“All right, what do you think this time?”

Holding out my arms, I turned in a slow circle in my railcar compartment. Strewn across my desk, draped over my wardrobe doors, and dangling from my bunk was a rainbow of rejected attire: Iruvian robes, Akorosian ballgowns, Skovlander hats, Severosian kaftans, Dagger Islander scarves – how could I own so much clothing from so many different isles and yet have nothing to wear?

Sprawled on top of a dress that I’d wadded up and hurled aside earlier, Sleipnir rotated his eyeballs in my direction.

“Think this will work?” I asked again.

No one answered.

By this point, the two of us were the only ones still living in the railcar. The Insect Kids spent all their time at the orphanage, Ash had long since moved into his mother’s townhouse, and who knew where Faith had wandered off to? Whenever we asked, she just scolded us for trying to spoil her “feminine mystique.” Having the railcar to myself wasn’t so bad, really – it meant that I could hide out here when I needed peace and quiet.

On the other hand, it also meant that right now there was no one to advise me on my outfit and apparently, without realizing it, I’d gotten used to consulting Ash and Faith.

After a few more changes and a lot of snoring from Sleipnir, I finally settled on a pair of leggings that I’d found in a used clothing shop in Crow’s Foot soon after I arrived in Doskvol, and a tunic with subtle embroidery that I’d splurged on in Nightmarket one time I felt homesick. The Iruvian style would please Sigmund, while both the leggings and tunic were black in a nod to Bazso. Topping them off with a thick black overcoat, I scratched Sleipnir behind the ears, refilled his food and water bowls, and left the railcar.

As I hailed a gondola and directed it to Silkshore, the rain stopped and the clouds blew away to reveal the moon overhead. Sometimes I felt that it loomed oppressively, as if it were about to fall out of the sky and crush me, but this evening it felt comforting – like an old friend come to see me off to the most important dinner I’d ever hosted.

The Silver Horseshoe was a Sevorosian restaurant whose popularity had surged among the bohemian crowd recently. Its décor was artsy rather than fancy, meaning that the booths and private rooms were draped with colorful felt hangings that evoked a yurt, and the shelves on the walls displayed horse-headed fiddles and Severosian folk art. The furniture was carved with deliberately crude horses, and the cushions were dyed with bright geometric patterns that you might see on a kaftan. I’d picked this place because it was just nice enough that Sigmund wouldn’t feel offended, and just casual enough that Bazso wouldn’t feel out of place. As planned, I arrived extra early and sat by the door to wait.

Bazso arrived next, also early, looking uncomfortable in his best suit. The way he held his chin suggested that the starched collar was chafing his skin, and he sat down next to me without remembering to remove his top hat. As he pecked me on the cheek, his eyes darted around the restaurant.

“You know,” he remarked, striving to sound casual and mostly succeeding, “you never told me what he’s like. Apart from wanting to live like a bohemian.”

He was right. And it was an egregious omission that put him at an even bigger disadvantage than he was already at. Somehow, I’d forgotten that Bazso’s informants weren’t nearly as widespread as Sigmund’s or mine and certainly didn’t reach into Brightstone.

“Um,” I began, trying to figure out how to sum up my brother, “he’s a lot like me.”

At least, he had been until Ixis started his nature-versus-nurture experiment and confirmed that, indeed, if you showered one twin with honors and disowned the other, their personalities and priorities would diverge drastically. A shocking discovery, that.

“He’s very smart and very charismatic – ” when it suited his purposes, which I hoped it would tonight – “and, um, he really likes good whiskey.”

“Ah,” said Bazso, nodding to himself and relaxing marginally, “that’s good.”

And on that note, the door opened with a gust of cold air and Sigmund swept in, exactly on time. Underneath a cloak in the shade of emerald green that artists favored this year, he wore his most casual grey suit. (Based on the precision of the tailoring and the fineness of the fabric, I estimated that it was worth more than my entire wardrobe.)

Beside me, Bazso rose, radiating tension.

I pasted on a bright social smile and stepped forward. “Sigmund! How nice to see you!”

My brother’s answering smile was as charming as ever, but I detected strain in his voice as he replied, “Likewise, Isha.” His eyes had already moved past me to study Bazso, assessing him and weighing him the same way he used to assess and weigh me, back when our tutors pitted us against each other.

Beaming full force at both of them, I performed the requisite introductions: “Sigmund, this is Bazso. Bazso, Sigmund.” Only after I spoke did I realize that I’d instinctively treated Sigmund as the higher ranked, and I darted a guilty glance at Bazso.

Either he hadn’t noticed or, more likely, had chosen not to react. “A pleasure to meet you, Sigmund.” He held out his hand, which was large and callused in the manner of one who did physical labor for a living.

Automatically registering that, Sigmund put out his own hand, which was also callused – but in the manner of one who spent his days on aristocratic sports and a fair bit of paperwork. “Likewise, Bazso.” From the warmth he injected into his tone, he was trying his hardest to be nice.

Niceness, as we all knew, didn’t come naturally to an Anixis.

Bazso picked up on that, and his smile slipped a little.

As the hostess escorted us to a private room, I babbled, “I’ve heard this place is really good. I haven’t had Severosian food before, but I’ve been meaning to try it, and I figured that since there are three of us, we could get a bunch of dishes and share so we can try more dishes….” Realized that I was repeating myself, I stopped.

Thankfully, deciding how many and which entrees to order absorbed our attention for several minutes, but then the waiter cleared away the menus and closed the flaps behind him, and the three of us were alone.

There was a brief, uncertain silence.

With a determined smile at Sigmund, Bazso remarked, “The two of you really do look very similar.”

“We get that a lot,” Sigmund replied emotionlessly, just as he had to Ash. Then, as a sign of the effort he was making, he pulled a fake-rueful face, lowered his voice, and confessed, “We used to swap clothing and try to fool our nannies.”

Although Bazso noted that Sigmund treated having servants as a normal part of childhood, he played along and asked, “Did it work?” He looked between Sigmund and me, comparing our features and trying to picture us gender-swapped.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “No. They knew us better than that. Although we did fool Father one time.” At the memory of his chagrin when we revealed ourselves, I giggled and Sigmund cast an arch glance at me.

Bazso looked between the two of us again, his face neutral. “I think you could still fool anyone you wanted, even now.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Even you?”

At the fondness in my voice, Sigmund’s eyes sharpened, and he leaned forward to reclaim our attention. “So, Bazso, I hear you’re from Lockport. Our mother grew up there too.”

I wanted to kick him for bringing up the difference in our families’ social statuses, but Bazso interpreted Sigmund’s remark as an attempt to find common ground (which it might have been, in part, anyway) and replied easily, “Yes, Isha told me. I couldn’t believe it when I learned that your mother is the one in the songs!”

Sigmund had steeled himself for the sort of subtle, cutting response that you might hear at the dinner table in House Anixis, or at a ball in Brightstone. Caught off guard by Bazso’s straightforwardness, he flashed me a look, exhaled, and unbent a little. “Yes, well, that was a long time ago. But she and Father are still very happy together,” he added, guessing what Bazso wanted to know.

Looking relieved that the ballads’ happy ending had stood the test of time, Bazso nodded. “Have the two of you ever visited Lockport?”

We had not, and neither had Mother since she married – “At least, as far as we know,” Sigmund commented drily, which caused Bazso to laugh outright, which in turn made Sigmund chuckle. Even if we’d never visited Skovlan, though, Sigmund and I had grown up hearing stories about Mother’s favorite haunts, and Bazso even knew a few of them. Sadly, most of them had been destroyed in the Unity War. Since the tragedy of Lockport was too heavy to dwell on without copious amounts of whiskey, which the Silver Horseshoe did not serve, I guided the conversation onto more positive aspects of Skovlander history and culture. By the time dessert arrived (a thick, heavily spiced sweet soup), my companions were swapping stories about how they’d pretended to be their favorite legendary heroes as children. As we left the restaurant, Bazso suggested very naturally that we go a bar he knew that stocked good Skovlander whiskeys, “since Isha said you’re another whiskey lover.”

Sigmund leaped at the offer. “I would love that,” he replied, “although – ” he cast a teasing glance in my direction – “we might have to educate this philistine.”

“Hey!” I protested, faking indignation.

At the same time, Bazso exclaimed, “You mean Isha wasn’t always a whiskey connoisseur?”

Now it was Sigmund’s turn for (only slightly exaggerated) shock. “You mean you made her like it? Stars above! How did you manage that?”

“I’m not sure you can make Isha do anything she doesn’t want to,” Bazso replied, very, very drily.

Exchanging smirks, they both raised their eyebrows at me.

I couldn’t come up with a snarky retort fast enough. I couldn’t lie, either – not in front of my brother, who knew that Father had proclaimed fine whiskey wasted on me and stopped pouring me his best because I kept leaving most of my tumbler undrunk and pushing it onto Mother. (Not that she minded.)

I shrugged a little uncomfortably. “It reminded me of home.”

There was a short, understanding silence, as Sigmund recalled our childhood back in U’Duasha and Bazso thought of his own in Lockport.

After a moment, Bazso joked, “Isha here once claimed that she came to Doskvol because your mother told her Doskvolian whiskey is the best in the world.”

Sigmund didn’t even have to feign outrage. “Mother would never say that!” Poking my arm, he informed Bazso, “I told you Isha’s a philistine.”

“Hey!”

Bazso laughed, and the two swept off down the street, debating the merits of different vintages.

At the bar, where the staff and patrons knew and respected him as the ward boss of Crow’s Foot, Bazso was in his element. A waitress immediately escorted us to his usual booth, which like the one in the Leaky Bucket commanded the best view of the room, and he ordered a whiskey flight for us.

Sigmund, meanwhile, handed me into the U-shaped booth and then slid in on my other side, across from Bazso. He performed a quick sweep of the bar with his eyes, noted that he could monitor all the doors and windows, and nodded. “Good choice.”

Bazso chuckled. “Glad you approve. Now,” he announced, as the waitress brought over our drinks plus an extra glass, “let’s see what you think of this.” He reverently positioned the empty tumbler in the center of table and started pouring the first bottle for us.

Although his eyes lingered on the empty glass, Sigmund betrayed no surprise at the ritual.

“One for the lady.” Bazso handed a tumbler to me with a flourish. “One for the gentleman.” He raised his own glass and toasted, “To new friends.”

Sigmund lifted his. “To new friends.”

“Cheers,” I added, which made it unanimous.

There was one final awkward moment at the end of the night.

After we’d finished the flight and Bazso and Sigmund had selected their favorites and proceeded to consume quite a lot of those, my brother told us reluctantly, “I suppose I’d better get back. I have a meeting tomorrow morning, and I should probably try to get some sleep before then.”

“Ugh, hard luck,” empathized Bazso, who was very definitely not a morning person. “I guess I should drop by the Leaky Bucket to see if anything’s come up.”

Even though they were still facing each other across the table, both of them were watching me out of the corners of their eyes, waiting to see if I’d go home with either of them.

“Coalridge is a little far, so I think I’ll crash at the orphanage tonight,” I said, and watched both of them sag a bit. Playing up my tipsiness, I pleaded, “The two of you will walk me there, right? You won’t leave me to walk all the way back to Crow’s Foot by myself, right? I might get mugged!”

“You?” snorted Bazso at the same time that Sigmund muttered, “I pity the mugger.”

Bazso burst out laughing. “That’s exactly what I said! Although that time she was talking about Coalridge.”

“Then I suggest we escort her back so we can protect the scoundrels of Crow’s Foot from her,” Sigmund proposed.

And that was what they did. In the doorway of Strathmill House, I hugged and kissed each of them on the cheek and then watched them stroll off down the street side by side. Only after they’d vanished into the fog did I shut the door and heave a sigh of relief. The evening had gone even better than I’d hoped, and now I was going to collapse into bed for some well-earned sleep.

That was when I heard a gasp.

I whirled to find Moth peeking out from an empty classroom, gaping at me with huge, devastated eyes. “But Miss Yara! What about Miss Karstas? Don’t you love her anymore?”

I groaned.

It looked like my night wasn’t over yet.