* * *

Kestrel dragged the harbormaster’s unconscious body. Her arms burned, her bad knee screamed in protest, but Kestrel dug her heels into the rocks and pulled until the man was hidden behind the house where the shadows were darkest. Then, her breath sharp and thin in her throat, she stepped inside, locked the door, and went to the ledger open on the man’s desk.

She flipped back to entries from earlier that winter. She found the Senate leader’s ship—the Maris.

Point of origin: the southern isles. Goods: none.

Kestrel let go of the page. It sighed down.

She’d been wrong to suspect that the Senate leader had traveled to Herran instead of the isles. Here was the proof of it.

What else might she have gotten wrong? Her pulse sped with fear of herself, fear of her choices, her certainty. Kestrel’s heartbeats flew, one right against the other, like flipped pages of a book.

Were all her lies to Arin worth it, if she couldn’t see the truth? Kestrel had thought she’d known what was best for Arin. Perhaps her greatest lies were the ones she’d told to herself.

But then …

Kestrel paged again through the ledger.

What if the Senate leader had lied to the harbormaster? What if the harbormaster had lied to his book?

She found the latest entries. The Maris was docked in the harbor now. The ledger listed the number of its pier.

Kestrel left the book open on the desk exactly as it had been. She riffled through desk drawers until she found a purse filled with silver. She pocketed it, pulled out the drawer, and dumped it and its contents on the floor.

Did you hear that the harbormaster was attacked? she imagined city guards saying. A case of petty thievery.

Kestrel left the house and headed for the piers.

* * *

“You understand,” the bookkeeper said as she tucked the emerald away, “that you can’t make any bets after you look in my book. Not with me, not ever.” She sat more seriously now, all business, the four legs of the chair firmly on the floor. She pulled a slim book from her inner jacket pocket. “Got something in particular you’d like to see?”

“Show me the entries about the wedding.”

The bookkeeper raised one brow, which made Arin wonder if she knew who he was. She found the list and held the book out to Arin, her thumb wedged in its open seam.

These bets concerned the wedding night. They went into great detail. The wagers showed a breadth of curiosity and imagination that made Arin wish he’d never looked.

“Not that,” he said. “That’s not what I meant. I want to see bets about the dress.”

Both of the bookkeeper’s brows were arched now, this time in disdainful boredom. She turned a few pages and offered the book again.

Arin saw the Senate leader’s bet. It was in the middle of several entries that concerned the dress. Others had guessed the same color the Senate leader had wagered on—red—but no one else had bet on the number of buttons, the neckline, the length of the train, the style of the scabbard …

Arin examined the pages again. He’d been mistaken about something. He’d gone through the dress wagers too quickly before, racing to find the Senate leader’s name and to escape the memory of the first set of bets he’d seen. He saw now that the Senate leader wasn’t the only one to have gone into careful detail about the wedding dress. Another person had bet in the exact same way, and more recently.

Arin tapped the name. “Who’s that?”

The bookkeeper peered. “A palace engineer. She works on water. Aqueducts. Canals. That sort of thing.”

Arin closed the book and handed it back.

“That’s it?” she said.

“Yes.” He added, “If you want a tip, that bet’s the correct one.”

The bookkeeper drew up her boot so that it was planted on the seat of her chair as she sat, one leg dangling down, the other bent into the perfect position for her to prop an elbow on the knee, drop her chin onto her fist, and look up at Arin. “I think you’ve overpaid me. How about I give you something extra before you go?”

* * *

Sailors strolled the wharf. Kestrel hung back, chafing her arms for warmth. Waves slapped the sides of large merchant ships docked at piers that reached out into the black, glassy sea.

She kept her eyes on one ship in particular. She saw several sailors from the Maris clatter down its pier, ready for shore leave, but she let them go.

Then Kestrel spied the perfect target. He walked alone, cheeks ruddy from the cold and drink. His merry steps wavered a little. He was humming.

“Sailor,” she called as he passed, “care for a game of cards?”

He stopped. He came close, and Kestrel could see that he wasn’t drunk after all. His eyes were alert, his expression a mix of friendly and sly. The sailor reached into his coat pocket for a pipe, and the slow, deliberate way he packed it told Kestrel that he wouldn’t be an easy opponent.

She would enjoy the game all the more.

“Well?” she said. “Will you play?”

He gave her an appreciative grin. “Absolutely.”

They stepped off the promenade and onto the rocky beach, where they found a few wooden crates dragged together. There were signs of an earlier, abandoned game: an empty bottle of wine and scattered tobacco ash.

Kestrel sat. “I trust you have a deck.”

“A sailor always does.” He joined her. He lit his pipe, sucked until the tobacco crisped and glowed, and reached for his purse.