The shrine did not resemble a K’Avaari one, but now that she was looking at it—really looking at it—its nature and purpose was clear.

It was, indeed, a shrine.

It looked like a miniature temple, with its little pillars and triangular roof. It was built into the wall, and there were two little statuettes carved from marble: a man and a woman. The man held a sheaf of wheat in one hand and an amphora what was undoubtedly wine in the other. The woman held a horn overflowing with vegetables, her other hand on a spinning wheel.

Ba’an had walked by it many times already. She had not realized it was for worship, because it was empty and dead.

There was no spirit here, guardian or otherwise.

Strange. There was incense in the censor, and it was clear libations were given daily. And yet, Ba’an sensed no traces of a home-bound spirit, and not only because she was here, either.

Spirits had a way of entangling their weave with the stone. Even when it left or faded, the echoes remained; the strength of the echo spoke to the length of the vacancy.

Empty. This one was empty—had been, for years and years.

Aika stood behind Ba’an, quiet for once; the girl looked miserable, but Ba’an was not in a compassionate mood.

“You are certain? This is the shrine?”

The girl jumped. “Y-yes, kyria!” She worried the hem of her dress. “We pour libations here e-everyday. Do y-you need…?”

Ba’an shook her head. “I was only curious. I saw this many times as I left and entered this home. I had wondered what it was.”

This was a lie. Ba’an had not wondered what it was, because she had not cared. She only cared now because of Nikias.

Ba’an was spirit-hunting.

“Should I leave an offering? Is this a…custom here?” Ba’an feigned ignorance, though it was very obvious that it was a custom here. There was a brass cup with wine in it already. It was clearly from this morning.

“Only if…if you wish to, kyria. We have already poured libations today.” Aika spoke very carefully, voice still weak.

Ba’an breathed slowly through her nose. She was not behaving as befitting her…training. She was not behaving politely, either, and Aika did not deserve Ba’an’s ire.

But jealousy was an ugly thing, an overwhelming force. It was like trying to stopper a leaky jug with her fingers; the mess seeped through and left a stain.

Lukios had been courting Areta. Courting her. In earnest.

No wonder Gaios had been so irritated. Ba’an would have been annoyed also if a man who had been courting her daughter suddenly came to visit with another lover. It was unutterably rude.

Let’s get married.

Married. Had he promised the same to Areta?

Ba’an had a sudden image of him holding another woman’s hand—delicate, pale, and nothing like Ba’an’s own—smiling his sweet, tender smile, and saying—

I told you, hissed Tik-tak Mal’uk, sounding very smug. Outlanders are all the same. Shit on your sandal.

Ba’an ignored the creature. She was determined not to react to whatever nonsense it spouted.

She took a slow breath, focusing on the little shrine in front of her, taking in the fine details on the man and woman. The artisan who had carved these had quite some skill. It was impressive.

Besides, it was best not to jump to conclusions. Aika was only a serving girl, and gossip was not reliable. That was why it was called gossip, not news.

Lukios had already made himself clear. That was enough.

Ba’an touched the smooth marble of the shrine, focusing on the faintest of echoes. There had not been a spirit here for over two decades, at least. Why had it left? Or…had it simply diminished from lack of care?

Aika shuffled quietly behind her, and Ba’an felt her thoughts tilt toward this…Areta. Again.

No, there was no reason to be so upset. None at all.

It was not as though Ba’an could have married him anyway.

She ate souls.

Ba’an doubted that Areta could be worse than she was. Soul-eating was surely not a trait men looked for in their potential brides, and even if Ba’an were not an abomination, she was only some disgraced witch who lived alone in a cave. Ba’an could not give him an alliance with an important family or a rich dou-ree or…

Children.

She stared down into the little cup of wine, jaw clenching. Her own eye stared up at her, reflection fractured by the curvature of the cup and the shallow puddle of cheap spirits.

She had been pleased earlier at the sight of herself in the mirror, but now she was only angry. What was she even doing? What was the point? Ba’an would stay until Lukios had rescued Eirenne, then she would return to her home in the desert, and…that would be that.

Perhaps Lukios would keep his word.

Or perhaps he would change his mind.

There was no point in speculation. Ba’an had her own tasks; first, she would rectify her error and ensure Nikias’ suspicions were allayed. Then she would stay to make sure Lukios did not get another sword in the gut.

Then she would return and be rid of Tik-tak Mal’uk, and once Salu’ka returned, Ba’an would help her break her contract with her patron spirit. This way, she would be able to step-down from the shi-vuti and marry Ku’rin. Salu’ka would keep her child.

There. Clarity.

She swallowed, but her throat was too dry and the lump would not go.

Had Lukios…liked Areta? Or more importantly: did he still like her now?

Or perhaps he had adored her, as he was so fond of saying to Ba’an now?

No, no. Jealousy was poison, and there was no need to heed it now. Areta was not here. Ba’an was here. It did not matter, and besides…

Ba’an thought back to their late-night conversation. He had only spoken about Gaios and political machinations, which he clearly detested—he had no interest in entangling himself further in Dolkoi’ri politics.

Was that the reason, then? Did he only want a wife who had nothing to do with anyone of note?

If that was his goal, Ba’an was a good choice: she had nothing and no one. She could not even read or mark numbers in Dolkoi’ri. She knew nothing of their politics or history, and even less about current events. Ba’an was perfectly useless, which was perfectly suited for a man who wanted a wife who did nothing.

Had he not said so himself? That she would need to worry about nothing, and do nothing?

And Areta was a noblewoman. Even if Lukios liked her a great deal, he would not be able to avoid politics if he wed her.

She resisted the urge to press her hands over her eyes. Aika was fidgeting by the wall, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

Did she not have anything better to do?

“Aika.”

The girl jumped. “Yes, kyria!”

“Are you not needed elsewhere?”

She shook her head rapidly. “No, no, kyria! I am here to help you with whatever you need!”

Ba’an took a deep breath and defeated the impulse to sigh. Instead, she breathed out slowly, letting her temper cool.

There was no reason to get upset. None. Ba’an had already decided she would enjoy her time with Lukios while she had it, and then she would let him go. There was no reason to be angry over the life he had lived before meeting her; there was no reason to expect anything, either.

Perhaps he would keep his word and they would wed and be happy for however long Ba’an had to live. Or perhaps he would tire of her faster than he thought, and he would move on to his next object of adoration.

…If he did adore her, as he said. Love was as elusive as it was mysterious.

It did not matter if he still thought of Areta.

Her hand strayed to her throat, bare save her shawl.

Ba’an still thought of Thu’rin. Not when Lukios was there. But…

Her neck often felt too light and naked.

These thoughts did nothing to calm her, which was also an unfortunate truth: love did not reside in logic.

What a stupid thought. Lukios always said what he meant, and he had never mentioned love at all.

Stupid.

You are, indeed, Tik-tak Mal’uk purred, never missing a chance to get a barb in.

Shut the fuck up, Ba’an snapped, then blinked. Now that did not sound like her at all. It sounded rather like Lukios, did it not?

The creature only laughed at her.

There was no point in dwelling on this. The day was only getting shorter.

“Aika. I wish to have a snack in the garden.” This would get the girl out of Ba’an’s hair for the time being. If Ba’an needed more time alone, she would send the girl out on some errands. Ba’an wished to make an ointment for scars—deep ones, the ones that always ached. Lukios never complained, but she knew his must trouble him from time to time. It was something she had meant to do before leaving her nur-vuti, but she had never managed to do it—not after Tik-tak Mal’uk.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Aika to find K’Avaari goods. Perhaps it was cruel to send her out on such a chase when Ba’an already knew she had what was needed, but Ba’an needed privacy to ferret out any remnants of a spirit’s passing.

“Oh. Yes, kyria!” If the girl thought it odd that Ba’an wished to eat again, she did not show it.

“Something simple. I would also like tea. Something with spices, with plenty of honey and milk.” Ba’an paused then added, “And I wish to have some buns if you have them. The sweet stuffed ones. And—” She listed as many specific things as she could. There. That ought to take some time, surely?

“Yes, kyria! Right away, kyria!” Aika nearly bolted for the kitchen, which was a sure sign that she had been even more anxious than she had looked. Poor child.

Yes, it was not fair for Ba’an to be in such a foul mood. Aika had not meant to offend her.

Ba’an wandered out to the garden, feet taking her to the fountain. She splashed her face with the water that poured from the spout. It was cool and refreshing, and she immediately felt better; she dabbed herself dry with the corner of her shawl.

There. Now she could get to work.

Ba’an sat on the lip of the fountain and closed her eyes. To onlookers, she merely looked to be sunning herself. To another witch, the slow meditation as she dipped herself into the singing of souls would have been instantly obvious.

Spirits had unique voices, both like and unlike living souls. They sang their soul-songs, true, but their timbre and texture were different. Ba’an could always tell if it was a spirit singing or a human; she could not quite articulate the difference, but it was like being blindfolded and asked what she was touching. Cliff-cat fur did not feel the same as strifa hair, and one did not need to see it to know it. It was very much a similar thing.

No, it was not finding spirits that was difficult. It was finding its traces. Like footsteps, such spiritual stains faded over time. Ba’an did not think a spirit would be residing in the estate now, not when she was here in person. But if there had been one, she would at least be able to sense its imprint; it had only been two nights. Her first guess had been the family shrine, but that had been empty for a good long while. She would have to widen her search.

Ba’an lowered her defenses, and the world exploded into sensation.

She could feel everything: the mice running inside the walls, the worms inside the dirt, the little water-bug that was just now lighting onto the surface of the water, three paces away, the buzzing insects she could neither see nor hear with her physical eyes and ears—she could hear them and feel them, their presence pressing against her in a million pinpricks along every finger of skin.

This was why many witches lived their lives closed. It was the very first thing taught to gifted children: how to close themselves from the world. Failure to do so invited madness, and a mad witch was a true horror indeed.

It was different for boys, of course. There was a reason why they became shapers, not witches.

There was no reason to be sloppy. Ba’an decided to start at the northeastern corner of the estate, carefully combing through the souls there at every level: anything that flew, walked, crawled, or burrowed was thoroughly examined for mortality. She found nothing that vibrated like a spirit or unmoored soul, so she moved on, scouring the property methodically.

It took quite a lot of time to get to the inhabitants of the house itself. There were so many human souls inside it that she found herself distracted; some sounded vibrant, while others sounded dull, and still others sounded sickly. Ba’an found Aika easily, lingering in the kitchen with a servant who sounded very much like water dripping through a crack in the stone; Ba’an could tell the girl was ill. She sounded stoppered, somehow, but the child was not Ba’an’s responsibility, so she swept forward.

Nothing.

Hm. Perhaps Nikias did not have a contract with anything? But then…how was it that he knew anything? How was he spying on his enemies without a spirit?

Surely he was not relying on mundane methods only? It would not explain his spookiness, though…

Another possibility crossed her mind. When Ba’an had been a child, she had hated being touched. It was not that she did not like hugs; it was that when she touched someone, skin-to-skin, she immediately lost the division between herself and them. It was something very gifted children suffered through, and she had had a habit of crawling into quiet, dark cupboards whenever the sounds and sensations of others became too much to take. It was why she had never played with the other children in the kita-vuti, because they were always touching each other: tugging, tackling, tickling. Every touch had been a violation, and Ba’an had hated it.

But there was one thing that such an ability allowed very well: understanding others. Ba’an would have known instantly what someone wanted or felt the moment they touched her.

Ul’ma had trained her to keep her walls high, and as with all witches, womanhood had blunted her senses so they were not quite so keen. But a man?

A man did not bleed, and their senses never blunted. Boys were given to the stone before they went mad, their talents channeled into something constructive, not destructive.

Nikias was gifted. He was a man, which meant his senses would have never blunted. Did he use this ability on others?

Surely not. He would be frothing at the mouth by now, but Nikias struck her as very sane, if completely infuriating.

No. Ba’an did not think Nikias would even be alive if he used his talents so carelessly. He would be as mindless and raving, full of others’ thoughts, others’ feelings; she did not think he could be so functional.

Though…his soul was strangely muted. Was he using some Dolkoi’ri trick?

But what Dokoi’ri trick could he use? They were a magic-less people—all ingenuity, no soul.

The more she pondered it, the more annoyed she became. She was missing something, something obvious, but she could not…quite…

A bird plummeted from a branch fifteen paces away, chirping madly as its feline attacker went for the throat.

Ba’an came back to herself hastily, having no desire to feel the creature’s death ripple through her; she rebuilt her walls, then turned toward the bushes, which were perfectly still. But she knew what lay beyond the perfect green tapestry of carefully trimmed leaves.

Life and death. Safety and danger. Such things were constant companions, though most could not see it so clearly as a witch.

Beyond the bushes, in a little patch of grass, was a bird being eviscerated by a cat.

Ba’an stood.

This was too good an opportunity to pass up. She may not get another chance at a soul again soon.

Ba’an did not bother with stealth. That was not the point. The point was speed, because she wished to have the bird before its soul fled.

The cat was a skinny little thing, with patches missing in its black fur. It was a stray; that much was clear.

“I will return your kill shortly,” Ba’an said, keeping her voice low. She could sense other souls in the garden, and it would not do for them to hear her or see her.

The cat did not care what Ba’an said. It hissed at her, fur puffing, but when this did not dissuade its unexpected challenger, the cat yowled and ran up a tree, green eyes glaring from its dark, sallow face.

Well, she would return the meat once she had the soul. Ba’an glanced down at the dying bird, momentarily confused.

It was bright green, with very long feathers. The wing tips were a vivid yellow, as was the crest of feathers over its head. Ba’an had never seen this type of bird before. Kia-kia birds had eye-catching plumage, yes—well, the males did—but even they were not so big and bright.

It was a pity that it was dying. It was a beautiful creature, but…

It thrashed weakly on the ground, wings bent and broken. Blood mottled its feathers and stained the ground. Muscles and tendons peeked from behind the carnage of mangled meat.

Moving swiftly, Ba’an picked it up. There were people coming, and she had to be quick.

Ba’an rapidly snipped the soul from the nerves, deadening its senses. The bird stilled, insensate but comfortable, and she cut the soul free entirely, devouring it.

Better. This was much better.

“—‘ver ‘ere? Miss’ress, ye should wait—" The first voice sounded worried, though not for whomever she was speaking to. If Ba’an had to wager on it, she was worried for herself.

“—all! Énnae! Énnae!” This voice was younger, and very sweet, like a little burbling stream.

Ba’an looked up at the cat, which was still glaring at her from the tree.

“I do not think I can return your meal.” The voices were getting closer and closer, and it was obvious they were looking for someone—or something—named Énnae.

Ba’an glanced at the bird in her hand.

She would bet her amber ring that this was Énnae.

“Are you seeking a bird?” It would be better to show herself now, than be caught with the bird in hand.

“Oh! Who’s there?”

Ba’an turned and walked toward the voice, cradling the dead bird in her hand. The owner would be very upset, but…

It had been already dying when Ba’an had taken it. Better that its death served someone than no one.

Ba’an was met with a cry of distress as soon as she stepped from the bushes.

“No! Énnae!”

The woman was richly dressed; her dress was the colour of rich cream, without a single spot of dirt. It fell in lovely folds around her, and jewels sparkled in the sun at her ears and throat, her arms. Her fingers glittered with rings, and Ba'an's eye was caught by a particularly large gold one on her right hand; it rested on her fourth finger, three emeralds winking at her from the band. They matched the green of her eyes exactly. Her hair, too, gleamed, copper curls coiled artfully atop her head with fetching tendrils left to frame her face.

She could be no older than twenty. Younger, perhaps; her skin had the soft blush of youth still, supple and taut, without blemishes. She was pale, paler than anyone Ba’an had ever seen before. Her skin was the colour of fresh milk.

This woman was no servant. In fact, she had a servant—a plump Dolkoi’ri woman with streaks of gray in her black hair. The elderly woman’s expression fell as her eyes fixed on the dead bird in Ba’an’s hands, though Ba’an did not think it was dismay for the bird.

The young, beautiful woman sniffled, coming to Ba’an with her hands outstretched.

“Oh no. Énnae!” Ba’an handed the dead bird to her, taken aback by the extent of her anguish. It was only a bird, was it not? A beautiful bird, yes, but a bird; this woman was weeping.

“There was a cat,” Ba’an supplied helpfully. This was obvious. The bird had clearly been mangled by tooth and claw.

The woman sniffed again as she pet the dead bird in her palm. “Oh no. I knew it. I knew it. I told you. I told you, Mela!”

The older woman bristled, and her tone could not be described as respectful. Ba’an would have never tolerated such a tone—not even now.

“I did! Dinnae blame me when ye’re th’ un who—”

A loud smack resounded through the air, and the serving woman fell silent, head turned to the side. The young woman raised her hand and struck her again in the same spot, then again, until the older woman staggered.

Ba’an blinked. Ah. It seemed the young woman would not tolerate it, either. Clearly, she was a woman of some rank herself.

“How dare you!” The younger woman was furious. “How dare you! Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!” She raised her hand to strike again, but Ba’an roused herself, walking quickly so she was between the younger woman and the older.

This was excessive. Ba’an thought once would have sufficed. Truly, the Dolkoi’ri always fell to such vicious extremes. All passion and temper, violence and rage.

“Perhaps you ought to see to Énnae instead.” Ba’an kept her voice mild and her stare flat.

The young woman stumbled backwards, looking flustered.

Yes, she was hardly more than a child. Perhaps a few years older than Aika?

The girl’s pretty, pink mouth opened, showing little white teeth, then closed again without a sound. She did this again, then again, seeming to find herself after the third time.

She stepped back with a little sniff. “Yes. I must see to poor little Énnae.” She cleared her throat, then sniffed again before speaking. “Mela. Take Énnae. We’ll bury him nicely.” She glared over Ba’an’s head, which was easy enough; young as she was, she was still taller than the average K’Avaari woman, and Ba’an had always been considered rather short.

Wordlessly, Mela came and took the dead, bloody bird, then scuttled away without a backward glance.

The woman stared down at her bloody hands, sniffling, then looked at Ba’an.

“I am sorry for the terrible display,” she said, finally. Ba’an noted that her voice had a lilting little accent, one that drew out the vowels. It added to the sweetness of her voice, if not the sweetness of her temper.

“It is well.” Ba’an considered carefully, then added, “I am sorry I did not arrive quickly enough to save your bird.”

The strange woman smiled, and it was as if her tantrum had never been. “Please, it is not your fault. It was Mela’s fault. I told her to latch the cage but she didn’t, that lazy slattern.” She sighed. “I hope you will not let this sour your impression of me, lady Ba’an.”

Ba’an blinked. She already knew?

The woman took in Ba’an’s expression and gave a little titter, sounding very much like a bird herself. “Yes, I know who you are.” With a very soft, charming smile, she leaned forward and whispered, “I have been dying to meet you, but Master Gaios said no.” She put her finger to her lips, though she did not touch them with her bloody hands. “We’ll keep this to ourselves, won’t we?”

Ba’an worked to keep the confusion from her face. Was she one of Gaios’ staff? But surely not. She was too richly adorned, and she had beaten Mela without a moment’s hesitation.

But surely she was not Gaios’ wife. She looked far too young, and Gaios had said his wife was resting at their countryside estate.

She could not be Areta, either. She was with her mother.

So who was this woman?

“I have no one to tell.” Except Lukios, but this was not something this strange woman needed to know.

The woman giggled again, then glanced down at Ba’an’s hands. “Oh yes. What a dreadful mess. We must wash this off. Please! Come! I have never met a Sander before, and I have many things I wish to ask you!”

She reached out and took Ba’an’s hand. Ba’an blinked in surprise. Now this was very bold. Was it a Dolkoi’ri custom to simply hold a strange woman’s hand like this?

…Hm. Touch always made soul-sensing easier, and now that they were holding hands, Ba’an could sense another song, like a little echo, doubling inside this stranger’s belly.

It was very likely she was pregnant, though…it was very early still. Ba’an doubted the woman knew it herself.

Well, best to keep quiet, then.

The woman led her from the bushes, past the fountain and along a wall of carefully trimmed bushes. They turned one corner, and suddenly they were in a small, private corner of the garden. This place was nearly closed off by the green wall around it. It was like its own little world, though Ba’an could see the cobbled path that led back into the house. A back door, perhaps? Regardless, it was clearly built for privacy.

It did not escape Ba’an’s notice that the woman had not introduced herself. Would it be rude to ask?

Dolkoi’ri manners were baffling.

The centerpiece of this little garden was a typical courtyard, though it was smaller than the one that had hosted their dinner party. The pool was very small, the water pouring from a small urn rather than an elaborate statue. There were stone benches all around it, piled high with cushions and rich fabrics.

Ba’an would have never guessed there was another courtyard inside the courtyard.

How bizarre. Was this usual?

“Cyone! Kaba! Refreshments. We have a guest!” She sounded very delighted, and when she turned to Ba’an again, her green eyes were sparkling.

…Was she Gaios’ mistress? But she was…very young. Gaios was likely in his fifties, though…

It was likely common here. He was a wealthy man of status, after all. It truly was a wonder how more men were not murdered by their wives. Then again, perhaps that was why she was a secret?

They washed their hands in the fountain, and serving women appeared from the house quickly, holding towels and what looked like finger snacks. “I have so many questions about the desert. I have never been there…”

Ba’an had not agreed to answer any questions, but her guilt over Énnae kept her seated. At least she seemed to be in better spirits now. Perhaps it would not hurt to indulge this woman just a little?

The sun moved across the sky at a leisurely pace. Ba’an answered the woman’s questions the best she could, surprised to find she did not mind. The woman—who had still not divulged her name—had a lively mind and a sweet tongue. She was free with her compliments, though Ba’an found herself wary of her charm.

Combined with her beauty, Ba’an thought Gaios would have a difficult time keeping younger men from flocking to her like bees to a flower, though…

…Perhaps that was why all of her attendants were women. And—Ba’an glanced around the courtyard—she was kept in isolation. It was very likely that she did not see anyone except her servants and Gaios.

A sad fate, especially for one so young.

Perhaps there was a reason for that terrible temper.

“Is it true that Sander women have many husbands?”

What?

“It is not.”

“Oh! It was only a fanciful tale, after all. I thought so!” She smiled sweetly. “It was a rather silly question, wasn’t it?”

“No. We are not known to you. I have asked similar questions about Dolkoi—Illosians.”

They conversed, and the shadows lengthened slowly over the grass.

Aika cried when Ba’an returned to her usual spot by the fountain.

“Kyria! There you are! I was so worried! Where did you go?” The last part was said accusingly, and the girl looked up at her with her eyes glittering with tears.

“I…there was a cat.” There was no reason to tell Aika about that strange, secluded woman, surely?

The younger girl’s face twisted in confusion. “A…cat, kyria?”

“Yes. It caught a bird. I tried to save it, but it was too late.” And yet another lie. Ba’an was becoming a very good outlander, these days.

Aika stared at her. “I…see, kyria.”

Ha. The girl did not believe Ba’an at all. She was not quite so silly as she looked now, was she?

Ba’an found the thought oddly pleasing.

It was impossible for Ba’an to eat again, though she still felt hungry; physically, her belly could take no more food. Ba’an urged Aika to eat, then called up servants from the kitchens, then the stables, to go through the food.

By dinner time, the men had still not returned. Ba’an returned to her room, going through her things for reagents. She had nearly everything she needed, but she did not have any tools or equipment. She would have to see Merida tomorrow and ask to borrow her things.

Well, Ba’an had to give the midwife her honey, regardless. She would make a trip of it.

After that, she took another walk in the garden, waiting for Lukios to return as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

Gaios returned and greeted her politely; he set more servants on her and left, though Ba’an knew now exactly where he had been disappearing to—his mistress.

Ba’an waited, but Lukios did not return—and neither did Nikias.

She wondered if this ought to alarm her, though…what could she do about it now? Fly out to find them?

No, that was absurd. Lukios would think her madder than he already did. She was complicating, as Lukios so enjoyed saying. Besides, he had promised not to do anything foolhardy. Surely he would...restrain himself?

Surely he could restrain himself. It had only been one day. One day.

Eventually, her weariness grew to the point where she gave up on seeing Lukios again until breakfast. She retired, thinking of her incredibly strange day.

There was no spirit at the estate. Gaios had a mistress. Aika…

Something was wrong with the girl, Ba’an was certain. Surely there had been little or no reason to cry?

She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow Lukios used.

It felt wrong. This was the first night she had slept here without Lukios beside her. She was remarkably restless, turning over and over in the bed despite the fatigue dragging at her bones. She could still smell him in the sheets, which only made her ache for him more.

No. This was ridiculous. Soon she would return to her not-vuti. At best she would be alone for two months, but it was very likely that she would not see him again, regardless of what Lukios thought. It was best if she became used to sleeping alone.

Ba’an did not know she had fallen asleep until she woke up. It was dark, too dark to see, but she knew what had woken her. She could feel Lukios crawl into bed beside her, slowly and quietly, not knowing she was already awake.

“Lukios?”

“Aw, shit.” He pulled her against his chest and kissed her under her ear. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. Sorry I woke you.”

“Do not worry.” She turned her head to look at him, though it was too dark to see anything but an outline. “Why are you so late?”

“I’m early, actually. Think everyone’s still drinking. ‘Cept Nikias. Cheap drunk.” Ah. Drinking. Why were they drinking?

Lukios nuzzled her neck sleepily. Now that she was paying attention, he smelled faintly of wine and sweat and…something else. Something disgusting.

She wrinkled her nose. Why did he reek? What had he been doing?

“Came back ahead of ‘em. Missed you.” He kissed her again where his mouth was, which was her throat, right over her pulse.

Was he drunk?

“Lukios?”

“Mmhm.” His voice was faint. In another moment she felt his breathing slow and she knew he was asleep.

She blinked.

Well then.

She closed her eyes and slept.