“Turn about, fair play, I suppose?” inquired a neutral voice.

As soon as I heard the front door open and the butler welcome his master, I’d very deliberately sprawled out across Sigmund’s cushy desk chair, occupying every available square inch so he couldn’t squeeze in next to me. Now I glanced up lazily from the sheaf of correspondence in my hands: increasingly impatient orders from the Patriarch to find me now (the Hadrakin were hounding him for justice, it seemed), a plea from Hutton for more funds and false papers for his Skovlander-independence terrorists, routine updates from Elstera Avrathi. What I hadn’t found was any sign that my brother had reported me yet.

Planted in the doorway of his study, staring down at the clutter of ribbons straggling all over his desk, not to mention his errant sister plonked in his chair wearing one of his shirts (the ballgown got soaked on the way over) – but no pants, Sigmund looked rather as if he were beginning to regret that decision.

Dimpling at him innocently, I sat up and pushed a heap of letters at him. “Here, help me tie these back up. It’ll go faster with two people.”

His sole response was to stride across the dressing-room-turned-study, pick up the spare chair in the corner, set it beside the desk, and cock his head reproachfully.

The spare chair looked distinctly less padded. Tucking my stockinged legs under me, I smiled back pleasantly. Unless he deployed physical force, this wasn’t a battle my brother ever won. Somewhat grudgingly, he resigned himself to the lesser chair. Then he plucked the papers out of my hands and began to organize them into some special order only he knew.

“Did you come up with any ideas for saving Iruvia?” he asked, his very calm conveying sincere doubt that I’d remembered our homeland in the midst of all my extracurricular preoccupations.

He was almost as bad as Grandfather. “I did, in fact,” I informed him snippily. While I memorized the order of his letters, I summarized Ash’s argument that it was the Unity War that had preserved Iruvian semi-autonomy for so long. At the end, I explained, “I’m not saying that we should restart the civil war in Skovlan – ”

Sigmund’s lashes fluttered in the briefest blink.

I stopped short. “No! You’re not!” Then, at his twitch – “Does Mother know?”

“Of course she knows.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

“You know Mother. She’ll do what’s best for the House.”

I processed the reproof and winced a little. “As I was saying, I plan to cause enough domestic turmoil in Akoros to deter the Immortal Emperor from launching an invasion. My crewmates already want to take down the Church of Ecstasy.”

“They’re ambitious,” he observed, carefully neutral.

Yes, yes, that they were. Hungry, even. “So I’ll help them with that. In addition, I want to reach out to Akorosian political dissidents, such as Odrienne Keel and Ian Templeton, and see if I can persuade them to write pamphlets and plays and generally rile up the intelligentsia, who might then apply pressure on the Imperial government.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sigmund praised, sounding unflatteringly startled by my political acumen. “I’m not sure about Templeton – he never struck me as that much of a dissident, although Ironhook Prison may have changed his mind – but I know Keel.”

“Well, I don’t, so can you give me a letter of introduction?”

“Yes, of course.” He immediately pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write in hypnotically beautiful longhand.

As I watched the pen nib scratch across the paper, I mused, “I have to confess that I’m curious how A Requiem for Aldric was supposed to go. The first act was brilliant – well, at least, it was until we tampered with it – ”

Somehow, Sigmund didn’t seem too surprised that I’d been involved with suspicious riots. “Was it the same patron as for the Hadrakin – ” he started to ask before quickly stopping himself. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Yes, safer for both of us if he maintained plausible deniability, although I missed the days when we told each other everything. As he continued to write, a companionable silence, tinged with regret, settled over the study. I didn’t speak again until he was pressing his fake signet ring into the sealing wax. “How’s the family doing?”

“I’m fairly certain you’ve inferred how House leadership is doing,” he replied drily. He laid the letter very precisely on the desk between us. “Father’s been keeping busy. He’s in his office all the time.” After a deliberate pause – long enough to signal that what he revealed next was intentional – he confided, “Intel on the fleet in Bright Harbor came from his spy rings, of course.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Mother…Mother has been very sad.” The filial son raised his eyebrows at the unfilial daughter. “She has to hide it in public, but she’s been drinking a lot of whiskey in private. Father is getting worried. As am I.”

The image of our mother, tall and proud and composed, drowning her sorrows in alcohol like a Charhallow laundress made me cringe inwardly. “And our dog?”

“Starlight is with Isha – your wet nurse, that is. Both of them are openly sad because they are allowed to be.” Sigmund gave me a moment to appreciate the magnitude of the grief I’d caused, then snapped, “By the way, Signy, what possessed you to use your wet nurse’s name as an alias?”

I gave an uncomfortable shrug. “It’s a bazaar name.” That was an Iruvian expression for names popular with the lower classes. Given just how many bazaar names there were, though, it wasn’t a particularly strong defense.

“Mmmmhmmm.” Sigmund pursed his lips but dropped the issue. It was too late for me to pick a more discreet fake real name anyway.

“Have you told Mother and Father that you’ve found me yet?” I asked hesitantly.

“I haven’t told anyone,” he replied grimly.

“Do you think…do you think the Patriarch will ever pardon me?” I asked even more hesitantly.

My brother heaved a heavy sigh. “I think that we – ” I noted and approved of the plural – “can win concessions if your plan works. But Signy – ” Leaning forward, he picked up my hands and squeezed them to soften his warning: “Even if that happens, nothing will be different. We’ll still be under Ixis’ control. As a matter of fact, it’s not the Patriarch you need to convince, but Ixis.”

Yanking my hands away so fast that he actually looked taken aback, I snarled, “So I should pander to Grandfather so he’ll sway the Patriarch?”

“Was it really so bad at home?” His plaintiveness hurt to hear.

With equal wistfulness, I countered, “Are we really a normal family?”

My brother closed his eyes, acknowledging the truth behind that question. “No….”

On an impulse, I suggested, “What if you all just moved here?”

His eyes flew open, and he stared at me as if I’d recommended unconditional surrender to the Imperium. “What – all of us? Mother and Father too?”

I nodded vigorously. “And Starlight and Isha and Lasa, too, if she wants to come,” I added, naming his wet nurse. Like Mylera, like Bazso, like the Slanes, like every other immigrant to Doskvol, we could start over fresh here. As a family.

Sigmund obviously hadn’t converted to the Doskvolian gospel of ethnic diversity and melting pots and such. “Signy, that’s – ” He stopped, exhaled loudly, ran a hand through his hair. “And anyway, unless we cut all ties with the House, nothing will change. It won’t achieve what you want.”

This time I noted his use of the second person. Unwilling to deal with two painful subjects in quick succession, I cast about for a more innocuous topic. What I came up with was: “How is the search for the battle plans going?”

It was perhaps a measure of our family (or, more accurately, its dysfunctionality) that Sigmund breathed a sigh of relief at being asked by a traitor to divulge top-secret intel. “I have a lead, although I’m going to have to hire some very expensive Shadows.” At my puzzled blink, he elaborated, “There may be a copy in the Lord Governor’s strongbox. In Whitecrown.”

“In the Lord Governor’s – ” I squeaked. While my crewmates and I were prowling about Coalridge and Charhallow and Six Towers, here was my brother merrily commissioning scores right in the Imperial stronghold itself! Sigmund definitely operated on a much higher tier than I these days. “Why does everyone want these plans?” I complained. “Why are they so important anyway?”

“Because,” he lectured with exaggerated patience, “they’re Ronia Helker’s. Meaning that even if a different general or admiral comes up with a more effective plan, Iruvia would still be better off. And anyway, it’s easier to counter something if you know what’s coming,” he concluded more prosaically.

“Speaking of that, one of my sources – ” Mylera would throw a fit if she heard me refer to her as my asset, but she wasn’t here, was she? – “suggested that someone has been pushing for war. What do you know about the decay in relations between Iruvia and Akoros?”

From the way Sigmund went dead still, I could tell I’d surprised him. Once upon a time, when our tutors set us to compete against each other, he’d have wasted time resenting me for uncovering a conspiracy first. Now, he merely looked thoughtful. “In the circles I move in, there’s certainly been a lot of hotheaded talk lately. Of course, it’s all coming from idle young nobles who never fought in the Unity War and have no understanding of the cost….” His lips twisted in contempt, and he sneered, “They speak quite passionately about bringing Iruvia to heel, the way they crushed Skovlan.”

“In front of you?” I exclaimed. “But they think you’re from Skovlan!”

His jaw clenched. “The civilized, urbane crème de la crème of Doskvol do not draw that connection. They believe that because I dress like them and speak like them and act like them, then naturally I must think like them too. And if I don’t, I should.”

“Ah.” Give me an honest scoundrel – in fact, give me Pickett – any day. “Well, you already have too much on your plate. I’ll investigate who’s rousing the rabble, so to speak. Do you have any suggestions for where to start?”

Still grimacing, he told me, “No one below the upper-middle class is worth your time. The nobles don’t talk to them.”

That only narrowed the search to all of Brightstone, which was so big it had taken my entire crew to find him, plus Whitecrown, which was so insular that any newcomer would stick out like a hand lantern in a no-lamps neighborhood. “All right. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Please do.” Sigmund’s attention was already shifting past my shoulder, towards the bathroom where my ballgown was still leaking bluish water into his tub. “Where did you get that?” he asked with professional interest.

“At a secondhand shop in Crow’s Foot.” I twisted around as he brushed past my chair. “Sometimes performers will sell or pawn costumes on their way home to Silkshore.”

“Mmmhmmm.” He inspected the soggy dress, comparing its cut and color to the latest fashion plates.

“Do you want it?” I offered. “It’s a little big for me, but it should fit you. I’ll trade you for a shirt. And pants.”

Eyeing my stockinged legs, he shook his head in amusement. “You’re impossible,” he smirked. “It’s a deal – but not that shirt. You’ll get mugged if you walk into Coalridge wearing it. Plus I happen to like it and it’s mine.”

“Deal. So are you going to kick me out or let me stay the night?”

“You’re impossible,” he repeated fondly.

An hour before dawn, he shook me awake, shoved some clothing at me, and shooed me out the back door. I walked into Coalridge wearing a shirt that he was willing to part with, plus a pair of breeches that had shrunk in the wash.

No one tried to mug me.