By now, I’d trained Sigmund so well that he didn’t miss a beat when he got home from his latest ball and saw me perched on his desk. He simply shut the door; hung up his silk top hat beside his newsboy caps, bowler hats, and straw boaters; and commented with his back to me, “You know, you really have to stop doing this.”

But he didn’t put any energy into it.

Swinging my legs, I informed him, “I don’t think it’s riskier than meeting in Silkshore.”

Still without bothering to look at me, he shucked off his dinner jacket and slung it over the spare chair. “I emphatically disagree.”

“I know you do.” I tried (not too hard) not to smirk.

At last, he propped a hip against his desk, folded his arms, and glowered down at me. “I assume this isn’t a mere social call.”

I’d made sure to position the reason for this call on my other side, so he hadn’t seen it as he entered. Now I shifted to reveal a roll of papers tied in a big pink bow and patted it casually.

(I’d even asked Faith for the ribbon nicely, although she’d only pursed her lips, feigned pique, and pouted, “Oh, I’m surprised you didn’t just steal it from my office – like everything else.”

Unrepentant, I’d shrugged. “I suppose I could.”

That got me silence plus a death glare.

“Do you want me to?” I’d asked innocently. “I can come back later.”

When she just kept glaring, I’d taken that as permission to raid her ribbon box.)

Sigmund, however, was unimpressed by the lengths to which I’d gone to secure the appropriate decoration for Ronia Helker’s battle plans. “I assume this is something important,” he stated, but his curtness made it clear that he did not – and was not in the mood for late-night pranks either.

Blinking in my best Faith impersonation, I almost kept a straight face as I asked, “Would it be tied in pink ribbon if it weren’t?”

He didn’t answer that. With all the dubiousness he could muster, he undid the ribbon with the very tips of his fingers and unrolled the papers.

I waited, grinning.

His eyes widened. “You finally got them?”

My response was a very Faith-like preen.

Nodding slowly to himself, he re-read Helker’s notes, more thoroughly this time. “So these are them, then,” he said redundantly.

“Yes.” Honesty forced me to admit, “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to retrieve all of them. The rest got destroyed.” (Apart from a few burned, illegible scraps that Faith kept waving under my nose.)

“You’re certain,” Sigmund pressed, probably wondering if he had to hire that crew of Shadows to break into the Lord Governor’s strongbox anyway.

“Yes,” I repeated. “But I recovered the salient parts.”

He sighed, but more at Helker’s ruthlessness than my partial failure. Reading the notes for a third time, he consoled me, “Still, these will let a lot of people in U’Duasha sleep easier.” (Quite the opposite, I thought – the contents of those battle plans would trigger many a passionate, all-hands, electroplasmic-lights-burning-all-night House conference.) “I’ll get them going south.”

After that, he fell silent for so long that I figured he was already formulating a counterstrategy and had forgotten all about me. As I debated whether to slip away or demand that he share his ideas, he set the papers aside, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “Which I guess leaves the problem of: What next?”

I blinked, in surprise this time. What next, indeed? Logically, next he should kill me, take Grandfather, and catch the fastest train home – or he should give up on retrieving Grandfather, take the battle plans, and catch the fastest train home. Either way, he had no further reason to stay. In fact, he probably had a duty not to stay when our House and our homeland needed him. But he didn’t seem to want to leave, either.

Fidgeting, I muttered, “I did talk to Grandfather about that.”

At the confession, my brother raised both eyebrows. “What did he say?”

“That the Heir has to be one of the two of us,” I replied reluctantly.

“That’s what I suspected,” he said, which startled me. Apparently, even though he was the official Heir and the one bound to Ixis, I was on closer speaking terms with the Demon Prince.

“Why?”

He shrugged, as if it were so obvious that he didn’t even know how to explain. “It just sort of makes sense.”

“How?”

“Because…. Um, I’m not sure how much sense this will make without…you know.”

Genuinely puzzled, I cocked my head.

Embarrassed, he tilted his own head back and forth and avoided meeting my eyes. “Without being bound to Ixis,” he spelled out, then elaborated, “I think that he had a hard time resisting the two of us, since we’re twins. If only one of us existed, that person would be unique. But in this case, he has two people with the same characteristics, and therefore he can….” He exhaled, rolled his eyes, and finished, “Experiment more.”

“You think our entire lives have been Ixis’ experiment?”

Sigmund regarded me warily, but there was no heat in my voice. The sad thing was that I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. In fact, given all the rumors surrounding our parents’ marriage, it probably was true.

A pair of nearly identical operatives who could pass as either Iruvian or Skovlander, male or female, as House needs dictated? A pair of nearly identical Anixises who could be promoted to the very top and exiled? What demon could resist that?

Sigmund was saying in a determinedly calm, level tone, “Some amount of our lives has been Ixis’ experiment. At some point, I stopped trying to figure out what was Ixis and what was not, and just tried to choose the things that I thought were right and that I wanted to do.”

Except – how much of that was my brother speaking, and how much was Ixis? How could we ever tell, so long as he remained bound? I don’t think you’re morally obligated to replace him, Mylera had said in the safety of her office in the Red Sash Sword Academy, far, far away from Demon Prince Khayat and his House and all their machinations. You might decide to, but I don’t think you have to.

Easy for her to say.

“Speaking of that,” I said tentatively, “have you thought more about what you really want? Is being bound to Ixis what you really want?”

My brother hesitated for a very long time. I held my breath and waited, braced for the worst without even knowing which answer would be worse.

At last, he said heavily and haltingly, “I think…that it is what I am going to do.”

“But is it what you want?” I pressed. “Those are two different things.”

Again, he was silent for too long. “What I want is complicated.”

(Mylera had also said, Given what I know about demon binding, you’re the only one thinking rationally and you’re going to have to make this call yourself. Which was even less helpful.)

I opened my mouth without really knowing to say, but Sigmund spoke first. “But…I think you are right. Ixis will demand one of us as his heir. And, unless I have entirely misread the situation, I’m not going to force that on you.”

My throat felt clogged. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Why not?” he asked gently.

Little tears pricked at my eyes. “It feels…selfish? Self-indulgent? Like leaving you to drown while I – ” I couldn’t choke out the end of the sentence.

He immediately tried to reassure me. “Signy. It’s not like that, really.”

However, I knew him as well as I knew myself, and I could tell that he was still puzzling out how much of that choice came from him and how much from the demon he served.

“I’m not…,” he began, then trailed off and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know how I feel about Ixis’ influence over our family anymore,” he confessed. “I don’t know if I might think that all of the infighting is…worth…the benefits that we get.”

“What benefits?” I demanded, my voice going shrill. “When have we ever gotten any benefits from the infighting?”

His slow, quiet, measured tone never changed. “Well, we get Ixis’ protection.”

“That’s somehow tied to the infighting?”

“Ixis’ protection also comes with Ixis’ influence.” Before I could point out that the first Patriarch must have struck an abysmally poor bargain then, Sigmund forestalled me with, “It’s not even exactly a bargain. It’s more that they’re attached to each other.”

In a flash, I finally grasped the whole of Ixis’ impact on our House, the good and the bad alike. “Ooooh,” I gasped.

“So, I don’t know – ” Sigmund cut himself off and started again, with more confidence this time. “Rather: Given where I am now, it is impossible for me to contemplate whether we could ever have succeeded at reforming our House. However, I do think that at the time, there were a lot of things we didn’t understand.”

He’d said that to me, more than once, but for the first time I could begin to grap what he meant. And to agree with it.

He’d paused again, searching for the words to justify and confirm his decision both to me and to himself. “I made a compromise because I felt that it was necessary to protect the House. And I suppose because I have hope that one day, I can make some changes to the House from within. And I am largely at peace with that.” His voice grew stronger, more passionate. “However, I think that you would be miserable if you had to make the same choice. Or at least, you would be – until you stopped being. And therefore, I don’t want to do that to you.”

At that, I couldn’t speak at all. We simply stared at each other. Two twins, one an exiled criminal, one as close to royalty as you got, very nearly mirror images if you ignored details of hair and dress: Ixis’ experiment carried out to its conclusion.

Finally, I sniffled and asked in a tiny voice, “Does that mean you’re going back?”

“Someday.” Sigmund’s voice was firm. “I am hopeful that I can persuade Ixis that I am still useful here. For a very long time.”

For his own good, I should convince him to return as soon as possible to consolidate his faction – but I was selfish. We’d lost well over two years, verging on a third at this point, on this ridiculous estrangement, and I wanted to make up for it. “I think Ixis might be amenable,” I said. “He told me he doesn’t need the heir to be in U’Duasha.”

“I wouldn’t think he’d need me to be in U’Duasha at all until the Patriarch dies,” Sigmund retorted.

“It might be wiser to return before that happens, to establish your power base,” I warned.

“Mmm.” He considered that for a moment, gave me a fond look, and admitted ruefully, “Perhaps. But sometimes I don’t make wise decisions.”

I could have scolded him, but it would have been beyond hypocritical. And anyway, unless someone assassinated him, the Patriarch would probably live another twenty years – plenty of time for me to convince Sigmund to plunge back into House politics.

Despite his words, my brother was tapping the battle plans and frowning. “In some ways, this is awkward: My explicit mission here is done. Except for the part that I’m not going to do. So, theoretically, I should go home tomorrow.”

He should. He really should. And I should really push him to.

But I, too, was not always known for my wise decisions.

I reached out to Grandfather who was, as always, hovering at the back of my mind. Do you really need Sigmund to go home with the battle plans? I appealed. You said you didn’t need your heir in U’Duasha.

A swirl of flame blocked my vision as he replied in his slow, amused way, I don’t. I do not mind if Sigmund decides to stay in Doskvol for a time. Perhaps a very long time. I would like the battle plans to get back to U’Duasha. I think that would…placate the Patriarch a great deal. But I see no urgency in Sigmund’s return. I can inform the Patriarch of that fact.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he could order the Patriarch to pardon me too, but I didn’t. The veil of fire and smoke dissipated as I relayed Ixis’ words to my brother.

Sigmund sagged a little and confessed, “It is kind of a relief. I suppose I could have lied and told the Patriarch that there is still much to do to prevent the invasion, but at this point, I’m not sure there is.” Generously, he gave me credit for that. “You’ve taken care of a lot of it.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to improve relations between Iruvia and Akoros,” I pointed out.

Ash would retort, It very much can hurt, but Sigmund leaped at the chance to work together again, the way we had as children. “That’s true! There are certainly a lot of fences to be mended. Uh, bridges to be mended?” He chuckled at his own silliness, glanced at the clock, and excused himself, “It’s late.”

“Overwater rail lines?” I joked.

“Lots of mending, regardless,” he agreed. “I’ll send that message back along with the battle plans, and hopefully Grandfather’s influence will take care of the rest.”

“I actually believe him on this.”

He refrained from commenting and mused instead, “I do think that in his own, deeply problematic way, Ixis is quite…fond? Of our family.”

Warily, I clarified, “Our family as in the whole House Anixis, or our specific branch?”

“Both.”

“I can see that,” I admitted, trying to be fair, “except that he’s a Demon Prince and doesn’t see relationships quite the same way we do.”

In his driest voice, Sigmund told me, “I can confirm that he does not.”

I burst into giggles. (It was very late, after all.) I wrapped my arms around his waist, and he wrapped his around my shoulders, and I asked, “So if you’re staying, does that mean you’re going to stay here here, or are you going to become a Silkshore bohemian?”

At the image of himself spending his days in cafes, discussing folklore with Ian Templeton and debating revolution with Odrienne Keel, Sigmund laughed aloud too, a carefree, giddy sound that I hadn’t heard since his investiture as Heir.

“You’re probably more influential here, though,” I cautioned, thinking about optics since he manifestly was not.

“Probably,” he agreed, sobering up enough to see sense. “Which probably means I should stay here, as tempting as the Silkshore scene may look.”

But he looked so disappointed that I immediately searched for a compromise. “Although…you could still do that. You could pretend that you got called home to Skovlan for a couple months – ” which wouldn’t be unreasonable, given the warmth of his fake relationship with his fake parents – “and spend that time living in Silkshore.”

His chest rumbled in a chuckle, and he promised, “I’ll be here or in Silkshore. Either way, I’ll make sure you have my address. Not that I imagine it will take you long to find it.”

I snickered. “It won’t.”

“Professional courtesy,” he told me with a straight face.

I rolled my eyes, then tensed as something else occurred to me. “Well, if you’re staying, there’s probably someone you should meet?” Despite myself, what was supposed to be a statement lifted into a question.

Although he had to have guessed at once, Sigmund showed no signs of comprehension. “Oh?”

Deliberate obtuseness ill-suited a self-proclaimed master spy. “Do you really not know?”

“Ah.” His voice and expression were both neutral – the type of neutral that conveyed distaste. “Your Lampblack.”

That was not how I – or Bazso – or anyone in the Doskvolian underworld, for that matter – would have put it. Acting reproachfully neutral myself, I said, “That’s an interesting way of putting it. But yes. Not tonight – but at some point.”

“Yes,” conceded Sigmund with no enthusiasm whatsoever. “I suppose that, at some point, that should happen.” Then he squeezed me and warned, “But not tonight.”

Well, obviously not. And anyway, even if I wanted to drag him out to Crow’s Foot right that instant, Bazso wouldn’t be free. Unless we’d made plans, he tended to spend his off-duty evenings at various bars in Crow’s Foot and Silkshore, or at the fighting pits in the Docks.

But my master spy didn’t need to know that.

“No,” I agreed, squeezing him back. “Not tonight.”

First thing the next morning, I sent “my” Lampblack a note inviting myself to his townhouse that evening.

His reply was the expected, concise, “Sure.”

After supper, I strode straight up to Bazso’s townhouse and let myself in the front door using the key he’d given me. (No sneaking through backdoors or climbing in windows necessary here.) “I’m heeeere!” I sang out.

“In here, Isha,” Bazso called back.

Following his voice, I found him in the sitting room, lounging on the sofa I’d helped him choose, feet propped on an empty whiskey crate, skimming the Doskvol Times. (To appease the citizenry, the City Council was making its periodic, obligatory muttering about cracking down on crime. As if that would ever happen.)

When I danced in, he lowered the paper and patted the cushion next to him. “You clearly had a good day,” he remarked.

I was too excited to sit. “I figured things out!” I announced, coming to a stop right in the middle of the sitting room and throwing my arms out.

“Ah! You did.” He set the paper on the coffee table (which I’d also picked out). “So – what is your plan?”

I twirled in a circle. “I’m staaaay-ing.”

His grin lit up his entire face.

“And I’m not getting bound to my House’s Demon Prince!”

“Uh.” That was not the follow-up he’d expected. “That’s great,” he said weakly. At my giggle, he elaborated, “I’m really glad you’re staying – and pretty glad you’re not getting involved with the demon.”

Only pretty glad? He must like me even more than I realized. “Weeelll,” I said cheerfully, “it’s a little too late for that.” (Had been, in fact, well before I was born.) “I think it’s safer to say that I’m not getting any more involved with the demon.”

He shook his head, confused but resigned. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Plopping down next to him, I rambled, “My brother thinks that our whole lives might have been our Demon Prince’s experiment. Because we’re twins, you know.”

He obviously didn’t know – and didn’t show any signs of wanting to know either. “I can’t pretend to understand any of that. We don’t have a lot of demons in Skovlan.”

That piqued my interest. “Do you have any?” Mother had never mentioned any.

He shrugged. “Never had much to do with the arcane, myself.”

That was fair – and just one of his many, many merits. Forgiveness and tolerance being among them.

“Probably a good thing,” I said airily. “Anyway, I talked to my brother, and he’s going to stay heir to the House instead of swapping with me. He’s planning to stay in Doskvol for the foreseeable future. Um. And I was thinking it would probably be good for the two of you to meet?” Again, I accidentally turned it into a question.

“Mmm.” Bazso sounded about as excited as Sigmund had – but for entirely different reasons.

His smile slipped as he surveyed his sitting room, which, while luxurious by Crow’s Foot standards, was full of mismatched, second-hand furniture, not to mention that whiskey-crate ottoman. Then he looked down at himself – at the shirt that was just a tad too long in the sleeves and tight in the shoulders because it hadn’t been made to measure, and the waistcoat that he unbuttoned as soon as he got home because it stretched a little too taut across his belly. (I wanted to get him a nicer one for Doskvorn, but hadn’t found time to drag him to Nightmarket yet. As Faith would say, I was too busy killing people.)

“Yeah,” mumbled the son of leviathan-blood refinery factory hands, “I can meet your brother.”

“Hey.” I put a hand on his arm. “It’ll be okay.”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “I don’t…spend a lot of time interacting with the nobility. I’d probably use the wrong fork.”

It was only half a joke, but I chose to interpret it as a full joke. Flinging my arms wide, I waved at myself.

“Yeah, but that’s different!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were a noble when I met you! And you never cared about the forks.”

Frowning, I feigned deep thought. “I don’t care about the forks?”

But Bazso’s sense of humor had deserted him entirely. “Unless you have cared about the forks, in which case, I’m sorry about always using the wrong one?”

Except for that one time we dined in Charterhall, our place settings had only ever had one fork, one knife, and one spoon – if that. And Bazso had done just fine in Charterhall.

“Outside in,” I said, suiting motion to words. “That’s how I remember it.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “You know what I mean.”

“Mmm,” I said, taking pity on him. “I do.” Rubbing his arm soothingly, I told him, “If it helps at all, he’s not the hoity-toity sort of noble. He’s toying with the idea of pretending to be a Silkshore bohemian for a while.”

Even though that was just the sort of affectation a Doskvolian lordling might adopt to assuage his ennui, Bazso was relieved. “I guess that does help a bit,” he mused. “I kind of understand the Silkshore crowd. Sort of. Yeah.” (He should – he certainly spent enough time in their bars.) “No, I…I could meet your brother. I guess it would be good to…put a face to the name.”

“Well, he looks a lot like me,” I joked.

“Mmm.” Bazso furrowed his brow as if he were trying either to picture me decked out in a top hat and dinner jacket and swinging a useless cane, or to imagine me garbed in silk and strolling around Unity Park under a useless parasol. He gave up. “It’s good to see you happy,” he said instead, slightly incredulous, and I realized that he hadn’t ever seen me truly happy.

Because I hadn’t been truly happy, not for a very long time.

“Yeah,” I sighed, kicking off my shoes and tucking my stockinged feet under me in a very un-aristocratic position. “It’s been a while. It’s such a relief to have things figured out.”

“I could see that,” he sympathized, referring to the little that he knew of my double-agent activities and demonic dealings. “You certainly had a tangled-enough knot to deal with.”

“You have no idea.”

I spent the rest of the evening regaling him with all the gory details of my House and its history, making him gasp and cringe and finally conclude that his own upbringing as a leviathan-blood-mutated child laborer had been preferable. But leviathan blood made me think of leviathans, which made me think of water demons in general, which made me think of demon-egg mousse….

Bouncing up, I chirped, “How about getting dessert in Silkshore?”

Bazso blinked. Our conversation up to that point had not been particularly, shall we say, appetite inducing.

“Sure, I could get dessert,” he agreed amiably.

And we did.