Lochlann shoved him in the guard barracks for what remained of the night. When Aaron woke, it was midmorning, he was cuffed to a bedpost, and Markus’ Death was having a staring contest with a cat.

Murr.

The white cat’s pupils had dilated until they took in the whole world. She was pressed flat and still at the foot of his bed, her tail twitching as if it were a different animal entirely.

The Death reached out a ring-bejeweled finger to touch her. She leapt from the bed, tail foofed, and careened off down the length of the room. Guards laughed in her wake. Aaron didn’t.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” the Death scowled. “When you’ve lived since life itself, you may feel free to judge. There are precious few things that retain their amusement.”

Aaron pulled his blanket up a bit higher with his free hand, covering his shoulders.

“You’re going to commit some infelicity,” the man stated. “By evening she’ll be skinning you, I’ve little doubt. But you’ll at least try to be dignified, so long as you represent my charge. Now: ask for a bath and a change of clothes. Something with white and silver, if they have it, but at least something that fits. And so help me if you shove bread loaves into your pockets again. You unsanitary little vermin.”

Aaron bathed regularly when he wasn’t locked in a dungeon cell. Thank you. But it wasn’t like these rat catchers were going to draw him a bath with scented soap. He met the Death’s eyes, let out a slow breath, and kept things practical.

“Any of you fine citizens have a razor I can borrow?”

He didn’t get the razor, but he did manage to guilt one of the redcoats into sliding a wash basin within range of his cuffs. He gave himself the best scrub he could with only the one hand free, and then did his best to rub flecks of animal blood off his coat without being able to take it fully off.

His Death watched the proceedings with a critical eye and a mouth in want of a gag. Topics included how Aaron wasn’t even trying, really, he hadn’t even asked; how Markus would never have gotten into such a situation in the first place and if he had then he’d have surely faced it with more dignity; and, lastly, how Aaron was Markus now, and he must not forget the fact, much as the Death himself wished he could.

Throughout the poor man’s bath, the Death made him practice phrases in his head (do not speak out loud, rat, I’ll be hearing enough of your voice in my life). At first Aaron had refused to play along, but the man was so monotonous in his prodding that the words started repeating whether he wanted them or not.

“ ‘I am Markus Yin Sung.’ It is true. As your Death, I vouch for this. Now you must say it until it is true for you, until you can speak without hesitation. Now again. ‘I am…’ ”

With Aaron’s hair drying into short black spikes and his clothes as clean as they were getting, he shoved his arms back into his coat. Bread loaves and all.

“Don’t mind a word I say,” the Death said. “It’s only professionalism that keeps me here. By all means, ignore my advice. Shatter this all so effectively that I can give it up as lost. Destroy the work of centuries in an afternoon and doom your kind. Please, you’d be doing me a favor.”

Aaron sat cross-legged on his bed, watching the rat catchers drift in and out, going about their business. Some slept still, their shifts not yet begun. Others moved quietly, changing in or out of uniform.

One or two were always alert enough to keep an eye on him. Lieutenant Varghese had been very clear on that.

Still. If he sat with his hands behind him, how hard would it be to pick the lock on his cuffs? Lochlann had taken Aaron’s carving knife, holding it between two fingers with great disdain, his look making it entirely clear that he was not confiscating a real weapon. He hadn’t searched further, presumably on the assumption that if Aaron had better he’d have used it. He hadn’t found the fey’s pin.

Had she been trying to warn him about last night’s events, when she gave him the bronze fox? If so, he hadn’t known it for what it was. A fair gift, indeed.

“Hands where I can see them, boy,” one of the guards called.

Markus’ Death laughed. Aaron banged his head back against the wall and waited.

“ ‘I am Markus Yin Sung.’ Again. You must make it your truth; this is who you are now. ‘I am…’ ”

The words were in his head; someone else’s thoughts, pressed in there whether he wanted them or not. He wondered how true they were; if this was some kind of magic thing the Deaths had done or were doing, something that really would change him into some other boy. How true he had to make them, if he wanted to live through this. He was Aaron, but Aaron was Markus Yin Sung now. It didn’t feel real, but it didn’t feel like a lie. It wasn’t like “Aaron” was his real name, either; it was just the one he’d been given the last time someone wanted him to forget who he’d been. He’d survived then. Become who he’d needed to be to survive. It couldn’t be that hard, doing it again.

He was Markus. Fine. It was just another name to go by. The Death could shut up about it now, please.

The lieutenant came for him just after noon. He stopped at the foot of the bed with an eye nearly as judgmental as the Death’s.

“Well. You look somewhat presentable, at least.”

“Thank you,” the Death said.

It took all of Aaron’s willpower not to glower at either of them in particular. “I try.”

“Hand,” Lochlann said, and Aaron obliged. The guardsman undid his cuff. “The Lady will see you now.”

Markus’ Death talked. The entire way up the grand stairs, through the halls, to a door not particularly different from any others, except that it was set in an alcove whose windows overlooked an herb garden. He talked.

“You will, of course, ignore every word I say out of sheer spite, I’m sure. Or perhaps your head won’t be able to hold it all. How backwards a mind can develop in the darkness of those caves, I don’t even wish to know. But believe me when I say this is all for your own good, every word of it…”

Advice on how to stand, how to act, how not to act, in particular. A thousand little things that Markus would have done that were so very Markus in such a way that he could never hope to compare, but he should at least try not to embarrass them both.

It took Aaron a long moment to realize that the lieutenant was speaking.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he said, as politely as he could.

The guard paused a moment to simply stare at him. Then he raised his hand and knocked on the door. “I hope you’ll pay more attention with the Lady.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the Death said.

From the inside, a woman called a welcome. Lochlann pulled the door open and gestured Aaron in.

“Good luck,” the lieutenant repeated, as he pushed the door closed.

Inside was a small sitting room made spacious by its emptiness. There was a flower vase in the corner, its contents neglected to the point of perfectly desiccated preservation. A bookcase, in homely disarray. A fireplace, with low flames. And double doors, thrown open to a sun-washed balcony. The room’s single table had been dragged outside. He knew this, because in the room’s center, four chairs sat abandoned atop a disheveled circle of carpet.

The Lady was perched on the table’s edge, a cup of tea steaming in her hands. The city lay stretched out before her.

“Drag over a chair, Markus. Or do you prefer Aaron?” There was a smile at the edge of her lips that reached her eyes only cautiously.

“So good to see you too, Lady.” Aaron left the chairs where they were and joined her, leaning against the table. Behind him, Markus’ Death spun a ring on his finger and watched with narrowed eyes.

Aaron had been listening. Thank you.

On the table between them lay the charcoal sketch of Markus, his face obscured by the teapot that pinned him.

“ ‘I’ve been seeing that piece…’ ” the Death prompted.

“I’ve been seeing that piece frequently, in recent days. What’s its title?”

“ ‘Portrait of a Murdered Boy,’ ” the woman replied. “An interesting subject.”

“I could not agree more,” Aaron said.

“Don’t overplay your air,” the Death advised. “You look like a peasant playwright acting the noble after his star vomited behind stage ten minutes before curtain. Straighten your spine—it was Markus’ habit to always sit straight, even when he thought himself slouched…”

Aaron appreciated the advice. He did. But he wished the Death had, in his countless years, learned the definition of brevity.

The Lady tucked a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear even as the breeze caught a dozen more and sent them fluttering freely. Her coloring marked her an enclave woman, but her accent was strange—more southern than anything else. She did not wear her armor today. Rather, she was in a dress of white and blue, plainly cut but richly worn. In her hair was a pin. A silver cat, tarnished to black. No, not a cat—with a bib of white fur deliberately left shining on its chest, it had to be a cait sidhe. The sigil of the Late Wake. In craftsmanship, it could have been twin to the bronze fox in his pocket. Another warning from the fey?

“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

“Is it the kind my father prefers?” his Death said.

Aaron repeated the words dutifully. The Lady’s lips quirked. “A bit stronger, I’m afraid. Here, allow me.” She poured.

Aaron blew over his cup and took a cautious sip.

“You’re permitted to wince,” the Death advised. “It’s rather the only reaction appropriate.”

Aaron swirled the reddish liquid in his cup. He steeled himself and took another swallow, tilting the cup until he’d drunk it all. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever tasted; he knew a raccoon doppel who mixed far more noxious concoctions. He set the cup back on the table between them, empty. “Rose hip and rusted iron. A true southern delicacy.”

“You’ll forgive the precaution,” the woman set her own cup down next to his, still full. “Lieutenant Varghese is quite convinced that you’ve a Fair nature, and I admit I did not expect you until spring.”

“Three Havens…” the Death began, and Aaron followed suit.

“Three Havens can get too heated in winter. I thought a colder clime might be more agreeable to my health.”

“Ah,” she said, and sipped her tea. “The petition is on schedule, then?”

He had no idea what they were speaking of, but he didn’t need to. Just had to repeat the Death’s words, the Death’s tone, the Death’s motions. Just had to get through this, without picturing Markus and the Lady having this same discussion over his portrait.

“You could say that. You could keep changing the topic, as well. Who was he?”

“Aaron,” she said. Not his name: the answer to his question. “Before I say more, you’ll excuse me for asking. What is your full name? Birthday? Which tree were you most fond of climbing when you were a boy?”

“You can’t be serious.” He didn’t meet her eyes, as Markus’ Death was advising, and re-advising, and hissing that he must do. Whatever look Markus would have given her, Aaron didn’t trust himself to produce. He looked out over the city, instead. “Markus Yin Sung. The second of Harvest, in the seven hundred seventieth year of this, our Last Reign. And white pines, which any child in their right mind would tell you, so let me give you a more distinguishing answer: you wear two keys on a chain around your neck, and the iron one is not to ward off the Gentry. Who was he?”

“Aaron,” she repeated. “Aaron of no particular last name. Aaron who died in an alley, and no one came to witness his pyre except a scribe’s apprentice.”

Mabel had done that for him? That was… he didn’t know exactly what that was.

“Nice of her,” he said.

Markus’ Death pressed fingers into his temples. “This is not how it goes. Please do not take liberties with either your dialogue or its timing. This moment has been scripted for longer than you’ve been alive, rat. Say, exactly, ‘I’d learned his name…’ ”

“I’d learned his name already, as you may have noticed. Who was he?”

She was not meeting his eyes, either. “The duke’s indiscretions did not end in a single act, Markus. Can we leave it at that? Truth does not always make matters clearer.”

“For now,” Markus conceded, through Aaron’s mouth.

“It’s good to see you, Markus. I admit, the company will not be unwelcome. We’ll continue your training—you were about to begin on cloaks, weren’t you?” Her lips twitched. “I shall also be amused to see the look on—what is the term you coined?—the good lieutenant’s face when we have you back in your proper station. The rooms next to mine are open. I’ll send a maid to battle the cobwebs.”

Even as Markus’ Death heaved a sigh of relief, Aaron’s hands tensed around the table’s edge. He hadn’t quite understood, until that moment, exactly what the Deaths’ aim was. He’d known he was to take Markus’ place, but he hadn’t understood. Markus was a noble, and apparently a member of the Late Wake. The Lady was the leader of those skin stealers. Of course she’d put the boy in a room befitting his station. Of course she’d expect that they would have so very much to talk about.

This was how it was going to be, wasn’t it? The entire winter. The rest of his life. Markus’ Death shouting stage directions and him quoting his lines while he hid sweaty palms.

“The prince’s life is in danger,” Aaron blurted. “Orin’s. There will be an assassination attempt within the next few weeks.”

Next to him, the Lady went very still. So did Markus’ Death.

“Can I guess who paid the coin?” she asked.

“No doubt.” No doubt better than he could, in fact.

“Is this why you came north?”

“We can still salvage this,” the Death said, his rings furiously spinning as his thumb rubbed against them. “Say, ‘Only Orin—’ ”

“It’s not the kind of news a person can trust to a letter, is it?” Aaron said. “Messengers get lost. Stabbed in back alleys, even.”

There were thin lines at the edges of her eyes, he noticed for the first time. Little brush strokes of age on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, laid down by an artist’s hand. He’d taken her for a younger woman when he’d first seen her on the ramparts. She wasn’t. But the silver blended with her blonde hair, and there had been nothing old in the way she moved. Not until she drew her hand back through her hair and there was a weight to the motion that he’d only seen in the very old.

“Is it only Orin?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain,” Aaron answered, honestly enough.

“You’re not here to socialize, I take it. And you didn’t pick that name on a whim, nor hold to your act because you wished to inspect the quality of our dungeons.”

Markus’ Death ran tense fingers through his own hair. “Are you trying to ruin this?”

She looked down at the portrait. Markus to him, Aaron to her; the dead boy, either way. She raised her gaze again and met his. “If they hired local, it’s the Kindly Souls. This won’t be like a trip to the Fair Fields, Markus. There are no rules to follow that will keep you safe. Spying on humans is a craft of its own, and they know this boy. Can you really play at being Aaron?”

“Yes,” he answered, to the both of them.