They went deeper into the royals’ floor than Aaron had ever been. His room was on the periphery; without even noticing it, he’d clung to the outsides of the space. Rose, Connor, Orin, the king—they all came to him, or sent for him, when they found him useful. He’d never gone seeking them. It wasn’t his place.

The Lady seemed to feel no such compunctions. She navigated the hallways with familiarity. The guards spoke quiet greetings to her as they passed, and she returned them. Aaron tucked himself into her shadow, and tried to remind himself that he looked like a duke’s son; he looked like he belonged here. Lochlann would have scoffed at the thought that he might really be a noble. Somehow, just imagining the look of utter disbelief on the second lieutenant’s face made him let out a breath, and walk with a little more certainty. At least there was one man in this castle who understood what Aaron was, even if it wasn’t Aaron himself.

They passed by the door to the barracks tower. The one he had first entered this wing by, on the night the assassins tried their hand. He recognized Rose’s doors, next, and wondered if she was inside. From that point on, everything was new to him. He had a moment to think that the door they approached was larger than the others. Then the Lady was announcing herself to the guard outside.

“I’ve brought His Majesty’s medicine. Is he awake?”

“Yes, Lady,” the man replied. “You’re just in time. He’s sent for Duke Sung, but he hasn’t arrived yet. You’ve a few minutes.”

The guard did not announce them. He simply held the door open, as the expected visitors that they apparently were. He had perhaps a mild curiosity for Aaron’s presence, but it did not extend to action. Aaron sensed this to be a nightly thing. Perhaps other visitors occasionally bobbed in the Lady’s wake, just as he did.

His Majesty was not in the first room they came to: that was a sitting room, large enough to host a party. The man’s Death waited on one of the couches, tracing light fingers down the head of the white cat next to him. Mrs. White sat with her paws tucked under her chest and her eyes closed. The Lady spoke a quiet greeting to her. The cat flicked an ear in reply. Aaron nodded respectfully. The Death returned the gesture.

The second room was a more intimate affair, with a discreet liquor cabinet of dark wood set against one wall, and a matching bar counter in front of it. Bookshelves lined the other three walls, with room left in them only for doors. If he had time, he thought he could have read one or two of the titles. Four overstuffed chairs claimed the rest of the space. His Majesty was not in there, either.

They found him in his own bedroom, resting on top of the sheets with his boots on and his hands clasped over his stomach.

“Good evening, Liam,” said the Lady.

“Addie,” he greeted her, with a lazy smile. Then his eyes caught on Aaron. He quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“You’ll forgive me,” she said. “I did not want to be alone tonight. I can send him away, if you like.”

“No,” he said. “He’s a right to stay. Markus, if you would be so kind as to help me up?”

The king looked frailer than he had in the council chambers this morning. Thinner. But then, he’d set aside his kingly layers; his coat was draped over the back of a chair, his vest undone. In pants and a simple white shirt, he looked like just a man. A pale, thin man, with attentive green eyes. Aaron helped him to stand. He offered his arm and his shoulder, and helped His Majesty to a chair in the other room.

“Top shelf,” the king said. “Fourth bottle from the left. Pour one for yourself, if you like. Addie?”

The Lady shook her head.

Aaron found the bottle. He could not read the label—the same artist who had drawn a firebird rising from flames had taken great liberties with the letters, putting in far too many curlicues for his eyes to untangle. He thought the first letter was an “R,” but it may have been a “B” just as easily. The bottle was clear, and the liquid inside like burnt gold. He found the glasses in a lower cabinet, and poured. Two cups. Aaron wasn’t much of a drinker, but when a king offered from his own cabinet, a fellow would be a fool to turn him down.

“Sip slowly, Markus,” the Lady cautioned, as he handed the fuller glass to the king. She’d perched herself on the arm of a chair.

“Such words, Lady,” the king spoke, “are the surest way to injure a young man’s pride. Cheers, lad.” Liam held his cup out, and Aaron obligingly clinked his own against it. The king drank in one long swallow. Aaron did the same.

And wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he’d been poisoned again. The king roared with laughter as Aaron tried to remember how to breathe. Air kept leaving him in great wracking coughs, but getting it to come back in was another matter altogether.

“Rebirth,” the king said. “Made with phoenix ash. They say if you die drinking it, you’ll find yourself waking the next morning nude as a newborn babe.”

“A few other explanations for that phenomenon come to mind,” the Lady said, resting her chin against one hand. She was smiling; just a small smile. It looked strange on her, and it took him a moment to understand why: it was a smile that reached her eyes. She watched the king, and smiled perhaps the only real smile Aaron had ever seen from her.

“Another of those, if you please.” His Majesty held his empty glass out. Aaron picked it up and retreated back to the liquor cabinet, where he could finish coughing in peace. “I’ll need something to wash my medicine down, I trust.”

The Lady’s smile stayed on her lips, but it slipped out of her eyes. As Aaron poured again—just the one glass, this time—she reached into her sleeve, and pulled out a small paper packet. The king held out a hand for it. When Aaron brought him back his drink, he neatly tore open the packet’s top, and poured the contents into his cup. The light gray powder floated on top of the liquid. Aaron went back to the cabinets, and brought him a small spoon.

“That’s a good lad,” the king said, stirring until the powder had dissolved. It did not change the color of the drink. Aaron caught a whiff of nightingale’s herb, mixed with other things he could not place. For pain, then. Not a cure. It should not have surprised him; if there was a cure for what the king had, he’d have taken it by now. Perhaps if the unicorns had not all been killed… But it was the man’s own blood who had given that order, and there were things in this world that could not be undone. Like firebirds, like kirin, the unicorns took no doppels. They had chosen to die rather than hide as men. It was a pride that put even the dragons to shame.

The king drained his cup again, in one draught. Aaron moved to take his empty glass and the spoon back to the bar, but the man waved him off.

“Niall will be here soon,” the king said. “You two should go.”

The Lady made no move to leave.

“Markus,” he said, his fingers starting the steady work of buttoning his vest back up. “If you would bring me my coat?”

Aaron went back into the bedroom. Getting the coat was easy; it was timing his return that required a certain delicacy.

“Liam, if you wish me to stay, I—”

“The woman I know would not finish that sentence. You’ve your own work to attend this evening. I’ll meet with him alone.”

Aaron waited, his back pressed lightly around the corner of the doorframe, until their kiss was done and the Lady resettled in her chair. Then he stepped into the room, and helped the king into his coat.

“Thank you, Markus. My lady.” Liam shrugged his shoulders to get the fit right; adjusted his sleeves and his cuff links to his satisfaction. When all was done, it still looked as if it had been tailored for a bigger man. “You are dismissed.”

As they left, His Majesty returned to the bar. He set out a new glass next to his old, and poured for two.

They met Duke Sung coming down the hall, his white-hilted sword in residence on his hip. Would the mere horn of a unicorn be enough to cure the king? It was a stupid, fleeting thought—of course it wouldn’t be. The Lady would have thought of it already.

She said nothing to the duke; he said nothing to her, or to the boy he thought his son.

She walked Aaron back to his rooms. There she paused a moment; then, leaning forward, she planted a chaste kiss upon his cheek.

“Thank you, Aaron. Good night.”

“Good night.”

He pressed a hand over the spot when she had gone, watching the empty hall. The Lady. The Lady… Addie? A nickname, for certain; it was too regular a thing for her. It occurred to him, for the first time, that he could simply ask who she was: he had friends here. Friends who might not know exactly what he was, but who trusted him anyway. He walked back the way they had just come, towards Rose’s rooms. The closer he came to her door, the slower his feet seemed to move, until he had stopped completely. There was another door at his side; the one that led down the tower stairs, into the barracks.

Right, then: he would ask Lochlann. It was a strange thing, having friends in the castle he trusted. Best to take it slow at first.

The second lieutenant opened his door on the third knock. His expression went from open and interested to utterly resigned in a single heartwarming instant. Aaron raised his hand, and waved.

“What do you want?”

“What’s the Lady’s name?” he asked. And, when the lieutenant simply stared at him, he repeated himself. “The Lady’s name? Her full name.”

“If I answer, will you leave?” the good lieutenant asked.

“A fairer bargain a fey could not make,” Aaron agreed.

“Adelaide—”

They heard it at the same time. He suspected the whole city did. Farther, even. A voice such as that could carry over distances, and never lose its meaning. There was only one at first. A single mournful wail; a long keening note that rose and fell with no need for mortal breath. Then, rising to join it, a chorus. The sounds came from everywhere, and from nowhere.

In the Fair Fields, the banshees were weeping.

Someone in the bell tower realized what had happened, and a single bell tolled over the city.

King Liam O’Shea was dead.