Lian stood between two towering wooden shelves of books, dressed in what Aralt guessed were Alira’s younger brother’s castoffs—grey knee breeches and a white shirt with an upturned collar. To that ensemble had been added a pair of oversized red leather boots he imagined someone, in some century, had worn for a pantomime. A once-handsome double-breasted blue jacket would have been a more sensible addition had it not been missing most of its buttons. By her intake of breath, Alira was as surprised as he was by the boy’s attire.

“Kavsa,” Alira said, rising to genuflect smoothly. She cast a glance at Aralt when he did nothing but yawn and take another sip of wine. She whispered, “Gareth?”

“You look awful, lad-o.” He’d be asleep on the floor before the next bell toll if they didn’t direct him back whence he had come. “Go back to bed, Lian. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Tycho is my friend, and you were insulting him,” the boy said, then seemed to realize he had missed an important social cue. He inclined his upper body toward Alira, clutching a shelf to keep from falling. The next bell toll might have been generous. “Lady. Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.”

“And also to you,” she said.

“Forgive me for being so imprudent earlier. I was not entirely myself.”

“You had all the tact of an esri in a potter’s shop.” Aralt flinched when Alira booted him in the ankle.

“How may I serve you, kava Lian?”

“I should like to speak to k’talyn Alwynn again if I might. On Tycho’s behalf. One of the household guards told Scanlin that he’d been incarcerated.”

Aralt cocked an eyebrow. “I doubt he said ‘incarcerated’.”

Lian glowered at him. “I intended to inquire but… I didn’t… I mean I couldn’t remember which way to… this house is very large.”

“Of course—”

“Not,” Aralt finished her sentence. He leaned forward. “Lian, the talynt’e Alwynn is perfectly within his rights to detain a potential threat to his domain. We follow a code of conduct in such matters. If you have any objections, you can file a petition with the magistrate,” he said, watching Lian blink stupidly at so many words. He almost felt guilty. When Alira tipped her wine glass ever so slightly and extended it toward Aralt’s lap, he hurriedly added, “I assure you he isn’t being mistreated, which is more than would be the case if our roles were reversed.”

Alira returned her glass to the table, but she looked none too pleased with him.

Lian gave him a long appraising stare. “Do I have your word that he’s safe?”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Kavsa,” Alira interrupted, “I can assure you that your friend is being treated with the utmost respect.”

Lian steadied himself with both hands. “Thank you. I—”

“Kavsa?”

Aralt put a hand on Alira’s arm to prevent her from going to the boy’s aid. “You’re not recovered yet and the hour is late. Where’s Scanlin?”

“In the hall waiting for me. I told him I wanted to speak to you alone.” Lian said, raising his voice. “I am aware of the hour and while I thank the lady for her assurances, I still want to see Tycho.”

He sighed, then called out for his First Sword. “Grey?”

“I want to see Tycho, Aralt. Please.”

“Grey!”

“Aye, Commander.” Scanlin gripped Lian under the elbows to steady him as he slumped into the shelf and books tumbled around them. “I dinnae wish to be a bother, but he was mighty restless and concerned about—”

“I want to see Tycho,” Lian repeated, pushing Scanlin away. When the boy’s knees gave out, Scanlin caught him and put him back on his feet. He shambled sideways. The books fell faster than Scanlin could pick them up.

“Gareth, perhaps he would feel better if—”

He sidestepped Alira’s diplomatic suggestion. “If he was better rested. Scanlin, get him out of here before he causes a scene.” More books fell, pages ruffling. “More of a scene.”

Scanlin swept volume after volume from the floor, sorting them as he slid them back into place. “Come awa’ then, lad. We have our orders.”

“No. Scanlin, let me go. Let me…go. A-ra-lt.” Lian dragged his name through several key changes. When that didn’t work, he repeated the exercise with Aralt’s first name. Their exchange had drawn the attention of the household steward, who opened, then quickly closed, a side door.

“Hush, boy! You’ll have the entire staff in here if you don’t stop. He isn’t going anywhere, all right? No one is going to harm him.”

“On your honor as a gentleman?”

“On my honor. He isn’t going anywhere, he is perfectly safe, and he even got second supper. Satisfied? Now, stop making an ass of yourself and take your rest.”

Lian allowed himself to be steered away, but not before a half-hearted attempt at an obscene Shirahnyn gesture. Aralt was thankful the meaning was lost on his companion—or that she was too polite to betray any discomfort. Not that she was done with him, either. Oh, no. Whatever game he had been drawn into that night, he was not going to emerge the victor.

Alira pressed her back into the chair and folded her arms. “You just dismissed the next Kavistra of Askierran.”

He tried to mask another yawn with his hand. “I dismissed my fourteen-year-old kervallys. You saw him. He’s so tired he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Or saying.” And, he had to admit, he was not in much better shape himself. Such were dangerous waters to tread.

“What do you expect, Gareth? He’s a traumatized boy. Surely you can see that. He must be drowning in sorrow. His parents are gone, his brother, his home…you.”

“Me? I’m here.”

“But you seem perpetually irritated with him.”

He thought better of telling her that that was because Lian was—could be—perpetually irritating.

“I’m not irritated,” he said, squirming in his chair.

“And I’m not in love with you, despite your faults. Honestly, Gareth. You’re looking for the boy you used to know, and you don’t see him, but you’re so determined to find him that you can’t see the boy that’s standing right there. The one that’s among strangers, that’s worried about someone that he cares deeply about,” Alira stressed, “and he trusts you to make it right. You’re not being very considerate. No doubt he would be the same if you were in Tycho’s place.”

“I wouldn’t take that wager,” he muttered.

“If this is how you talk to each other I can see why,” she told him. “Was he hurt when the Aurora Dream went down? His dear little face. It looks as if someone hit him.”

Aralt bit his tongue. “No. That…that was from a fight a few days ago.”

“Really?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I trust whoever was responsible was censured.”

“Thoroughly,” he assured her, rubbing his jaw.

She was silent for a few moments then extended her hand. “Can I have my hair buckle back? Or are you planning on borrowing it?”

He hadn’t realized he was still holding it, turning it around and around, much like his thoughts. Sweet Creator, he was beyond tired. He tried not to yawn again and failed. Alira followed suit. Their laughter lightened the mood.

“You’ll probably want to wash your hands now. It’s Shirahnyn workmanship, you know,” she told him, sweeping back her hair. When a handful escaped, she caught it with her long fingers, tucking most of it into place. “It was a gift from a friend with fewer…preconceived notions.”

“Is that so?” He levered himself up, stepping behind her chair to get a better look. It was even more exquisite than he had first realized, an intricate weave of precious metals forming a triptych of moons. He gently undid the clasp to neaten her hair. It flowed like silk between his calloused hands. “That’s a very personal gift.”

“Yes, well, I thought so too—especially as a token during the Lighting. It would have been better suited as a gift during Twelfth Night, but I could hardly refuse such a heartfelt gift.”

Not to mention expensive. Black marathis alone was a rare form of the gem found only in a few places that he knew of in and around Leyth. To set it in a lady's hair buckle was almost a proposal of marriage. The most intimate gift he could recall having given her during the holy season was a book of verse by a celebrated long-dead poet and a music box. She professed to cherish both. He leaned forward, speaking directly in her ear. “Who?”

“My very devoted dance partner for the evening, seeing as you were predisposed engaging Shirahnyn marauders, syr Tremayne. I understand it was an epic battle. Will you be writing a sonnet?”

“Who?” he puffed the word again. She leaned away and shivered. “Who gave it to you?”

“The talynt’e Morvoren, if you must know.”

He stood up straight. “Dozer? You danced with Dozer Morissyn? All night?”

“Dozer of Morvoren. You can at least lend him his title, Aralt of Tyrian.”

He gave a short laugh. She knew very well that few in the Northern Alliance called him that. He ran his fingers over intricate filigree, leaves and vines in endless spirals. “Dozer really gave that to you? And you danced? On Syth’s Eve?” The little scoundrel!

She blushed. “On the Feast of Light, you mean? Well…yes. You weren’t available if you will recall,” she told him, squirming in her chair. “Would you have had me sit in a corner all night missing you? Don't hover behind me like that. Whatever is that smirk for?”

“Dozer?”

“Gareth, please. He’s been of invaluable help to us since Father’s become…so forgetful.”

“I’m sure he has.” He returned to his chair and topped off his wine glass again. Dozer? The thought of the talynt’e Morvoren courting Alira left him speechless. He was old enough to be her father, not that such a difference in age had stopped Alira’s father. Twice.

“He’s a good dancer,” she said in mock defense, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. “After the Lighting we talked all night about developments in steamship engineering, and then he took me for a flight off the Point at Abishag in one of his new airships. At sunrise.”

Dozer?

“Should I be worried?”

She gazed longingly at her left hand. A hand still without a promise ring. He gritted his teeth. Yes, he supposed he had better worry. Or start weaving a wedding garland of spring flowers.

The household steward opened the door again, clearing his throat to get their attention. “Pardon my intrusion, Madam, but it’s your father. He’s gone down to the garden chapel. He says the Riahi are returning to Estevedyn.”

Alira closed her eyes briefly, thanked him, and bid him goodnight. She told Aralt, “It’s always worse at night if he doesn’t settle in his own room. We thought coming here would help because of all the time he spent here with Mother Kinara when we were children. He talks about that—and her—all the time, but this morning he didn’t know how to get to the dining room.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” He thought better of his words and tried again with greater sincerity. He offered his hand. “I want to go with you.”