Roderich sat with Hamilton on the balcony connected to Roderich’s sitting room, enjoying the evening air, watching the sunset turn the golden domes of the palace to flame.

Hamilton raised his glass. “To the Emperor.”

Roderich mirrored the motion, repeated the toast, and took a sip. It was good wine, a heavy dark red. Flavorful without being sharp. It went down easy. It had been Hamilton’s selection; he remembered well what Roderich preferred.

“It’s good to see you,” Roderich said. “It’s been too long.”

“You so rarely come to Maximus,” Hamilton countered, swirling his glass in an idle circle. “The perils of duty, I suppose.” He closed his eyes as he took a drink, obviously savoring. When he opened them again, he asked, “How have you been? How’s Julian?”

Roderich was too relaxed to stop the sigh before it escaped.

“I see.”

There was compassion in Hamilton’s voice. None of the amusement that Tōru would have made no effort to hide. Or contempt. Hamilton had manners. He didn’t pursue the obviously uncomfortable issue. Instead, he said, “While we’re on the subject of family, I’ve brought you a gift.” From his jacket, he produced a palm-sized box.

Which seemed a strange segue until Roderich opened the box and saw what was inside.

A white stone brooch, carved into a framed oval, with a landscape painted delicately in the center. Roderich recognized both the waterfall it depicted and the hand of the painter that had created it. His throat tightened as his hand closed around the beautiful piece. “Carmen made this.”

“I found it in a second-hand store in Kanto, of all places. I was certain it was her work.”

Kosuri Carmen—Roderich’s wife—now seven years gone. When she’d died, Roderich had gotten rid of everything that reminded him of her, unable to face the memories, and he’d come to regret that action deeply over the years. “Thank you,” Roderich said, awkward with a sudden, fresh flood of loss.

Hamilton looked out at the sunset, giving Roderich time to compose himself. “I remember a shadow court—the one and only one my mother hosted—and Naveen, Devitri, and I were…well, quite frankly, we were running wild.”

Roderich remembered that court as well. “You were of that age.”

“Shai Carmen took it upon herself to wrangle us, trying to teach us all to paint. I remember Julian there—he couldn’t have been more than four—but he’d imprinted on Naveen and Dev and was following them around like a duckling. He insisted on painting too. Honestly, he was the only one with any real interest.”

Hamilton smiled wistfully. “The rest of us were every bit the disaster you might imagine. But Shai Carmen, she was very kind.”

“Yes, she was.” Roderich tucked the brooch back in its box. “Thank you,” he said again with more composure. “It’s truly a thoughtful gift.”

That, it seemed, was Hamilton—thoughtful, polite, pleasant. Not for the first time, Roderich considered how much better his life would have been had Hamilton been born the heir of the Serpent First Family, and Tōru the Oshiro heir. The reversed positions would have suited them both better. Tōru could have played his games from the Oshiro family seat and Hamilton would have been Lord Miyōshi. Hamilton was every inch what the Lord of a clan should be, and the Empire itself would have been better off if Hamilton sat across the table from Roderich when it counted.

As the sun set and the soft evening lights of the palace came on, Roderich and Hamilton made idle conversation, trading news of people they knew, sharing stories, noting changes. Until their words lulled and Hamilton asked softly, “Do you talk to Naveen? How is he?”

Roderich had been turning Carmen’s brooch in his hand, tracing its edges with his thumb. How long since he’d last thought of her? How long since the idea of going days—minutes, even—without being staggered by her memory would have been unimaginable?

When she’d died, Roderich had withdrawn from the world, isolated himself from everyone and everything. He’d been lost. Fortunately Alexia had been there to help him find himself again. In the years after, Roderich had remained alone. His life was full of friends, of duties, and he was content. But that meant sometimes he forgot what it was to be in that place, to be fragile with hope and fear as your heart lay open before another.

The question about Naveen had been casual enough. Hamilton was a creature of the court. They all were. But Roderich had known Hamilton since he was a boy. Had known them both, separate and together.

“I wish I could tell you that he’s given any sign of changing his mind. Of returning to his responsibilities.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Roderich recognized that as soon as the words left his mouth. But he’d never been good at this, at navigating softness in himself or in others.

“His responsibilities. Yes.” Hamilton’s neutral expression was more concealing a mask than the bright beaded decoration he wore.

Roderich didn’t know what to say. What Hamilton had been asking was, was he missed? Did Naveen still care as Hamilton did? Even lacking an answer to that question, Roderich could have offered a kinder response.

“One of my marshals has befriended him,” was the best Roderich had to offer. “He has not completely isolated himself.”

“Anyone I know?” Still carefully expressionless.

Roderich almost said no, then stopped himself. In truth, he didn’t know how Serpents…how they did anything. “He’s of your clan, so it’s possible. Miyōshi Yeijiro.”

“The Serpent marshal. Yes, I’ve heard of him, although we’ve never met. He was involved in that to-do at the Emperor’s Estate, right after the last Shadow Court, yes?”

“He was instrumental in putting that matter to rest.”

Hamilton sipped his wine. “Perhaps I should introduce myself to Marshal Miyōshi. He sounds most interesting.”

“I’ve found him to be dedicated, dutiful, and hard-working.”

“And friends with Naveen,” Hamilton mused.

If there was an implication behind the words, Roderich couldn’t find it. And after another brief, thoughtful silence, Hamilton moved the conversation on.