I feel strangely nervous leaving the palace grounds. The last time I'd done so didn't end quite as I'd planned, as the silvery line of new skin across my palm reminds me. But despite my jumpiness, there is something refreshing about walking the city streets. A sort of heaviness has been hanging in the air around the palace ever since the queen grew ill. And with Ezebel in the state she's in, my world seems to have tipped sharply on its side. I feel as though I can't find my footing, am just slipping slowly into some terrifying unknown. Out here, the dirty cobblestones feel solid beneath my feet, and the wind buffeting back and forth against the buildings is pleasantly cold against my face.

The tavern I'm looking for has no official name. Every so often a new name spreads throughout the underworld of spies and criminals, so as to make it as confusing as possible for outsiders and less savvy individuals. Lately, I've heard it referred to as "The Cup." It's location is a well-kept secret, and I'm fairly certain it's changed at least three times in my lifetime. I have never actually been, so there's a distinct possibility I've gotten myself lost. I trace the route over and over on my mental map, hoping I'm remembering right.

I know I've reached the place I'm looking for when I see the mural painted low on a building's dirty stone wall. Two red knives crossing over a silver goblet. The otherwise nondescript alley is off of Smith Street, where throughout the day and often well into the night you can hear nothing over the din of hammers molding iron into horseshoes and axes, sickles and ploughs. At the far end of the narrow alleyway is a squat wooden building built oddly off of the stone ones on either side, creating a dead end. Deep in the shadows there is a door. I knock twice.

A small peephole slides open and a bloodshot eye topped with a bushy gray brow glares out at me. "Who're you?"

"I'm here to see the baron."

"Who're you?" he repeats, a bit more aggressively.

Oh. Right. I reach into my pocket, fumbling as I pull out the square bronze token, about the size of a silver coin. I raise it up to the peephole so he can see the etching of two crossed knives.

The man grunts and slides the peephole shut. I hear wood clunking heavily against wood as he clumsily moves the bar from across the other side of the door. There is a series of clicks as multiple locks are unlatched. Then the door swings open.

"Go on then," the man says, a slight slur in his speech. He looks warily over my shoulder into the alleyway, then steps back against the wall inside so I can get by him in the cramped hall. "The baron'll be in the front. Up the stairs."

I reach the top of the steep but fairly short set of stairs and find myself in a large room packed to the brim with rowdy men slamming back tankards of ale and thumping their fists onto tables and each other's backs. It's amazing I hadn't heard their shouting voices out on the street. Someone is playing a lute in the corner, and another man is using two spoons to drum an accompanying rhythm against his friend's horned metal helmet. Or I assume he is a friend by the half-hearted swatting and laughter. Everyone seems to be in good spirits, despite their rough and tumble appearance and overall stink that permeates the space. I resist the urge to cover my nose with my hand.

To my left is the bar. There are two men scanning the room and pouring drinks from big barrels, placing them on the edge of the counter to be distributed by a half dozen serving girls who weave throughout the crowd with ease. One of the bartenders notices me hovering in the corner of the room and raises an eyebrow in my direction. "You need something, lass?"

His gruff voice and choice of endearment remind me of the king. I'm fairly certain my attempted smile comes out more like a wince. "Looking for the baron!" I say, trying to be heard over the noise and not sure I manage.

"Ah." He nods and waves a once-white cleaning rag in the air. "Ash! Visitor!" he bellows.

There is a hush throughout the room. I am certainly wincing now.

Aisling stands up from a table on the other side of the room and men step hastily out of her way to let her through.

"Carry on, gents!" she says, raising one hand in the air with an air of command, and, just like that, the clamor of sound rushes back into the small space. Then she grins at me. "Sin! What brings you all the way out here? Not that I'm not flattered by the visit."

"Uh, nothing! I mean, I just…" I clear my throat, very much missing the chill of the wind against my suddenly burning cheeks. It seems so stuffy in here.

Aisling raises an eyebrow.

"I needed a friend, I guess," I say.

"Something happened with Bianca," she says, and I notice that it isn't a question.

"What? No!" My face grows even hotter as I stumble over my words. "How did you know that?" I squeak.

Aisling chuckles. "You went to all this trouble to come see me, when friend number one is right there in the palace. Not a tricky jump to make. But now I'm thinking there might be more to it."

Part of me wants to argue with that logic, or reassure her that she isn't just my second choice friend, but I can tell she isn't upset. She's teasing me. I sigh.

"One sec," she says to me. "Margarite!" Aisling hooks her arm around a barmaid as she walks by with a stack of dirty glasses. Her round, rosy cheeks and dark, wild curls give her an air of innocence, but there's a shrewdness in her eyes, and her low neckline and tightly cinched bodice are designed to draw attention to her curves. Aisling plants a kiss right on her mouth.

"M'lady!" Margarite says, rolling her eyes. Her cheeks dimple as she smiles.

"Be a doll and bring us a bottle of mead in the back?" Aisling asks, casually slipping out of the embrace as if such a thing happens all the time.

"In a bit," Margarite says. "Your men are thirsty tonight. I've got my hands full."

"They're thirsty every night," Aisling says, and the people close enough to hear cheer in agreement.

This quickly turns into a toast. And then a drinking song breaks out throughout the tavern. Something about ale to warm your body and a wench to warm your soul. I honestly can't tell by the lyrics if they're meant to be vulgar or sweet. It seems like a mix of both.

Aisling hums along under her breath as she pulls me into the back room, a surprisingly big area with two long tables and a smaller round one built into the far wall.

"No one'll bother us in here. It's where the serious meetings take place, and everyone hates those," she says.

Margarite comes in once we've settled into the curving bench along the back wall, setting down a large clay jug with a stopper and two cups. "Call for me if ya need, m'lady," she says as she leaves.

I've never had mead before. Its sticky-sweet heat slips down my throat like liquid sunlight tickling my insides. It's deliciously warm and fuzzy in the pit of my stomach. Despite the tiny clay cups we drink it out of, it doesn't take long before I start to feel its effect. A sort of pleasant fog in my head. The painful thoughts and worries are still there, but somehow softer.

"Before you have much more of that, I have some news that might be important," Aisling says. She's smiling at me like she's trying not to laugh.

"Huh? What do you-" I blink. "You mean news, like for Ezebel?"

"Sure, except The White Witch isn't exactly available at the moment," she says, shrugging. "We're still doing her work, but I've got no one to report to."

I sigh, staring down at the golden pool of mead in my tiny cup.

"I'm sure she'll snap out of it soon," Aisling says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "She's never done anything like this before."

"I went to see her," I say. "I hit her and I yelled at her. She didn't care. But now I feel terrible. What's wrong with me?"

"Sin… Oh, kid." Aisling wraps both arms around me and sighs. "Nothing's wrong with you. We're all scared. If I was as brave as you I'd try and knock some sense into her, too. It's okay. Once she's herself again, she'll understand."

"I just… I feel so out of control," I say, and then the words start to tumble out. "I hate it. The more I learn to use this power I have, the more it feels like something is coming loose inside of me, rising up. I'm angry. Not just at the Ironborn. I'm angry at my parents for leaving me. For never coming back. And I'm angry at Ezebel for abandoning us. For not taking care of me. Not being…" I shake my head. "I'm angry that part of me just wants to hide. That I'm afraid. I'm not brave. You're wrong. I'm a coward."

I drink the last of the mead in my cup.

"You are not a coward," she says, refilling my cup from the large clay jug. She puts a finger under my chin and lifts it so I meet her eyes. She's smiling at me. "Sin, you are one of the bravest people I know. Look at you! Your hair is like starlight. Your eyes are diamonds. They practically glow! You walk around daring the Ironborn to see you, and when they do you slip right back out of their heads like they aren't worthy of remembering you. You could be dying your hair and sticking to the shadows like the rest of us, but you don't. And I am honored that I am lucky enough to have you in my memories, to be one of the people you trust to know you. Because you amaze me, Sindred."

My chin is trembling, and I can feel tears in my eyes, but the way she's grinning at me breaks through all the heavy emotions welling up and I start to laugh, sobs breaking free amidst the breathless chuckles. "You're being too nice!" I say. "Stop it."

She pats me on the back, still smiling. "That's what friends are for, kiddo."

"Oh!" I snap upright, rubbing the tears off my cheeks and blinking them out of my eyes. "You had news! Tell me."

Aisling looks taken aback by my abrupt change of topic, staring at me in surprise. Then she starts to laugh, full-bodied and loud.

"What?" I ask. "What did I do?"

She shakes her head, still laughing. "For a second there, you sounded just like the Witch. You went from a girl crying into her drink straight to business. 'Tell me,'" she says, mimicking Ezebel's aloof tone. "'What's the report?'" She keeps laughing.

"Well, what is it?" I ask. "You said it was important!"

"It might be!" she says, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. "We have someone tailing Vessimira. You know, Rogemere's daughter? She was out walking her scary cat thing earlier tonight and she ran into someone… interesting. There was something about him that my source said felt odd. The kid who saw him has a bit of glamour, but he's not the greatest at it. He said he sensed magic of some kind. Probably of the fae sort, since the man definitely was no Ironborn. But what's even more curious to me is the physical description. Dressed like a foreigner, but with an Ylvemoran accent. Dark hair, blue eyes. Who does that sound like, to you?"

I scrunch up my forehead, thinking.

"I… Oh. The prince?" I say, my voice dropping to an urgent whisper. My insides feel suddenly squished and aching as years of lingering guilt and shame rise up and lash out with a fury. Ezebel's voice slips into my mind: "The boy needs to be protected. Sindred, I want you to watch over him." The prince is alive? In my mind, I can see his fiery red eyes and ash-covered body. I remember the way he calmly emerged from the burning forest, staring at us like a ghoul out of a story. Even if he is alive, to imagine him blue-eyed and human feels wrong. He burst out of the Ironborn's tower and flew away in a ball of fire.

"It can't be!" I say, my heart racing. "Why would…? How…?"

"It's just a thought I had. It's unlikely, I know," Aisling says. "But we don't know what happened to him, right? Some people think he's dead, but Ezebel has had us keeping an eye out for anything that might tell us if he's alive, or where he is. For nine years. She seems convinced he's still out there. And there's been nothing. Now, the queen is sick, maybe dying, and some strange man fitting his description shows up in the city? It could be a coincidence…"

"Do you have someone watching him?" I ask.

That surprised look again. "Of course, my lady," she says, with exaggerated deference.

I grimace. "I did it again?"

She chuckles. "Three of my boys are tailing him, with one reporting back every hour. So far he's been walking around the city like a tourist, staring at everything. He went into a couple taverns on the edge of east side, not too far from here. Apparently he talks to himself? But no one's been able to catch what he's saying. Probably nothing important."

"Can you keep me updated on what they find out?" I ask. Talks to himself? My thoughts jump to words like possessed and demon.

She smirks. "Yes, master."

"Oh, stop," I say. I hide my smile by taking another sip of my mead.

"So are you going to tell me what happened with Bianca?" Aisling asks, taking a drink of her own.

I make a face and roll my eyes, secretly grateful for the shift in topic. "She's in love with a wizard," I say, with as much mocking emphasis on "in love" as possible.

"Ahhh." Aisling nods.

"She just doesn't understand," I say. "She knows me, but maybe she… Maybe she doesn't? Sometimes I don't let her remember everything. Sometimes I don't trust her, fully, even though I want to. But she sees me, as I am. She remembers. She must know the Ironborn would kill me if they knew. She has to know that. I thought she'd be more careful. I don't know how she can't understand!"

Aisling seems to choose her words carefully. "What do you want from her, Sin? Have you told her how you feel?"

"What do you mean? I…" My cheeks grow hot as I realize what she's saying. "Aisling! No! That's not…" I cover my face with my hands.

"How can she understand if you aren't even being honest with yourself?" Aisling says.

"It's not about that! He's an Ironborn! It's not safe. I've seen what Rogemere does to people like us. She hasn't! If she really knew, she wouldn't be…" I grimace, picturing her and Kalvar kissing in the kitchen doorway.

Aisling shrugs. "Maybe I'm reading it wrong, then."

"I love Bianca," I say. I struggle to find the right words. "Maybe I love her… more. Or… in the way you're saying. But… She's my friend. I don't want her to be anything more than that. Or I've never… She would never… She doesn't see me that way. And I'm not sure I'd want her to."

"Because you're scared of losing her?" Aisling asks.

I stare at her, not sure how to respond. She smiles knowingly at me.

"I told you I was a coward," I say, under my breath. I finish my cup of mead, savoring the burst of warmth running through me.

"You're not. No one wants to be alone," she says. "And that's often the risk of bravery when it comes to love. Nothing hurts more than a broken heart. Still, you'll never know if you don't take the risk. Right?"

"Sometimes you do," I say.

She furrows her brow, nodding slowly. "You're right. Sometimes you do." She puts her arm around me again, squeezing me against her in a partial hug. "I'm sorry, kid."