The ball ended long after midnight. Isaiah stood his duty at the doors to thank departing guests, until the only ones who remained were those who would not leave while he was still in attendance. His mother came to find him at his post.

"Oh darling, you look exhausted," she clucked. It took all the willpower in Isaiah's possession not to flinch as her hand touched his shoulder. "I can take over now. You may leave."

It was not an act of kindness. It was also an order. She had seen his deteriorating smile with those who pushed his boundaries, and was taking over to maintain the image of Calisian royalty that she did not want him sullying. Isaiah retreated in a haze of mixed guilt and relief that tangled in his chest and whetted all his emotions to cutting edges. This was overstimulation more than anything, but that would not stop it from tempting tears until he'd slept.

Silence descended as he finally shut the door of his room behind him. He locked it, too. His mother hated that unless she was locking it herself from the outside, but he was past caring; if she wanted to speak with him yet tonight, she would not like the conversation anyway. Just that thought was enough to choke him up again. He wanted something warm to hug. That sent him to Pekea's cage, to find the front of it hanging askew. Unable to open the door, she had instead deconstructed the fittings holding the cage's sides together. It was a weak point Isaiah had warned his mother about when she gave him the cage, but that had thus far never been tested by a temperamental, too-smart dragon with a dislike of confinement and being withheld from her job.

It was also at least partially his fault. He had trained her this way: to not simply accept confinement, but to evaluate the situation, determine if confinement was an acceptable state of affairs, and react accordingly. It was the kind of training that had made him choose a small, smart dragon over a larger, dumber dog as a service animal to begin with. Pekea had gotten herself out of locked rooms, luggage that she'd fallen asleep in for too long, and at least one kidnapping situation. She'd learned that Isaiah's mother shutting her in her crate was never a good thing, and that he himself often didn't do it voluntarily. If he was willing when he did it, she would not break out, but he'd been anything but willing today.

Isaiah slumped to the ground with his face in his hands. And so she'd gotten out, and in his nervousness and distraction this morning, he had not locked her exit door. His window too was open. He could feel the draft from here. He was almost certain he'd closed it this morning, but he couldn't be sure of that, if he'd forgotten Pekea's door. And even if he'd just forgotten to latch it, she was strong enough to shove it open on her own.

She'd had free run of the palace during the ball, and he did not know how long ago she'd escaped.

If she had caused trouble, his mother would kill him. But that was not even the worst of it. This was the one night he had not wanted Pekea to get up to mischief. The one marriage-associated event better left alone than spoiled. And she had likely spoiled it anyway. He would not know the extent of the damage until he found it—or her—but with the circumstances of her escape and her cage in this state, its existence was as good as guaranteed. She would have come to find him, assured herself that he was fine, and then taken out her frustrations in the way he admittedly encouraged in most circumstances.

"Pekea, come."

Something rustled in the corner. Isaiah lifted his head, then got up and moved towards the sound's origin. Pekea had fallen silent again. She was hiding from him in the way she did when she had been naughty and was also feeling cantankerous. She stayed motionless as Isaiah encroached on the corner, feeling each hiding spot as he went. His hand brushed warm peach fuzz. Pekea exploded from hiding before he could snatch her. Her claws hit the floor and bolted through the exit hatch he had again forgotten to close. Isaiah was desperately tempted to just go to bed and let her sulk elsewhere. But she often hid like this when she'd stolen something, and if that was the case, he had to find out what before his mother did.

Sliding back the bolt on the door felt like cracking open his safe space, and unleashed a flood of too-fresh memories of the ball all over again. Isaiah put a hand to the wall, too spent to even bother walking without it. At least Pekea had run towards the quieter, more secluded wing of the palace.

Isaiah got to the second bend in the hallway before a mad skittering erupted from an alcove in the wall. Pekea bolted again. She was being vindictive tonight. If she'd actually wanted to escape him, she could simply have climbed the wall and hunkered down in silence until he passed her. Isaiah sank down with his back to the stone and rested his head on his arms. He couldn't do this. If his guide dragon was going to make him chase her out of revenge for dancing with others all night, he was not going to survive that chase without crying, snapping at her, or both. He didn't want either. If the crying started, he wouldn't be able to stop, and Pekea was his only friend in the palace.

"Come home, Pea," he said. His own voice sounded wrecked.

Only the twitch of her claws responded. She was within earshot, at least. Isaiah pushed himself up and returned to his room. Washing up purged the sticky feeling of too many hands from his own, and his nightclothes were a welcome relief after an outfit that had stopped being comfortable an hour after the ball began. He left that outfit on the floor. He'd get in trouble for that if he forgot to clean it up come morning, but he didn't care.

The hinges of Pekea's door squeaked softly. Isaiah pretended not to notice. She was quiet for a time then, until a rustle in the same corner betrayed her location. Isaiah moved to her door and locked it.

"I hope you're happy to have given me trouble tonight," he said.

Pekea shrank down further in her corner. Isaiah approached her again. He was willing to give this one more shot now that she was showing signs of remorse. Sure enough, she did not bolt this time. Isaiah scooped her from her hiding spot and trapped her under his arm, fingers looped through her harness to hold her while he felt around for anything she'd left behind. He found nothing.

Pekea did not try to escape him. She'd burned her anger, and the guilt of having made him chase her was evident in every part of her body language. Isaiah felt her claws. They were gritty from running around the palace, and she had dust on her wings. If his mother saw her like this, it would be evident that she'd made it not just out of the cage, but out of his room as well.

"You just had to do it, didn't you?" he said. The chastisement rang hollow. He was too tired to properly scold a dragon who already felt the challenge her own crimes had dealt him, and this still wasn't entirely on her. They'd both suffered tonight. Pekea did not wriggle or protest as he carted her to his wash-table, unclipped her harness, and dunked her unceremoniously in the washbasin. When she was clean of tangible dust, he dropped her on a towel with an order to roll over. She shook herself, then obeyed.

He should have seen that coming.

At least nothing on his desk right now would suffer from the light rain he heard pepper it. Isaiah moved wearily to clear the notes he'd gotten midway through this morning, scribed with a stylus on thick paper so he could read them again when he ran a finger over the page. He reached for them and froze. His desk was empty.

"Pekea, notes."

She jumped down and bounded across the room. In a moment, she'd collected several scattered papers. Bringing them back was an effort—she kept stepping on the ones she tried to carry—so Isaiah met her and retrieved them himself. She ran off again, leading him to one last paper near the open window.

"Was this you?" he said crossly.

Her trill was indignant. She did not understand most of what he said to her, but his tone of voice had gotten through. She skittered off again. Isaiah was about to call her back when she returned on her own, and thrust something into his hand. It was a crow's feather. She'd retrieved it from somewhere inside.

"Blaming Luva now, are we?"

She shuffled all her claws together with a distinctive sound and hunched on the floor, her equivalent of a scowl. Isaiah straightened up again. The feather could well have been in the room already; it wasn't like he noticed any that blew in whenever he went out to see the crow. But Pekea also didn't tend to blame others after she'd already felt guilty and owned up to her sabotage. Isaiah moved to the window. It was open just enough for either Pekea or a crow to slip through, and he had indeed left it unlatched. It could have been opened from outside. Just what a sick crow would see in that endeavor was beyond him, unless she was seeking a warmer place to nest. Or saw something shiny on his desk, or got mobbed by other crows and came indoors to hide. Understanding the minds of crows was Varna's job.

"Where's Luva?" he said.

Pekea ran to the balcony door and chirped. If she was trying to frame the crow, she wasn't doing a very good job of it.

Isaiah shut and latched the window, then counted the papers. They were all here. Most were about his plans for dealing with the disappearances, but the last had notes on a potential necromantic threat. He'd left it at the bottom of the pile on his desk in case his father stopped by and rifled through his things during the ball. It wouldn't be the first time. His mother was controlling, but his father enabled her, pretending to be kind so Isaiah would disclose his worries, then taking those straight to his mother even if he'd promised otherwise. Better that Luva had messed with these than him.

She might have messed with other things, too, but he would not know until he found them or sent Pekea to, and he was not willing to start that process at close to two in the morning. Isaiah stopped midway through returning the papers to his desk. His door was locked, but he shouldn't take chances. He identified the necromantic notes and rolled that paper up. "Pekea, ribbon?"

Of course she'd pillaged some while out roaming the palace. She brought him a piece, which she parted with reluctantly. Isaiah tied the paper with it. He stashed this scroll at the back of his bedside-table drawer, which was home to his needle-felting supplies and a collection of small, felted birds in varying stages of completion. It was also the only drawer his parents never looked through. It had won that distinction after a drawn-out argument in his teen years, over his propensity to store half-finished projects under his pillow instead. His mother found the shreds of wool on his bedding unsightly. His father told him then that he could keep the hobby so long as he kept it contained and out of sight. The last time either of them had opened this drawer, they'd huffed audibly and shut it again.

That was all he was willing to do tonight.

Isaiah shut the drawer as exhaustion swamped him. He'd had only one win today. Meeting with Niccola tomorrow, if she turned up, was something he actually looked forward to. It was possible this was naive of him. He didn't know what information she carried, and if it had anything to do with the disappearances, he might be more screwed than not. But at the same time, he'd rather talk to her about that topic than almost anyone else except Verde, even if she was Varnic. Especially if she was. At least anger might make her answer honestly, which would already make her more trustworthy than his parents.

Cruel irony.

Isaiah rolled over and dug his way under the covers. He hoped Niccola would come tomorrow. He hoped they could work together on this. He hoped Pekea hadn't stolen anything of importance today, and that if she had, she'd hidden it for only herself to find. If someone returned to the palace to ask after a lost shoe or precious hairclip, it might save him more grief to pretend he knew nothing than to face his mother's wrath. He was willing to lie and say he'd locked Pekea's exit door.

Pekea's feather-boned presence pressed the blankets as she climbed up tentatively onto the bed. Isaiah ignored her. She curled up against his feet with a final chirr that sounded like an apology. Isaiah rubbed her side with a toe to thank her for it. Then he shut off his thoughts about everything except her warmth through the blanket, and just how much better he would feel when he woke up tomorrow.