I keep my head down as I enter Courtier's Circle. I am technically allowed here if delivering a message, but I prefer to stay unnoticed, and I'm sure Aster prefers his spies that way as well. My heart thrums as I twist through the corridors. The few Ladies I pass notice me no more than they'd notice a shadow, but I still breathe easier as I turn onto his hall and knock.

When he answers, I slip inside. "Guess who has good news."

He raises an eyebrow. "Hopefully you, or else I'm left in a doubly bad position."

I slip the notebook from my pocket, hoping a find like this will lighten the shadows over his eyes. Lowering my voice, I read the letter in my best impression of Lady Riletta. "My dear friend Irrianet. You asked me to keep you abreast of any news among the High Ladies, which I am most obliged to do. Well, today I overheard something quite interesting! Aselle has great plans for the next Auditorium meeting, a chance to promote some real action that might finally end this terrible siege once and for all. Some of the Ladies worry, of course, that Prince Reyan will be unhappy with the proposal, but Aselle had such the clever solution! To quiet any outbursts he might have, she plans to ask him when, exactly, the reinforcements to end this dreadful thing will be arriving. There's no way for him to know, of course, which is exactly why we need to take action now and save ourselves! Especially after such the poor showing from the soldiers the other day. Not having an answer is sure to keep him quiet and give us plenty of time to propose and vote on our ideas. Please bear all this in mind as you help to aid our cause to end this dreadful war.

"With many thanks and thoughts sent your way, your humble servant of Jacqueline, High Lady Riletta Mesant S'Larsinn S'Maeliana of Maeleaux." I finish with an exaggerated curtsy.

His fingers steeple against his face. "Did she dictate that to you? How did you get all of it?"

I shrug. "She didn't fold the note." Most Ladies write in a swirling hand where words blend into one another and use folds that are as convoluted as their message is. Riletta, though, seems to think a seal was enough to conceal her tiny, neat handwriting.

"Well, better luck for us then. Thank you. I'll need to tell Reyan." He slumps into his armchair, and when he speaks again, his voice is musing. "'There's no way for him to know, of course...' No, we wouldn't know. They're the ones that are supposed to be calling their armies here." He scowls.

"But they have called for them?"

He leans on his elbows. "Some of them have. No one will be coming from Tiaeren, of course, but—" He bites his bottom lip. "Aselle, at least, is holding out so her army might be the strongest after the war." His hand fists. "The official story, of course, is fear of the Kadranians sweeping south, but if that were true, then I think she's smart enough to have sent assistance to the Tiaerens before the Kadranians got past the border." Bitterness laces his voice.

"What does her army matter if the castle falls?"

He meets my eyes, frustration buried in his. "Almost nothing. That's why her meddling politics is going to k—" He breaks eye contact and sets his circlet on the tea table. "Never mind." He stands up. "Since we know this, though, we won't be caught off guard when they ask. Maybe—" He turns and paces. "Maybe we can even turn it back around on them."

As he muses, my heart sinks. The burden to save his people from the threat at their gate is heavy enough; he shouldn't have to worry about saving them from themselves as well.

Aster steps forward and takes my shoulders, his fingers warm through my sleeves. Surprised, I look up at his wide and serious eyes.

"They can't know that I know about this, alright? I know you're not a gossip—that's not my point. But don't mention anything to Illesiarr, don't say anything to any other friends you've made, not even that you've stumbled on some good luck. Please."

His desperation startles me, and I nod. "Of course, Aster. Of course."

* * *

It's warmer in the little living room above the infirmary than it is in my bedroom. The chimney runs up through the left wall, and between the heat leaking through it and the open apartment door, it's almost cozy. I sit on a loveseat, a blanket draped across my lap as I redact my notes. I can't bear to tear the pages out, and ink is too precious to waste, but a little bit of water applied with an infirmary swab blurs the letters until they're indistinguishable. When the paper dries, it'll be crinkled, but hopefully usable again.

I've just started on the first lines of Riletta's message when a boy's voice drifts up the stairs. "Leavi?"

Brow furrowed, I set the notebook aside, toss off my blanket, and hurry to the door. Down the stairs, a handful of patients still fill the infirmary proper. There are fewer here now than there were just three days ago, and a gut-dropping feeling tells me I don't want to ask why. Illesiarr and Elénna must be working in the sick bays on either side.

In the middle of the room, turning to face me, is a man with roguish black hair and the build of a farm boy. "Jacin. What are you doing here?"

He takes the steps two at a time. Illesiarr comes out of the sick bay as he reaches the top, and the old man's eyes catch mine, brow quirking up. Not knowing how to answer his unasked question, I step farther back into the living room, and Jacin follows me in.

"What are you doing here?" I ask again, more quietly.

"My clothes arrived yesterday." He matches my hushed tone. "I wanted to thank you."

"Oh." We're crowded right at the entrance, and I retreat to my loveseat. "It was the least I could do."

"Still." Jacin sits beside me. "Thank you."

We converse quietly for a minute, just small talk. He asks me about my job, and I skip over the tension and fear to tell him the normal things—taking notes for Ladies I'm invisible to, wearing shoes too dense to be comfortable, getting lost in the labyrinthine corridors my first day. For a moment, I almost feel like a regular person again, back in Erreliah, joking, complaining about the little things that don't matter.

"You know, we really should talk more often." His calloused fingers settle lightly over mine.

Instead of butterflies in my stomach, ants crawl under my skin. My hand slips away, onto my leg. "Yeah," I say, but the word is noncommittal, flat.

"Are you usually here at this time? I could come again then." He smiles, and I feel like I should be charmed. Aster's grin—genuine, open, one corner quirked up slightly more than the other—flashes in my mind.

I blink, my racing thoughts trying to come back to the present. "Yes, but um, Illesiarr probably wouldn't..." My hand spins circles in the air as though it can pick up the conversation where my mouth left off.

He twists so he's facing me more, arm slung over the back of the loveseat. "We could meet in my room. Split dinner." He winks, and I laugh, imagining halving the meager portions I've seen maids passing out. "So, how about it? It's a date?"

His demeanor is light and easy, sweet even, but the ants under my skin won't still, and I settle back into the far corner of the seat. "I don't know. I stay..." My hand talks in the air again. "Pretty busy during the day, and then I'm tired when I come home, and..."

He leans forward, face drawn in thoughtful compassion.

Fake.

I don't know where the thought comes from—a childhood of people watching, all my mother's mentaliti lectures, an instinct honed from time among strangers—but it settles like a gravestone in my mind. "I can't," I tell him. "I just can't, Jacin."

He slides closer, and I fight the urge to spring onto the arm of the seat. "Why not? It's just dinner."

But it's not. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll sweep another girl off her feet, but it's not—"

"I don't have eyes on another girl." His voice softens, and his lightning blue gaze looks into mine with the intensity of rumbling thunder. "I only have eyes for you."

His hand comes to caress my cheek, but I duck it.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt—"

I push out of the seat. "I'm sorry, Jacin—"

He stands, eyes dark. "What, is this about your prince?"

"What?"

"Your little Morineause snob, Aster. Is he—"

"Maed Riveaux!" Illesiarr calls. "Can you come down here a moment?"

"I'm sorry, Jacin," I say again, hurrying out from under his towering frame and down the stairs. For the first time in days, I prefer the atmosphere down here.