. “If you should feel like screaming once my blade is no longer so close to your flesh, remember how very easily I was able to surprise you in your own home. If you try to send anyone after me, I’ll pay you another visit, and next time it’ll be in your chambers while you’re sound asleep.” She gave a slow smile, showing her teeth – let the woman be scared. “And there will be no talking.”

Prima watched her. Although she still shook, hatred had crept into the sharpness of her eyes, the flaring of her nostrils, the set of her jaw. She nodded once. “I won’t call for help, but if I ever see you again, you won’t find me so easily overpowered.”

Quin smiled, backing towards the window. “Then, I look forward to seeing what you can manage.” With a smirk, she gave a mocking bow and turned away, throwing open the window. It was silent and dark out there.

She climbed down several feet before jumping the rest of the way, landing in a low crouch. She flew to the wall, steps light as the scant clouds scudding overhead. The climb was easy. Pulling off her mask, she hurried homeward.

She had Alora’s address. It wasn’t far away. Gods, Alora had been under her nose the whole time.

Stomach fluttering, she stepped onto Neorion Square. Almost home.

But what if Prima had lied? What if the address was wrong? She could have sent someone to warn Alora …

Quin stopped, jaw clenched. She could go to 11 Deniz Road, look through the window.

Just to check Alora was really there. Just to see. Just to be sure.

61

Peppermint Tea

“Miss Bowyer,” Mr Karga said when he opened the door. “Another unexpected visit. I’m sure madam will be glad to see you, as always.” He smiled and gestured for Derry to enter. He took her coat before leading her through to the drawing room.

“Derry,” Tacita said, smiling as she poured a cup of tea. “Come, sit, please.”

She paused in the doorway, staring at Tacita. Tall. Red-brown hair. Lightly muscled like a fencer. She clenched her jaw to stop her face from crumpling.

Quin was right – Alora had worn a mask when she’d kidnapped her. And there were the little digs Tacita made about Quin, the coolness in her voice whenever she spoke about her. That first night they’d kissed, hadn’t she essentially told Derry to stop talking about Quin so much? She’d assumed it was jealousy, but could there be something else to it? And that story about the sickly sabrecat. She’d been so upset …

“Derry? Are you well?” Tacita set down the teapot before rushing towards her.

Derry caught her breath and took half a step back. “No, sorry, I …” She shook her head and forced a smile to her face. “Sorry, I’m tired. Had to go to a funeral today.”

“Oh.” Tacita stopped a few feet away, gaze passing over Derry. “I see. Yes, that can be very tiring. You poor thing – please sit.” She gestured to the chaise longue.

Gods, yes, she needed to sit, her knees felt weak.

“Mr Karga,” Tacita went on, “fetch another cup, would you? And then you and the rest of the staff are dismissed for the evening. We need the house to ourselves.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Wringing her hands in her lap, Derry stared at the steaming cup of peppermint tea and the teapot beside it.

“Now,” Tacita said, resuming her seat opposite, “isn’t this a lovely surprise?” There was a frailty in her smile – something brittle to it, as though she were still sad about the sabrecat she’d had to put down. Or was it Livia?

No, no, no.

Derry swallowed, throat a fraction of its normal size. “I had to come and speak to you.”

Mr Karga returned, setting down a cup in front of Derry. “Thank you,” she said, nodding to him and smiling as Tacita took the lid off the teapot and stirred, spoon clinking.

He seemed so ordinary, kindly even, within the bounds of a butler’s role – there was no way he could work for a monster.

There was no way Tacita could be Alora. No way in all the world.

“Good evening, madam, Miss Bowyer.” He bowed and left.

Derry stared at the door a long time after it had closed. Her face ached with tension.

“Is it still … difficult at home?” Tacita’s eyes didn’t leave her as she lifted the pot and poured Derry’s tea. “It should be cool enough to drink, it’s been brewing a little while. You said it was her funeral today – that can’t have been easy.” She sat back and took a sip.

Derry exhaled. Tacita drank the tea, so if somehow she was Alora, then it wasn’t spiked this time. She bit her lip, staring at the steam rising from her own cup. She was being ridiculous. She’d come here for answers, and now she feared them. Simply saying the name would clear this up. If Tacita was Alora, then she’d react to mention of Alora Eshekarisi or – what was the name she’d given Quin back when they’d met in the Golden Tower? Alora du Vertin – that was it.

She blew out through her nose and picked up the tea, smiling at Tacita. And when she mentioned the name, and she didn’t react, then this whole misunderstanding would be cleared up, and she’d be able to explain to Quin.

So why was she putting it off?

She sipped the tea, refreshing and sweet with honey, and Tacita was right – it was the perfect temperature.

This was ridiculous. She’d laid Tacita on this very chaise longue. Not Alora. She knew Tacita. She was perhaps a little cool and clipped on the exterior, certainly eccentric, but that was little more than an accent – a veneer over the kindness and warmth beneath. She’d never hurt Derry – she’d never hurt anyone.

She shook her head and drank some more to delay how foolish she would sound. “It’s been a long day. That’s for sure. But what about you – are you still upset about your elderly sabrecat?” She watched Tacita over the rim.

Tacita’s delicate brow crinkled and her gaze fell to her own cup, sat in its saucer in her hand. “I fear it will stay with me for a long time. The sight of her at the end …”

Derry nodded thoughtfully and drained her cup. That was the end of her stalling tactic. She swallowed. “The sight of her at the end – I never did ask you how you did it.” She raised her brows in question, ridiculous heart hammering painfully.

Tacita bit her lip, watching as Derry replaced her cup and saucer on the table with a clatter. “I made sure she didn’t suffer. I’m not a monster. I gave her laudanum, and once she was asleep, I cut her throat.” Inch by inch, her gaze returned to Derry’s, the sorrow of five nights ago back in her eyes and tense mouth.

Laudanum. A cut throat.

Derry’s heart plunged.

She opened her mouth, but no words would come. Her eyes stung from staring.

It wasn’t …

Tacita had killed Livia. Tacita was Alora.

Derry’s breaths, her blood, deafened. It couldn’t be. “What have I done?” Exhaustion cloaked her, making it an effort to even lift her hands to her mouth. “What have you done?”

Tacita placed her empty cup and saucer back on the table, eyes glistening.

Derry shook her head, though it swam with shock. “Why? Did you even … Was this all for her? Did you care about me at all?” She was sure she’d seen genuine affection, perhaps even love, but what did she know? For months she’d been friends and then more with Alora. Her hands dropped into her lap, wringing the fabric.

“Oh, Derry.” Tacita sighed. “I never meant for it to be this way.” She gave a short huff of laughter. “Believe me when I say that. I admit, coming to you, seeking you out all those times, it started as a way to get close to … her. To get information, perhaps even sow discord between you, but as I grew to know you …” She shook her head and rubbed her hands over her face. “You weren’t what I was expecting. You were … smart and sweet and vulnerable and hopeful and tenacious. Wanting to help those families, to use your skills to extend their sad little lives just a bit longer – it’s a hopeless cause, and yet you almost made me believe in it. You’re everything I never knew I wanted. And so beautiful it makes my heart ache.”

This couldn’t be, and yet …

She needed to get out of here. But she also needed to hear what Tacita had to say. She needed the truth.

Gods, how had her judgement been so wrong?

Tacita leant forward, elbows on her knees. “How could I not come to care for you? I suppose you also know about my not-so-little friend.” She sighed. “Yes, there’s no use, I suppose it’s all out now if you know this much. He … He was a useful tool. A broken thing who hated this city and its people almost as much as I do. I merely helped him gain more from his revenge.

“And if you doubt my sincerity when I say I care for you, Derry, for you, for who you are and not anything related to her or what you can do for me ... know that it was originally my plan to give her what she deserves by …” She stopped and swallowed, grasping her hands before her until the knuckles were white. “Originally, I was going to direct him to take you in order to break her. But you wormed your way in, and I couldn’t bear the thought. I was … lost. I couldn’t let him take her – that is for me and only me. And only once she’s tasted the bitterness of total defeat.” A flash of a cruel smile twisted Tacita’s face, gone again in an instant. She shook her head. “But then the gods delivered Livia to the city. That lightning storm was truly a stroke of luck – I don’t know where she was, but I’m guessing wherever she had her hidden away, it was hit by the storm. And so I had my solution.” She swallowed. “You’re being very quiet.”

“Quiet?” Derry scoffed. “What in the world am I meant to say?” She closed her eyes, pressure behind her eyelids and in her veins, tears and blood both pressing. She wanted to stand up, walk around the table and punch her clean in the face, but she couldn’t summon the energy. It was too much. This had to be what heartbreak felt like. She gulped two deep breaths. “Besides, don’t you want me to be quiet? Aren’t you scared I’ll run and tell the janissaries everything? Or do you think I won’t because I’m so in love with you that I’ll go along with anything you say and side with you?” She laughed, head lolling back against the chaise longue.

“Are you – in love with me, that is?”

“Of course I’m bloody not – you’re a monster.” Derry shook her head. She should stand up and leave and find the nearest janissary and tell them that the Destroyer’s accomplice was here.

Except her limbs wouldn’t obey. They were as still and heavy as lead. That wasn’t just sorrow or shock or heartbreak.

Honey in the peppermint tea, masking a bitter note …

Her breath caught in her throat. Tacita – Alora – whoever she was had stirred the teapot after pouring her own, before pouring Derry’s. “Laudanum.”

Tacita’s eyes closed, face crumpling.

“Oh gods,” Derry whispered, “you’re going to …”

A door slammed. That was the servants leaving. She couldn’t even call for help.

“I’m sorry,” Tacita whispered, standing and circling the coffee table, drawing closer, “please believe that. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever told you. I couldn’t give you as much as I gave them, with your training you’d have noticed it, but I promise this won’t hurt.”

Derry tried to push her away, but she couldn’t even make her fingers twitch. This was it. Killed by the woman she thought she was falling for. And to think she’d come here to warn her that Quin was coming.

Well, damn her. Quin would be here soon. And if she killed Tacita, then it would serve her right. Derry collapsed against the back of the chaise longue, too heavy. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, and her eyes rolled. “Quin will …” – her voice sounded distant as if coming from the bottom of a well – “deal with you.”

She wanted to say more, but her tongue was thick and so heavy, and the world was so …

62

A Long Time Coming

“Sir,” the butler said, scrambling after Atesh and Ariston as they breezed past him, “this is most –”

“I think you mean Your Highness,” Atesh said. Leaning on his position made him wince, but if it got him into the house unmolested, then so be it. “Where is my aunt?”

“In the botanical parlour, Your Highness. I apologise, I –”

“I know the way. I’ll show myself there, thank you.” He strode through the house, Decimus to his right, Ariston to his left, all with jaws clenched. “Are you …” He trailed off, looking at Ariston with a raised eyebrow.

Ariston’s hazel eyes flicked to him, and he gave a grim nod.

As soon as Atesh had told him about Derry’s fears and Quin’s words, he’d been on his feet, leaving the half-drunk glass of whisky on the side. He’d moved swiftly, making himself ready within moments, not once questioning what they would do.

It was obvious – for Quin he’d do anything.

Atesh eyed him now. So protective over her. Yes, he’d known her a long time, but …

Perhaps Quin’s father wasn’t such a stranger as she thought. In the light of her spilt secrets, Atesh wondered – so many puzzles around Quin’s household, but they were for another time. He was at the door to the botanical parlour.

He nodded Decimus into position, guarding the entrance hall. He and Ariston burst into the room. A few candles had been lit, and the fire roared, but there was no sign of anyone. “Aunt Prima?”

Her slim hand lifted from behind the armchair facing the fire. “More visitors,” she huffed. “Well, I hope my heroic nephew will be more polite than the last one.”

The last one. That had to be her. He exchanged a look with Ariston, who nodded and circled around the other side of the room, so they appeared on either side of Prima.

She smiled up at Atesh, but when her gaze fell upon Ariston, it widened, and she gave a short, sharp gasp. “You. I thought you were long gone.” Her eyes narrowed. “And here with my nephew … How did that happen?”

“This isn’t a social call,” Atesh said, calling her attention back to him. “We’re not here for a catch-up. Who was your other visitor?”

“Well, she was almost as polite as you two,” she said, eyeing him from head to toe and then Ariston. “But it’s always a social call when the sneaky paramour of Livia Guldan pays me a visit.”

Ariston’s body went rigid. His nostrils flared, and the whites of his eyes showed all around the irises. Trembling, he shot toward Prima. “You don’t get to say her name.”

Atesh gripped Ariston’s shoulder, giving him a little shake. Paramour? And for Prima to know, it must have been from the time of the harem, when Cheviker was still around. So it was possible …

He took a long breath and nodded at Ariston – he seemed to have himself under control.

Ariston licked a froth of spittle from the corner of his mouth. “Who visited you tonight?”

Irritation pursed her lips, and she rolled her eyes. “Still sensitive about that, then?” She sighed again. “A masked woman. The poor creature was quite crazed.”

Crazed? Oh gods, that wasn’t good. Derry was right – after everything with Livia, the shock of today, being forced to speak to Prima … Quin could easily go after Alora on her own. At the sight of the woman who’d killed her mother, who’d blame her for snapping?

Prima tossed her head. “Why does it matter to you?”

A vein stood out on Ariston’s brow, pulsing hard. “Sensitive?” He loomed over her, and there was a dagger in his hand, glinting orange in the firelight. Before Atesh could move to stop him, he held it to Prima’s throat. “You forced her and the others out. And you ordered the deaths of any who tried to remain or who weren’t quick enough to escape. Even before that you murdered our ch – her other children.”

Atesh gave a soft gasp. He stared from Ariston to Prima, but there was no surprise on her face at the accusations. Her lips twitched in a moue of irritation.

Ariston’s hands twisted in the fabric at the shoulder of her gown, so tight his knuckles strained white. “So yes, strangely enough, you bring out my sensitive side.”

Atesh’s stomach knotted with nausea. “Murdered? Children? How could you do such a thing?”

She laughed softly, straining away from the dagger at her throat. “So horrified, my darling?” Her brows rose at him. “You didn’t complain when I used that same poison for your benefit.”

He blinked, frowning at Ariston, but he looked as confused as Atesh felt. “For my benefit?”

She scoffed. “Did you truly believe your father just so happened to drink himself into an early grave at precisely the time you began to grow big enough and skilled enough with a sword to start thinking about fighting back?”

His mouth dropped open. He yanked at his collar, he couldn’t breathe. Shaking his head, he swallowed.

It wasn’t –

But no, she could do such a thing.

“But I needn’t have concerned myself,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “you don’t have it in you. You only killed Erdem and that Destroyer because they threatened that pretty chit of yours, but you’d never have killed your father to save yourself. Disappointing. I always thought you might have what it took to be a true ruler, but you’re soft like your mother.”

A laugh burst from him. “So you knew what he did? All that time?”

“Any fool could spot the signs, and it’s no surprise that once your poor mother was out of the picture, he’d need a new victim. I would’ve had you live in the Palace with us, but that would have caused a stir – me gathering all the heirs under one roof. I wanted it for your safety, but to anyone else, it would have looked like a play for power” – she waved her hand – “control over the Shahin line.”

Ariston snorted. “How ironic: the one action you wouldn’t have taken for power.”

“Still as tiresome as ever, Cheviker.” She rolled her eyes. “All the ladies so raved about your wit being as sharp as your rapier, but both were so dull I can only think they were actually interested in the contents of your breeches.”

“I’ll gladly give you a demonstration of how sharp my blade is.” Ariston’s jaw knotted.

“Ariston,” Atesh said softly – a warning.

“Such a gentleman,” Prima said, thin smile cruel, “this is exactly why I had to save you from that beastly father of yours. Especially when it would have caused such a scandal for the family if you’d killed him, even if in self-defence. That would have been a difficult one to cover up. So, you see, I rescued you.” She cocked her head, smile turning sweet, but it curdled at Atesh’s glower.

Beastly father of yours. So she didn’t know that Ferros wasn’t his real father. All this truth spilling from her at Ariston’s presence and the blade at her throat, she surely would have relished the chance to think she was revealing to him that he was a bastard.

Atesh sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head throbbed as if he’d been using his Deck heavily.

“You tell us so much,” Ariston spat, knuckles tight on his dagger, “aren’t you afraid we’re going to go and spill all your secrets to the janissaries? Isn’t killing a Sultan’s children treason, however long ago it was?”

That trilling laugh again. “The Sultan’s children?” She raised an eyebrow at Ariston. “Anyway, who would believe you? A poor old lady with a dagger at her throat would say anything to keep herself alive.”

“You” – Ariston’s voice shook, and he leant forward, hand resting on the back of her chair. A whimper escaped her lips, and she pressed herself back against the silk damask. For Prima to make such a noise, so undignified, she had to be afraid, in pain. A drop of crimson blood formed on the edge of the blade.

This had gone too far. If he’d known Ariston’s past with Prima, he’d never have brought him here.

“Ariston,” he said softly, “we came here for … her, remember that. We need to know where she’s gone. We need to get to her, quickly. I understand you’re angry. And it sounds like you have every right to be. Especially after today. I know you cared for Livia, and Prima hurt her, but look at her now. She’s no longer the Sultana Valide. Pity her.” He placed his hand on Ariston’s right arm, a light touch, hopefully enough to bring him back to himself. “She’s just an ageing has-been. No real power, she sits here on her web, spinning lies.” Prima’s nostrils flared. “And any power she does have, I’ll destroy myself. But right now, she needs us.”

Long heavy breaths later, Ariston lifted his gaze to Atesh. His eyes closed, unshed tears glistening on his dark lashes. He sighed, the rigidity dropping from his body, and he let Atesh pull the dagger away. When his gaze landed on Prima’s blood at its tip, he gasped, as if he hadn’t realised what he’d done.

“We’ll deal with her another day,” Atesh said, rubbing Ariston’s shoulder and returning the blade, hilt-first, “but not like this.”

Ariston nodded and wiped the blood on the cuff of his black suit before returning it to his belt.

Thank the gods for that. Prima might have been a despicable individual, but he didn’t want her murder on his hands or on Ariston’s. “What did you tell this masked woman?”

Prima’s jaw tensed.

“Tell me, or I’ll leave him with you.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “She asked who’d been spreading rumours about your paramour, actually – petty little accusations.” Those petty little accusations from her letter could have put Quin in prison, particularly as she was a criminal. “She asked how to contact the woman responsible. Alora Eshekarisi.”

“And?”

“At 11 Deniz Road.”

An address. And not far. “Perfect.” He turned and strode for the door, Ariston on his heels.

“No thank you for your dear old –” Prima began, but Atesh stopped at the door, yanking it open and letting Ariston through.

“No. It’s appropriate that you poisoned people, when you are such a vile poison in this family – in this city, even. Be thankful I’m not a vengeful man; otherwise, this conversation could have ended very differently for you.” With that, he strode out and nodded to Decimus in the hallway.

Gods, let them find Quin in time – before she did something she’d regret.

63

Crossed Swords

Quin’s pace slowed as she drew up opposite number eleven – the red front door glinted in the light of street lamps, and to the left, a staircase ran down to a servant’s entrance. She scowled – subtlety be damned. Front door it was.

She trotted up the steps and glanced side to side – there was no one on the street, just houses twice and three times the size of hers and oak trees alternating with the street lamps. She pulled the roll of picks from her pocket and shook her hands to ease the trembling. Once they were still, she made quick work of the lock.

Three deep breaths, right hand on the hilt of her rapier, left on the door, then open. No sign of any servants in the wide entrance hall, with its marble floor, brocade on the walls, and an ornate umbrella stand by the door. It was warm compared to the chilly autumn night, almost cosy.

She shrugged off her coat, continuing her inspection of the room. A staircase led up from the centre sweeping left, lamplight flickered on the landing. Where would Alora be at this time of night? If she wasn’t home, Quin would wait for her as she had Prima. Perhaps she could sit in her chambers, behind the bed’s drapes. Gods, to ambush Alora would be too delicious.

She hung up her coat and went to the nearest door, to the right. No sound from within, only the scrape as she drew her rapier for protection. She could use her Cards to listen more closely, but did it really matter? If Alora was in this room, she wouldn’t be expecting Quin to appear, sword in hand, not when she thought herself so damn secure at home. Then she’d answer Quin’s questions – a blade at her throat should make her very talkative as it had Prima.

Once she had answers, Porto could have Alora.

She threw the door open. A drawing room, dark, empty but for furniture. Quin nodded and backed away, heartbeat shaking through her body.

Next.

Another door stood along this wall. Quin strode to it, rapier at the ready as she threw it open.

Lights. Chaise longue. Red hair. Eyes wide upon her.

Quin blinked, frozen. Red hair – Derry’s red hair. What was she doing here, slumped on the chaise longue, eyes closed? Alora stood over her, rapier in hand.

“Derry?” Quin’s voice cracked, but Derry didn’t move. Ice down her neck, across her shoulders, down her back. Solid and cold and stiff as death. No. “What have you –”

Did it matter?

Alora rubbed her eyes with the heel of a hand, backing away half a step from Derry. “You found me.”

She glared at Alora, then threw a desperate glance at Derry. Please move, please. “Derry?” Still nothing. So still.

Alora had killed her.

Answers didn’t matter anymore – her questions were dust on the wind. Derry was dead.

Quin’s chest crumpled, the hollowness pulling at her throat, but at the same time fire blazed beneath her skin. Her lungs burned for more air. She gulped it down and with a wordless roar, charged.

The malaise that had settled upon her since Mum’s death burned away under the purifying flame of this intense white rage. She didn’t need to think about the movements, they just came.

Alora kicked the table towards her, smashing a teapot, but Quin smiled and jumped onto its surface, using the height to easily kick Alora in the chest.

With a grunt, Alora retreated, sword raised in defence, because Quin pressed on.

Her feet knew the stances and her arm blurred in cut and thrust and parry and the glide of steel upon steel, its shriek a song in her ears as Alora caught the blows.

Frowning in concentration, Alora circled the chaise longue, placing it between them. She clutched her chest, panting – Quin must have landed her kick in a spot that had almost winded her.

Alora narrowed her eyes. “What, no witty retorts tonight?”

“You killed them. I don’t need anything more. Just your blood on my blade – that’ll do fine.”

Shaking her head, Alora darted into the hall, Quin close behind. She turned and caught Quin’s blade, arm quick against a flurry of blows, but she was backing away.

Quin smiled fiercely, grimly. Mum was dead. And Mrs Tepe. And now Derry too. And all because of Alora. Yes, she had made mistakes, but like Talat’s actions hadn’t been Red’s fault, Quin hadn’t done those things, Alora had. She’d held the blade, poured the laudanum, taken their lives.

And she would pay the price.

Quin let the flame take over, the buzz of energy humming in her muscles, the adrenaline surging through her. This was all she needed now.

A vase on a side table, porcelain cool under her fingertips, then launching through the air and forcing Alora to duck.

Yes, stay distracted.

She lunged, body faster than ever, and Alora barely had time to half-deflect the blow. A red line opened on her cheek.

For the first time in weeks, the sight of blood didn’t send her back to the red room. All she saw was here and now.

Alora shoved Quin’s blade away, inelegant, her other hand rising to the cut. She glanced down at the red smear on her fingertips, brows shooting up. “First blood,” she said, sword ringing as she blocked another strike. “I must say, I like this version of you – she’s most impressive. You should surrender to anger and vengeance more often.”

Quin sneered. Alora knew nothing. She wasn’t surrendering, she was enacting. This was the will of Justice herself. She was just the vessel.

Another crash, and a tablecloth was in Alora’s hand, the bowl that had been upon it now shattered on the floor – but the white linen flew at Quin, covering her face, blinding. Alora’s full weight slammed against her arm and torso, and she stumbled back, scrabbling to pull the cloth away.

With a grunt she threw it to the floor – Alora had disappeared.

The thud of footsteps.

No, not disappeared, upstairs. She sprinted after.

Alora wouldn’t escape. Not tonight. She’d vowed to kill her, and that was what she was going to do. For Dethero, for Mum, for Mrs Tepe, for Derry, and for herself.

At the top of the stairs, Quin paused – where had she –

Pain lanced through her side, and she twisted away on instinct. “Gods,” she hissed.

“No, just me,” Alora said, teeth bared in a ferocious grin.

Nothing seemed to be trying to spill out, so the cut couldn’t be too deep. Left hand at her wound, Quin caught Alora’s blade on her own. She had to get away from the top of the stairs – with Alora’s greater height and weight, she was in danger here. It would be too easy for Alora to push her down the stairs.

Sure enough, Alora must have had the same thought, as her foot swung up, aiming for Quin’s belly.

Quin turned, curving her stomach away, the cut below her ribs searing, but it was enough to keep her a hair’s breadth from Alora’s heel.

“Here, let me help.” Quin grabbed Alora’s ankle and lifted it higher. A roar of protest and Alora’s blade flashed, slashing her bicep, forcing her to release and duck away.

But she was clear of the top of the steps.

She couldn’t let the pain distract her, the sting of her arm and torso – Alora was a monster, and she needed slaying.

Mum. Mrs Tepe. Dethero. Derry.

Quin gritted her teeth and blew out the pain. There was time for that later.

Blades ringing, they fought their way into a bedroom. Why would Alora corner herself? Unless she had –

Alora shoved, but Quin wasn’t there. She slid to one side, foot trailing to catch Alora’s. With a hand on Alora’s shoulder, she shoved, and Alora thudded to the floor.

Grunting, she kicked Alora’s sword hand once, twice, three times. Drop the damn thing.

The blade tolled upon the floor.

“No, I don’t think so.” Quin rested her foot on Alora’s fingers reaching for the hilt. Her own blade at Alora’s throat, Quin grabbed the rapier and threw it to the other side of the room where it disappeared somewhere behind the bed.

As Quin pressed her sole against Alora’s knuckles, Alora gasped.

Quin stared, point of her blade resting at the throb of her jugular. She watched that meeting of flesh and steel, heavy breaths still ripping through her chest and through Alora’s as they breathed as one.

She’d come to ask questions, but here she was, Alora, responsible for so much damage, at her mercy, very nearly upon her blade. She’d persuaded Erdem to kill his own cousin and framed Atesh for it, robbing Safira of her mother. She’d murdered Dethero, leaving him to die in his own blood, blue eyes emptying. She’d somehow got her claws into Talat, too, though he’d been a monster long before her influence. She’d helped him kill innocent women, probably helped him evade justice. Gods, maybe she’d even goaded him on to kill more.

Quin rubbed her face. She’d even ingratiated herself upon Derry, persuaded her she was an actual human being who might have feelings for her. When had they first kissed? Had they laid together? But she was never going to know that now because Derry was dead.

And so was Mum, and Mrs Tepe, and Dethero, and all at Alora’s hand.

“What now, Quin?” Alora raised her eyebrows, her only movement other than the rise and fall of her chest. “I didn’t have you down as the type to kill an unarmed woman, but the way you’re looking at me right now … perhaps you can surprise me after all.”

“Shut up,” Quin snapped. She was going to kill her. She’d promised.

“Because the way I see it,” Alora went on, smiling, “you have two options. And in both of them, I win.”

Such arrogance. “Your version of winning doesn’t really look much like winning.”

“Such a limited view of the world. I’m disappointed.” Alora sighed. “I expected more from you. Let me spell it out for you. First choice, you can kill me. But you’d be killing an unarmed woman, on her back, at your mercy.” A wicked glint came to her eye, and her smile broadened for a second. “Perhaps you always wanted me on my back – now there’s an angle I hadn’t considered before. But, I digress … Your second option is to let me go.”

Quin arched an eyebrow, letting the weight of her rapier rest more heavily upon Alora’s throat. She was rewarded with the tensing of Alora’s jaw and shoulders as she pressed herself into the floor. “And when I kill you, how does that mean you’ve won, exactly?”

Alora’s throat slowly bobbed as she swallowed. “Because if you kill me now it’s murder and that will show you’re the monster I always knew you were. At last, you’ll see it and so will everyone else. And of course, if you let me go, I’ll have won, because you were so close to having me and yet you had to let me go, after all I’ve done. I’ll live to see another day, and that will haunt you forever.” Her smile faded, as Quin pressed the barest fraction of an inch, breaking the skin in a red bead.

“I hate to say it,” Atesh said from the doorway, “but she’s right.”

64

The Options

Quin gasped, snatching the blade away half an inch, but not taking her eyes off Alora. “Atesh – how –”

“I paid my dear aunt a visit and found out where she’d sent you. Now, what say you take that steel from her throat, and we work out another way to deal with this?” He raised his hands and edged closer.

Quin shook her head, glaring at the red smear on Alora’s throat. She couldn’t let Alora go. Not after everything. It had been bad enough knowing she was alive when she’d only let her go by accident. Knowing she was out there because she’d deliberately done so? Unbearable.

“Quin,” Atesh said, voice harsh for a moment, “this isn’t who you are. You’ve killed in self-defence, and that haunts you enough as it is. You mutter about them in your sleep. If you murdered someone, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself, even if it is her. It wouldn’t be justice, and isn’t that what you always fight for? Isn’t that why you cut me down from the scaffold? Isn’t that why you’ve spent all these years” – he eyed Alora – “on your work? Because life hasn’t given everyone what they need, it’s unjust, it’s unfair, and yet you strive to right that wrong, to bring justice and fairness to every corner of Arianople – Hundred, perhaps even beyond here, I don’t know. But this” – he gestured to her and then to Alora – “an unarmed woman – this isn’t justice. This is vengeance.”

Something inside Quin crumpled. Her eyes stung, and her throat clenched as if a fist wrapped around it. “But – but she killed Mum and Mrs Tepe and Derry, too. They were unarmed women.”

“Derry?” Atesh frowned and shook his head. “Derry’s not dead. Ariston and Decimus are with her downstairs – we think it was laudanum in the tea. She was waking when we arrived.”

Quin blinked at him, chest tight, before glaring back at Alora. Not dead? “Are – are you sure?”

“Well, if she’s dead, she’s awfully lively.”

“I only gave her a little,” Alora said, voice low, and this time no damn smirk on her face. “She’d have noticed the taste if I’d put much in. I only needed to knock her out so she couldn’t fight.” Her fingers trembled, and she closed her eyes. “When you arrived, I was trying to build up the nerve to do it, but I couldn’t.”

Gods, did Alora actually care for Derry? Quin gritted her teeth. No, Alora couldn’t care for anyone – she was a monster, as bad as Talat.

And Atesh was only saying Derry was alive to get her to back down. He didn’t want her to be a murderer. She didn’t want to be a murderer, but …

She shook her head and rubbed her face. Her arm ached from holding her rapier out in this one position. If she rested the tip on Alora’s neck, it would sink in, slowly just from the weight of the sword …

“Quin?”

Body jolting, her gaze shot up. “Derry?”

Decimus stood in the doorway, behind Atesh, Derry in his arms, Ariston at his side. They all watched her with concern carved between their brows. Derry’s blue eyes were open, awake, alive.

Quin’s vision blurred, and she knuckled her eyes, trying to dash away the tears. “I thought you were …”

“I’m fine.” She glanced at Alora, and her face dropped as if something inside her snapped. She looked away. “Well, not fine, but physically uninjured.”

She really was alive.

A long breath in and out again. The fire cooled to embers. The ache in Quin’s chest abated.

She nodded. Alive, but hurt by Alora. And Alora was a murderer, here at the end of her rapier, yet she still believed that she had the upper hand, that she’d left Quin with no good options.

Smiling grimly, Quin rested her rapier on Alora’s neck, not breaking the skin this time. Blood still coated the tip. She watched the crimson-gleaming steel trace its way down Alora’s body, leaving a red line from her throat to her cleavage, stopping above her heart.

Alora squirmed and raised her eyebrows.

“Only two options, then?” Quin cocked her head.

“That’s how I see it.” Alora lifted her chin. “Which will it be?”

She was wrong. She wasn’t as smart as she thought and she’d missed something.

“Such a limited view of the world. I’m disappointed,” Quin said in perfect mimicry of Alora’s crisp voice. “Surely you should know by now there’s always another way and I’m always determined to find it.”

“A third choice?” Atesh asked from beside the bed.

“I’m feeling generous,” Quin said, smiling at the little squirm of discomfort that worked its way through Alora’s body – this wasn’t the way she was expecting this conversation to go. “What say we give a little gift to our janissary friends? I think they’d love to take this one to the fortress.”

Alora scoffed. “You, hand me to the janissaries?” Her head fell back, and she laughed, though only gently thanks to Quin’s sword point on her chest. “Why on earth would you of all people trust them? You won’t get justice that way.” She shook her head. “There’s no proof linking me to any crimes. They might lock me up, I suppose, but once they find they have nothing upon which to base a trial, they’ll release me. I give it a couple of days, and I’ll be free – the same as option two. I grant you, that was a fair attempt at finding another way, and you did surprise me introducing the janissary angle – you cosying up with the janissaries, ha! – but you still only have two options.”

“And still you fail to see the full picture.” Quin sighed, injecting theatrical exasperation. To be the one toying with Alora for a change felt damn good. “We have more than enough evidence. Talat’s coat – the buttons and the fabric are quite recognisable after all. Some tailor will recognise it as their work, I just don’t have enough time to check every shop in Arianople. But the janissaries do. They’ve already been asking around. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a lead by now. I wonder whether the tailor will recognise you – such a tall, pretty lady. So memorable. And then there’s the theatre ticket from Talat’s body for a box that was booked for Alora Eshekarisi. Such an imaginative pseudonym. Prima has met you under that very name, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone saw you at the theatre that night with Talat. A man of his size, with that bite missing from his ear – surely a noteworthy attendee at such a regarded theatre.”

Alora’s jaw slackened. Her eyes grew wide. “You can’t –”

“And the Venetian coins,” Derry said softly, watching Quin, “I’m sure there will be a stash of those around here somewhere, a perfect match for the ones found at the Destroyer murders and in our hallway.”

Quin smiled at Derry and burned to hug her. “Ah, yes.” Her brows flashed up at Alora, and she gave a sweet smile. “And, that’s only the evidence I’m aware of. I’m sure Derry will be more than happy to give a statement as to how you spiked her tea with laudanum. I bet there’s still some in the cup. So curiously like my mother’s murder.”

Mum. Quin’s jaw knotted, painful with tension, and her hand shook, sending glints flashing off the steel of her rapier. How easy it would be to sink the blade into Alora’s heart right now.

It would be over.

But it wouldn’t be right.

She sighed away the compulsion. “So, don’t mistake this for mercy,” she said between gritted teeth, crouching next to Alora, “because I will see you hang for my mother’s murder and Mrs Tepe’s and Dethero’s and all the women you helped Talat kill. And I will relish that bloody day.”

Alora’s nostrils flared, her eyes burning in dark fury. “I’ll never hang like a common criminal.” Her hand arced to bat the flat of Quin’s blade away. In a blur, she swung her feet in the air, flipping to a squat.

“No.” Not this time.

Without ceremony or finesse, Quin punched the swept hilt of her rapier into Alora’s face as the woman found her balance. The sound reverberated up her arm and along the blade, an oddly satisfying accompaniment to the breath sighing from Alora’s mouth as she collapsed, eyes shut, nose bleeding.

Atesh was halfway to her, eyes wide, mouth open.

She nodded at him. “Well, at least I got to hit her in the face.” She dropped her rapier out of Alora’s reach – she wouldn’t be fooled by any ploys again. Grunting, she flipped Alora over onto her front. “Pass me that tieback from the bed.” She pointed at the heavy drapes around the four-poster bed.

Atesh raised his eyebrows, looked down at Alora, and nodded. “Anything you say, madam.” He pulled the cord from around the curtain and crouched on the other side of Alora, holding it out to Quin.

“Ariston,” she said, tying Alora’s hands behind her back, “could you –”

“Janissaries. Porto. On it.” He nodded.

“You know me so well,” Quin said, flashing him a quick smile before returning to binding Alora’s ankles.

“Decimus,” Atesh said, “you too.”

“Sire.” The bodyguard deposited Derry on the bed and hurried away with Ariston.

Once Alora was secured, Quin rocked back on her heels, hands clasped, staring at her prisoner.

“It’s done.” She shivered, shaking her head. “It’s done.” She pushed all the loose hair from her face, and her hand came away bloody. “Huh.” So it wasn’t only the slash at her side and the one on her arm. She looked down – her shirt was ruined, half-red with a long tear and miscellaneous little holes all over. When she probed beneath, her torso and arms bore several small cuts as well as that larger one on her side. But as she’d assessed before, nothing vital was hanging out. The pain was only a vague stinging, but once her body caught up with itself, it was going to hurt. A lot.

“You did it,” Atesh said, wincing as his gaze traced from her face to the tattered shirt.

“I’ll be fine,” she said with a reassuring smile. After all, it wasn’t so different from the one Alora had dealt her in Dethero’s office. More salve, more scars, but she’d be fine.

His mouth curved in a gentle smile, and he offered his hand to help her rise. “I think you will.”

He didn’t mean the injuries, the blood. Those things would heal faster than the rest of her. That Mum had gone was still a hollow deep in her chest, but it was less consuming than it had been a week ago. And in another week, a month, a year, it would be quieter still. It would always be there, a deep splinter she’d never quite manage to remove, but it would eventually be secondary to all her other memories of Mum. One day the garden, her closed eyes, her pale chemise stained with blood wouldn’t be the first images to flash in her mind when she thought of her.

She took his hand. One day.

65

Escape

Two days later, Quin lay on the library floor, feet up on the column forming one side of the fireplace. Hands resting on her belly, she stared at the ceiling.

When the interviews with Porto had ended, she’d been relieved, thinking of all the time she’d have to do other things. But every single task she’d attempted had ended up as abandoned as the three books lying beside her. She sighed. It was done. And yet …

Capturing Alora was meant to have finished it all. She was locked up in the Fortress of the Seven Towers awaiting trial. It was meant to be a relief. It was meant to be the full stop at the end of this whole ordeal. And yet …

Derry. She’d kissed Alora and shared her bed and gods knew what secrets she’d told her.

Quin squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into the carpet. How could she have been so stupid? How?

She’d gone over it a hundred times in her head, but it got no better. And every time she spoke to Derry, as calm as she tried to stay, the embers that had died down when she’d tied Alora up, blazed to life. She didn’t mean to, but all she could think was how she’d brought Alora deeper into their lives. Last night she’d yelled at Derry that she was released, she could go, get out.

This morning Derry had come downstairs with a packed trunk and quietly declared she was going to stay with Reyhan. And Quin couldn’t blame her.

Not for that, anyway.

A clatter outside – a carriage pulling up. Porto had promised there wouldn’t be any more interviews. He’d said they had all they needed from her, though he’d told her off for chasing Alora alone and keeping quiet about her involvement. Did she really have to go through all that again?

She sighed, shutting her eyes.

“Come on, you,” Ariston called into the library.

“Tell him to go away, I’ve had enough of interviews.”

“Go away?” Atesh’s voice. “Such a cruel lady.”

“Sorry,” she said, an edge of laughter in her voice, “I thought it was Porto back with more questions.” She rolled to her feet, every cut on her torso and arms needling with pain.

Atesh stood in the doorway, all in black, his long coat beautifully tailored over the lean, muscular lines of his body. He wore black leather gloves and polished black boots as if he’d ridden here.

The sight of him stunned her to stillness and silence, pain forgotten. The man who knew her secrets and didn’t care. The man who’d so calmly taken in that she’d planned to con him and still held her and kissed her and loved her. And had stopped her making a terrible mistake.

The man she loved. All those things she’d have laughed at a few months ago and yet here they were, real, standing in her house looking utterly irresistible, sending her heart racing strong and hard and true.

“No,” he said, “Porto’s assured me he’s done with you.” He watched her, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. “Come along, we haven’t got all day.” Eyebrows raised, he backed away.

“All day for what?” She followed. “Come along where?”

As she entered the hall, two of his footmen were hefting her trunk out the front door. “Hold on,” she began, striding after them, “where are you going with –”

“I packed it for you,” Ariston said, standing at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the rail.

She frowned from him to Atesh. Collusion. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going on a trip,” Atesh said, “that is, if you’d like to join me. Also, I believe your riding habit was ruined after the picnic, so I hope you don’t mind the presumption.” He nodded to a shallow cream box sitting on the sideboard. “I think it’ll be to your taste. If you get changed, I’ll explain the rest when you come down.”

She folded her arms. “I think I preferred it when you two were fighting rather than conspiring against me.”

They both chuckled, irritatingly similar. “Not against you,” Ariston said, “I promise. You need a break, especially from here. Now please go and get changed, before we have all the street speculating about the Pasha Regent’s carriage hanging around outside our house.”

She snorted and shook her head before taking the box and starting up the stairs. “Too late for that, I’m sure.” But a break …

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Her body ached at the thought, still tense and twitchy.

She dressed quickly. Atesh had chosen well – a slate grey riding habit with silver braid and cut steel buttons that twinkled in the sunlight, together with a waistcoat, a plain skirt, a shirt in the finest linen she’d ever owned, and exquisite silk stockings. In the bottom of the box was even a pair of matching breeches. He knew her.

When she returned downstairs, Atesh offered his hand, giving her an appraising glance. “You’ll do,” he said, corner of his lip twitching, but his throat bobbed in a slow swallow.

She scoffed and instead of taking his hand, swatted at him. “Such cheek.”

He grinned and captured her fingers, interlacing them with his own. “But it had the desired response – nearly a laugh. I’ll take that as a start.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she followed him out to the carriage. She lifted a hand to wave at Decimus in his customary position by the coachman.

“Ariston?” she called, turning back when he didn’t follow.

He stood at the top of the stairs in the open doorway, arms folded, and shook his head.

“Just you and I,” Atesh said, pausing by the open carriage door. “Even Decimus is only coming to check over the house when we arrive, then he’s leaving.”

The bodyguard looked over his shoulder at them, pursing his lips as if to say he’d had no choice in the matter.

Atesh closed in until he was only a few inches from her. “If you don’t mind,” he murmured, “Ariston suggested he and Nald stay in the city to take care of finding your new home. You, my love, need a rest from all the nightmares you have every time you stay here.” He grazed his knuckles over her cheek as if they weren’t standing in the middle of the street, as if it were already just the two of them. “Much as I adore having you sleep under my roof, you should also have your own space – I wouldn’t want you to feel beholden to me because you need to escape this place.”

She looked up at him, mouth open but no words coming. She didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve him. Such kindness. So much thought. She smiled and bit her lip, then turned and waved to Ariston. He nodded and wished them a safe journey.

When she took Atesh’s hand, he squeezed gently, brief tension in his arm and jaw. “If you don’t mind, I thought we might only return once the trial is over.”

Alora’s trial. Due to start next week. Her chest tightened. It would be in the news every day. Everyone would talk about it. To be out of town, away from the constant reminders would be welcome indeed, but –

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want her worming her way out of this – we should stay. What if she –”

“I’ve left strict instructions with Ariston, Nald, Decimus, and Porto” – he glanced up the stairs to Ariston and raised his voice – “what are the two eventualities you’re to interrupt our trip?”

Ariston came down the stairs and straightened, lifting his chin. “In the event of war,” he said, voice smoothed into a passable impression of Atesh’s, “or Alora’s trial going badly.”

A flicker of a grin crossed his mouth, and Quin couldn’t help but smile at his impression. This was the first time she’d seen him cheerful since Mum’s death. Perhaps she could forgive their conspiracy if it brought him back to himself.

“And,” he went on, shifting back to his own voice, “we’re to collect you as soon as there’s a verdict.”

She swallowed. Would it be enough?

Atesh had managed to leverage his position as Co-Regent and the lingering goodwill from their involvement in the Destroyer case to prevent her from having to testify at Alora’s trial. Something about it being in the interests of the security of the Pasha Regent and state.

Porto had given assurances that the written statement and interviews were all he needed from her. The witness from the Gutter Streets who’d seen an equipt woman speaking to Talat had come forward and identified Alora from a line-up. Then there was the theatre ticket and ledger, more Venetian soldo found in Alora’s home, and Derry and Ariston’s testimony. They’d even discovered a tailor with many items in his records for Alora Eshekarisi, including a gentleman’s black coat, the description of which matched Talat’s perfectly. Porto had been confident all this combined would be enough to see Alora convicted.

She frowned from Ariston to Atesh and back again. “I want to see her hang. If it looks like she’s going to work her way around the system, you fetch me immediately. I’ll take the stand if that’s what it takes.”

Ariston nodded, gravely. “Understood. Now, please go and have a break.” He pulled her into a rare, brief hug. He stroked her hair once and then strode to the top of the stairs, back into position before the door like a dutiful butler.

“Are you sure?” Atesh asked, leaning against the carriage. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I understand you’re worried, but –”

“Let’s go.” She nodded and smiled in reassurance, touching his arm. They’d done all they could and had a contingency in place. He and Ariston were right, she needed a break.

With an exaggerated sigh, she shook her head at herself. “Where would I be without you?”

He handed her up into the carriage. “Probably conning Malos, I should imagine.” He grinned and sat next to her, shutting the door before calling for the driver to set off.

* * *

After a boatman sailed them north-east across the sea and Decimus checked the house over, the bodyguard left Quin and Atesh with stern warnings. They stayed at the Little Water Palace on the eastern shore for three blissful weeks. The house was tiny by Shahin standards, once used by Atesh’s ancestors during hunting trips and hot summers, but it was utterly beautiful, right on the sea, with hot baths in the basement. Of course, Quin made great use of those, even if she and Atesh had to heat the water themselves. Because he was true to his word – no servants, no pretence, only the two of them.

And in that solitude, they talked, whispering secrets long into the night – things she thought she’d never say aloud – and they walked through the surrounding countryside and made love.

In one of their late-night conversations, he even offered her a small allowance – again, small by Shahin standards only. She resisted at first, but when he explained it was essentially a job – helping him set up and run projects in the Gutter Streets – it felt less like the stipend of a kept woman and more like a wage. He pointed out that her usual line of work, as he put it, would only become riskier the longer she stayed in the city, especially with what Porto already knew. He argued if she was going to continue helping the Gutter Streets, she couldn’t very well do it with a noose around her neck. He had a point. So she accepted the role, at least temporarily, as a kind of unofficial ambassador in his projects. The pay was enough that she could cover the bills and be generous with her donations to the Gutter folk.

So, she had a job and a man she loved and the luxury of weeks of isolation with him.

But, of course, it couldn’t last, and one morning Atesh stood on the balcony and swore.

“What is it?” she asked, wrapping a silk robe around herself.

“The real world catching up with us,” he said with a sigh.

That real world took the form of Nald and Ariston in a small boat come to tell them it was time.

Alora had been sentenced to hang.

So they sailed back to the city and the next morning ventured to Kediler Square.

Quin slipped through the crowds, Atesh’s hand in hers. They both wore hoods pulled low over their faces. If Atesh had come in an official capacity, he’d have been up there, beneath the gazebo. To help blend in, Decimus trailed them from a distance. He’d welcomed them home with warm smiles but had refused to stray further than twenty feet from Atesh.

“Huh.” Atesh’s pace slowed, dragging her back. Shadowed by the hood, his eyes narrowed at the scaffold. “My dear aunt,” he murmured, “under the pavilion. She’s never bothered before. Must be making a public show, pushing her position as the Sultana’s grandmother.” His eyes wrinkled as he winced. “I fear she won’t be happy after our late-night visits. She’ll be plotting something.”

Prima. Vile woman. Quin sighed theatrically. “Let her plot. What power does she really have anymore?”

“After I made an appearance, I’m afraid she might suspect you were her earlier visitor.”

With a shrug, she dismissed his concern. “We survived Alora. She doesn’t frighten me.”

Maybe as a child, she had, but since then she’d faced far worse and here she was, alive.

They continued through the crowds. Kediler Square felt like a different place to the one she’d walked the day she’d met Atesh. Gentlefolk held their jaws tight, clenching with tension, even as they tried to chatter brightly, while Gutter folk watched the scaffold, brows low as they talked in hushed voices.

“I expected people would be relieved,” Atesh murmured. “The Destroyer murders solved, case closed.”

She nodded, slowing her pace to try and catch snatches of conversation. “So did I. But … I suppose everyone thought they were solved once before. A big brute of a man killing women, that was simple.” Alora had been a complication in that simple story, so she could understand them being wary of relief in case it proved false again. But why would so many bristle with anger?

Of course, that protest outside the Watergardens the day she’d gone to the akebia archway. She sighed. “Because he was only caught once he moved out of the Gutter Streets.”

Atesh ran his thumb over her knuckles. “Suggesting that the victims being richer made them more important.”

“… know it was even him? Bet she did them all.”

Quin bristled, step faltering. Who’d said that?

“I heard the janissaries tried to keep it quiet that they’d found another one of those coins. Why do that unless it’s to stop us knowing some posho was behind it all along.”

“Nah, she didn’t do them all. Was an accomplice.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure – reckon that Talat bloke was framed. Making one of us pay for what one of them has done.”

There. A tall, gangly man, faintly familiar, probably from the Hidden Court. He folded his arms, nodding to his friend as if so bloody sure.

Veins burning, Quin surged towards him – Talat had killed and terrorised women, how dare he try and help him slip the blame? She’d damn well set him straight.

But Atesh’s hand squeezed hers and her head whipped as he pulled her against him. His strong arms around her. Even as her whole body went rigid, he held her in place.

“Quin,” he whispered.

She took a long breath and then another. He was right. They were here incognito and much as she wanted to grab the idiot by the throat, that wasn’t going to achieve anything. She pressed herself against Atesh, letting long breaths cut through the tension in her body, cool the fire in her veins.

At last, she nodded, he released her, and they continued on their way. If he hadn’t stopped her, at best she would have grabbed that man and shaken him. At worst …

Gods, she’d never been so quick to anger before. And certainly had never so easily given in to any emotion. Livia had spent over a decade teaching her to hide them, for Hundred’s sake.

As her heartbeat reached a reasonable speed, they found Ariston, Derry, Red, and Reyhan, and drew up alongside.

From here, they had an unobstructed view of the scaffold, its dark lines carving through the sky. They were dozens of feet away to keep Atesh out of sight, so features were a little indistinct from here, but tell-tale red-brown hair gleamed as Alora was lead across the stage by a janissary. Her hands were bound, but that detail faded in comparison with her deep yellow gown, which captured the weak winter sunlight and seemed to magnify it.

Trust Alora to mark herself superior by wearing gold. Maybe a reminder that she was of the royal family, albeit distantly.

The sooner this was over, the better. Quin’s stomach felt hollow and solid all at once.

Red nodded. “You got both of them.”

Quin gritted her teeth, gaze never leaving the figure in yellow. “I just wish I’d known there were two of them sooner.” Then Mum would still be here. Like a fist, her stomach clenched.

“I’m sorry about your Mum. Ariston told me.” Squeezing Quin’s shoulder, she shook her head, dark eyes turning to the scaffold. “I can’t believe one of our own helped him.”

“One of our own?” She raised an eyebrow. “She’s a daughter of the harem like me, but she didn’t grow up in the Gutter Streets or anything like –”

“No, I mean, a woman. I expect cruelty from men, but not from another woman.” Red’s mouth tightened.

That did add another level of betrayal. Quin huffed an abrupt sigh, body sagging. It was enough to have to defend themselves from men like Talat and Terzo without other women adding to their problems. “True.”

Speaking of betrayal …

On the other side of Red, Derry held her mouth in a thin, straight line. Her blue gaze fixed on the stage and her delicate nostrils flared with deep, slow breaths. She leant forward almost imperceptibly – only someone who knew her as well as Quin did would have noticed the shift in her posture.

Quin met Red’s gaze and nodded towards Derry. Red followed her attention and frowned, then put her arm around Derry’s shoulder.

A sharp gasp from Derry. “Sorry,” she said, catching her breath and leaning into Red, “it’s …” Her gaze returned to Alora up on the scaffold. “She’s so blank.”

Had she thought herself in love with so-called Tacita? How must it have felt to realise she was falling for someone who didn’t even exist?

Quin’s mouth twisted. It was a question she’d never considered before and yet she’d been that someone who didn’t even exist to six men. Men who’d fancied themselves so in love with her or who’d thought her such a great match that they’d proposed. Indeed, wasn’t that what she’d told Atesh – that he didn’t love her, that he loved Lady Sabia, a woman who’d never existed? Except, he’d never loved Lady Sabia because he’d always managed to see past her to the real person beneath.

She sighed and squeezed his hand. And now she was in love. With someone she was sure was actually real. What came next would be a big adventure.

She had to call it that. An adventure. Because it was unknown and thinking of the unknown as an adventure – that was manageable, unlike thinking of it as the depths of the sea, something strange, unfathomable, stretching on gods only knew how far and deep.

The executioner crossed the stage towards Alora, hood in hand. This was her opportunity for any last words.

Quin clenched her jaw, breath held, and leant against Atesh, staring at the hateful woman. From here, there was no way to read her expression. She could only guess at her intentions.

Atesh stroked her knuckles and lifted his other hand across his body to her shoulder, holding it, firm, solid, reassuring.

What was Alora going to say? This was her last chance. Ever. She knew Quin’s secrets. She hadn’t yet shared them at the trial or, apparently, with the janissaries during questioning. Why, if not to save them for here where she had the largest possible audience?

Quin pulled on the ribbon at her throat, chokingly tight. She’d run. Or would Atesh and his powers as Co-Regent be enough to protect her? Swallowing was impossible – her mouth was too dry.

Just speak already.

The executioner had paused at Alora’s side a long while, now, apparently speaking to her. But she didn’t turn to face him, and from this distance, it didn’t look like she said anything in return.

As Derry had said – she was blank, no visible reactions at all. She was still and silent, as if away, as Atesh had put it when he’d painted her, rather than here facing her death.

Maybe that was sensible. If Atesh had gone away at his hanging, perhaps he wouldn’t have his own nightmares about the scaffold.

Still, Quin would have expected Alora to fight to the last or to trick her way out of this, as she had in Turnaround Alley when she’d played dead. Unless this was some sort of ruse … but refusing to engage with her execution or the world wasn’t going to stop it from happening.

Quin scanned the crowd – no sign of anyone riding in to save Alora, as she’d saved Atesh. She frowned at the stage, teeth aching, they were gritted so tight.

Last chance.

The executioner turned to the official, who nodded in return. The executioner lowered the white hood over Alora’s head.

She wasn’t going to speak.

The breath Quin had been holding exploded from her mouth, body sagging, but Atesh released her hand and slid his arm around her, pulling her close.

“You’re safe,” his voice shook as he murmured at her ear, “she’s keeping quiet. Thank the Hundred.”

Quin nodded, licking her lips, no words coming.

He twitched as the drumroll began. Was he reliving the moment the hood had been lowered over his own head? When the drumroll had been for him? She shivered and clutched the front of his coat as tightly as she’d held Hira’s reins that day. She’d almost been too late.

All eyes upon the stage.

Any escape attempt had seconds.

The drums hissed.

Silence, then a creak and thud.

Alora swung.

But in her eyes, it wasn’t Alora, it was Atesh swinging for heart-stopping moments. She blinked the image away.

He shook beside her, a choking sound coming from his throat.

Damn the crowd – he needed her. She turned and threw her arms around him, squeezing him close. His breaths came harsh, and he clung to her like a drowning man to flotsam.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We’ll never come to a public execution again. Never.”

He nodded against her, hood shadowing his face. “I’m sorry, I thought I could –”

“Don’t you dare apologise for this.” She pulled back, clutching his cheeks and running her thumbs over the tears spilling from his eyes. “I should never have made you come. You – this is an awful thing. Whoever it’s happening to. That you survived” – she shook her head – “I count it as a gift from the gods. You’ve been given a second chance – let’s not spend it relishing in someone else’s death. Let’s go.”

“Do you not want to see her –”

“No.” She tugged his hood close around his face, the wool soaking up the dampness on her thumbs. With a nod, she gave him a small smile and took his hand.

“It’s done,” Ariston said from the other side of Atesh. He stood transfixed by the scaffold.

“She’s gone,” Red said. “No more kicking.”

Quin lowered her head. She wouldn’t look.

Keeping hold of Atesh, she led him away, lacing through the crowd, angling a retreat from the scaffold so he wouldn’t have to see it, even by accident. She kept glancing back, checking on him.

No more hangings. No more gallows parties. He’d tried to do this for her, and, although his breaths and strides steadied the further they got from the grim spectacle, being here had hurt him.

There had been enough hurt. For both of them. It was time to move forward.

Whatever that might mean.

66

An Education

“I thought we were going to the Grand Bazaar,” Quin said, frowning out the carriage window. “We should have turned left back there.”

“Ah, you’ve found me out,” Atesh said, lifting his hands. It was a few days after Alora’s hanging, and he seemed quite recovered from the ordeal. She hadn’t needed to waken him from gasping nightmares once last night. “I actually have a surprise for you.” His white teeth gleamed as he grinned. “I hope this kind of secret is still allowed between us?”

“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “It depends – is this a good surprise?”

“I believe you’ll think so.”

“Then I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Excellent.” He twitched the curtains shut, cutting off her view. “I do so appreciate your approval.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, and she bit off a sigh that came from deep inside her chest, close to a groan. Certain expressions of his – damn it, they were too much.

“You” – she shook her head – “sometimes you’re just too irresistible.”

His brows shot up, all indignation. “Only sometimes?” Mock indignation, then.

She snorted before swallowing the rest of the laugh and smoothing her face. “I’m afraid so,” she said, solemnly. Though her gaze kept flicking back to his lips, their curve, their glisten as he licked them slowly. Slowly. “You’re doing that deliberately!”

He grinned, leaning close enough that the refreshing smell of orange and bergamot filled her nose, the scent he left on her pillow even hours after he’d gone. It went straight to her head, and damn it, he knew it.

“What, you think that only women are allowed to master seduction?”

Raising an eyebrow, she lifted her chin, defiant. “To master it, indeed? Such humility!”

“You mean you weren’t staring at my lips, thinking of how you wished to kiss them?” His voice dropped an octave. “To feel them upon every inch of you.”

She held the defiant expression, but she had to swallow against the heat rising in her body – every inch of it. “Staring at your lips? My, you have a fanciful imagination, sir.”

“Do I, now? Ah” – he dropped against the backrest, out of her space – “then I’m mistaken, and madam doesn’t want any part of me. Not my hands upon her, or my lips.” His body was no longer in contact with hers, but his green gaze was. It burned a trail down her throat, across her shoulders, to her cleavage, her waist, her hand in her lap, skimming across the fullness of her skirts, to her ankles exposed below her hem and the pointed shoes with glittering buckles. “Not my bare flesh or my tongue.” He clicked that teasing tongue of his and sighed, shaking his head. “’Tis a shame, because madam seemed to so enjoy them once upon a time.”

Ha – once upon a time, indeed. “More like this morning,” she muttered. She stroked her neck and leant towards him – let him get a better view if he was going to rake her with his gaze like that. Then they’d see who could resist whom. “I think sir needs to remember –”

“Ah, but we’re here!”

The carriage had barely stopped when he opened the door.

As soon as she realised her mouth was hanging open, she huffed and clamped it shut. He thought he’d got one over on her. Well, later she’d certainly disavow him of such a ridiculous idea. She had a negligée she’d been saving, of Eranian silk, so light and soft and sheer it could have made the gods weep – all Hundred of them. If she put that on, he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

A feline smile on her mouth, she took his hand and climbed out of the carriage.

The Gutter Streets? Her smile dropped. “What are we doing here?” She blinked at the timber houses, their peeling paint and wonky doors and patched windows so familiar.

Swallowing, she glanced at Decimus, whose gaze swept up and down the street from his perch beside the coachman. He was watchful, but he gave her no particular look that suggested he associated her with the district. There was no way Atesh had told him the rest of her secrets.

“I’m afraid it’s still a building site,” Atesh said, “but this arrived, and I couldn’t wait to show you.” He circled to the back of the coach, head raised as he took in something over the road and beckoned her with a lifted hand.

Building site. There was a tickle of dust in the air. She rubbed her nose, eyes already gritty. “Gods.” He wasn’t exaggerating when he said building site.

The hulk of a large structure, some four storeys tall and taking up the best part of a block, peeked out from beneath a veil of bamboo scaffolding. Workers bustled all over, shouting to each other or heads down over the clash of hammer and chisel, the rasp of saws, and whatever other tools people built with.

She glanced up at Atesh, raising an eyebrow. “This just arrived?”

Scoffing, he shook his head and led her over the road. “Obviously not. This.” He paused by a wide gate leading into a narrow front yard. At his approach, the guard stationed there bowed and sauntered down the road, stopping at the corner.

Atesh lifted a dusty flap of canvas, revealing a plaque secured beside the gate.

The Livia Guldan School

A free school for the children of this district

She gasped, taking half a step back, hand over her mouth. She read it again. Yes, it definitely said that. She looked from him to the plaque and back again, eyes stinging with tears now, rather than grit.

“I thought we could name a wing for Mrs Tepe, too.”

“Atesh,” she said at last. She shook her head, throat sore. No other words. She opened her mouth and tried, but thank you wouldn’t come out. When she blinked, the tears came, though, hot and fast, and she covered her eyes.

His presence warmed her side at once. In silence, he rubbed her shoulder blades until she could form the words. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Atesh, thank you.” When she looked up, he was holding out a handkerchief. Gods, did he carry one around in case she had to cry again?

Surely she’d never cried so much in her life as she had over the past few months. But surely she’d also never lived so much.

She took it and dried her eyes, managing a smile at him. “Thank you.”

“Three thank yous?” He smiled softly, voice pitched for her ears only. “Then I take it you approve?”

A harem woman’s name on a plaque. There would be consequences. “But – but what about Ilyas? What about Prima?”

“Hah.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s my money, I’ll call the school whatever I damn well want. That’ll serve Ilyas right for trying to stop it being built.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. He made a fair point. “I suppose it’ll be a while before they find out – it’s not as though they’re going to wander past, is it?”

“Exactly. But I don’t care about them – do you approve? That’s what I care about.”

Shaking her head, she smiled. “Not just me – I think Mum would have, too.”

He inhaled, opened his mouth, glanced up at the building and blew out. Another inhale. “I – I hope she’d approve of this, as well. Much as I regret that I can’t ask her.” Rubble underfoot cracked as he took a step in front of her, placing his back to the school. The sun was bright on his face, gleaming on his black hair. His hands cradled hers, and his eyes fell upon her with an intensity that made her heart pound. “And I regret that I can’t go down on one knee, either, since we’re in public.”

Down on one knee. She swallowed. This couldn’t – he couldn’t –

“Quinta Guldan,” he said, every angle of him towards her, voice low. Her name had never sounded so vital. “I’ve made no secret of my – well, frankly, my adoration of you nor of my desire to be with you. These past four months, you have” – he shook his head, the faintest smile ghosting on his lips – “you have stood at my side and fought by my side, even as the world trembled.” The world had felt as though it was moving when the elephant had charged them – she smiled at the memory. Somehow that wasn’t a lifetime ago, only months. “Gods know how many times you’ve saved my life – both in physical body and in purpose. You have been a most unexpected turn in the wheel of fortune.”

Her brows shot up, and he smiled, squeezing her hands.

“But a welcome one. It spun, not by my hand and certainly not in my control, and it landed upside down from where it once was. Hundred, you’ve certainly turned my world upon its head, so I will never – never see it in the same way ever again. And I don’t want this adventure that is walking at your side to ever end. You are quite the most magnificent – no, glorious person I have ever met, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m worthy, but I’ll ask the question anyway because I’m more than willing to spend the rest of my life striving to become worthy … Quinta Guldan, will you do me the great honour of marrying me?”

Marry. Him. Atesh.

She stared at him, his glistening eyes unwavering despite all he’d learned about her. He had really asked it, hadn’t he? After all this time hinting, asking it without really asking. She swallowed. “I – I didn’t – I wasn’t expecting … I didn’t think you had permission from the Little Sultana?”

“Damn permission. I’ve given myself permission, now the only other I need is yours.” He scoffed. “I’ve not managed to do much else through the Co-Regency, I thought the least I could do was grant myself permission to ask this question.” His smile faded, and his brows rose.

Never let a man possess you. It even came to her head in Mum’s voice.

Quin closed her eyes. Not helpful, Mum. But they were there – the words she’d told her more than once. Mum had believed those words because she’d been the Sultan’s possession, and had suffered when he’d died. There was still an uncomfortable grain of truth to them, like chewing an oyster and finding grit.

Didn’t marriage mean possession?

No, not for Atesh it wouldn’t. She knew him well enough to be sure of that.

And yet it was still an impossible question he asked. His position as Co-Regent – would he even be allowed to marry with only his own permission? Where did the law stand on that?

And what about her secrets? If they came out, she’d always comforted herself with the idea that she could outrun them. But if they were married, she couldn’t flee. She couldn’t shed her identity and reappear in a new city with a new name. When she’d last offered to help him escape Arianople, he’d refused. He would not run. And she couldn’t leave him to deal with the consequences. What would they even be for him?

He wasn’t just a gorgeous green-eyed gentleman asking a fashionable gentlewoman to marry him.

Much as she loved him – so much it ached in her heart to watch him waiting for her answer – they were not just anything. Their lives were not simple. There was so much to consider, ramifications far beyond either of them.

“Atesh,” she said at last, “would it be too much to ask for a little time to decide?”

His brows rose, shoulders slumping, even as a smile creaked across his mouth.

“No, no” – she lifted her hand to his cheek – “it’s not that I need time to decide what I want. I want you. That is easy. It’s – Hundred” – she shook her head, sighing – “it’s everything else – all that goes with marriage, considering our … circumstances. You know my secrets, and you might not care about them, think any less of me for them. But, much as it might feel that way when you’re touching me, you and I are not the only people in the world. And my secrets carry the weight of a death penalty many times over if they ever come to light.” Her fingertips brushed his jawline as the tension there slackened. “Porto’s already said he can’t protect me from the law any longer. I fear the consequences for you if we were married. There’s so much to consider.”

A breath blew from his nostrils, tickling her wrists, and he nodded. “I understand. Of course. Take all the time you need.”

“If it were just you and me,” she said, voice husky, “I would have said yes before you’d even finished the question.” To admit it made her stomach flip – a little in fear, a little in excitement.

He sighed. “But it isn’t just you and me.” His hands ran from her wrists to her elbows and up to her shoulders, touch purposeful, firm, before dropping to her waist and resting there, thumb circling. “And here I was hoping there’d be no need of your new home.” He flashed her a lopsided grin.

She chuckled and dropped her hands from his face, twisting from his loose grasp. “Speaking of which, perhaps you should take me there now.”

He followed her hip-swaying saunter across the road to his carriage and opened the door for her.

“After all,” she said, hand in his as she climbed up the steps and paused at the top, eyebrow arched, “I need to show you around my new bedchamber. I assure you it’s quite a sight to behold.”

With that, she disappeared into the carriage with a wink.

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Acknowledgments

Quin and co have come a long way since I first started writing A Thief & a Gentlewoman, and the series wouldn’t exist without the help of some really quite marvellous people.

Thank you to my now-extended family for all your support as I’ve kept my head down and written this beast of a book. Special thanks to my mum and mother-in-law for telling anyone who’ll listen about T&G.

As with T&G, massive thanks to my editor, Kendra, and my cover designer, Stuart – your fantastic work makes this read and look like I know what I’m doing!

Two of the most awesome things to happen over the past year have involved people, communities, so I have to thank them …

First, thank you so much to you, my lovely readers. Thank you for picking up my books, reading them, reviewing them, telling your friends, sharing them on social media, and for emailing me. It’s insane to me that I receive emails from people I’ve never met saying they love my books – and it’s an insanity I’m incredibly grateful for. Special thanks and cat gifs to the badasses in The Hidden Court!

Second, this one’s for my author friends. The indie author community is my tribe. I love you lot! Shout-outs to a few segments … Lots of love and thanks to the ladies of GLORF – you know who you are and you keep me going! The RFS admin crew – thanks for all your help, support, and showing me our little corner of genredom. Carpe fabulum – so much love and thanks for you for your support and acceptance. And all my author friends – I bloody love you lot!

Big thanks to my friends who smile politely and listen when I’m going on about character arcs, release strategies, and ACOS, and who don’t complain when I’m being anti-social.

And this slot is saved for the biggie – my gentleman, R. As always, your support, love, and acceptance mean the world to me. Thank you.

About the Author

Clare Sager is the author of the Counterfeit Contessa series. She lives in Nottingham, Robin Hood country, so it’s no surprise she writes about a character who robs from the rich to give to the poor.

You can find her online home at www.claresager.com or connect with her on social media at the links below.

You can even send her an email at clare@claresager.com, if you’d like.

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A Sleuth & a Charlatan

by Clare Sager

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by CLARE SAGER

Ebook first published in 2019 by CLARE SAGER

Copyright © Clare Sager 2019

All rights reserved.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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