Jess’s rejection. It had been in Jess’s townhome in the Valorian capital. Fawn-colored curtains. Kestrel couldn’t remember all the exact words, but she knew now why the friendship had broken. She heard herself quietly saying the very things that Jess would never forgive, saw her former self choosing against her own people, her friends, her father.

He has done this to you, Jess had accused.

No one has made me change.

But you have.

Kestrel turned onto her other side. Arin had been in the queen’s city then. She knew that now.

She sat up, flung the sheet aside.

It was not natural. It wasn’t possible that she’d given up so much. And for what?

She was ready to believe in enchantments. How else could it be that her body still felt the pull of Arin, seemed to remember him all too clearly when her mind didn’t, and sent her to his empty bed, sealed her between his sheets, made her care where he went and what he risked and what he did and with whom?

She reached for her set of keys.

Chapter 17

She went swiftly through the dark house, her feet bare and noiseless on the tiles, the carpet, the steps. Up one flight, hand skimming the balustrade. At the landing, her palm spun around the newel. She went left. She knew Arin’s home well.

Knew it now, knew it then. She felt time layer. The present slipped over the past.

She’d never taken this path before. But she’d thought about it.

She flipped through the keys, found the right one, set it into the outermost door of Arin’s suite, and opened it.

She stepped into white light. It startled her, seemed hallucinatory, impossible, as if she’d dropped into a silver pond. But then she glanced up and saw a skylight above the entry way. The moon hung low and large. Though the oil lamp sconces were unlit, the hallway was almost as bright as day. At the other end of it: darkness.

A brief clinking sound came from the recesses of the suite.

She drew closer to the shadowed end of the hallway, passed through a dark receiving room. She barked her thigh against a console table and swore under her breath.

Another hallway, a turn. Then . . . a soft glow. A lamp.

A liquid sound. A muffled thump. Glass on wood?

She stepped into the lamplit room.

Arin looked up from where he sat. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. He stared.

She flushed, realizing that she’d forgotten to throw a robe over her thin nightdress.

Or had she forgotten? Had she not decided in some way too quick for thought that this was exactly what she’d wanted? She glanced down at the shift’s hem, which hit just below the knees. The cloth was as sheer as melted butter. Her flush deepened. She saw the expression on Arin’s face.

He glanced away. “Gods,” he said, and drank.

“Exactly.”

That brought his gaze back. He swallowed, winced, and said, “It’s possible that I’ve lost any claim to coherent thought, but I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Those gods of yours.”

His dark brows were lifted. His eyes had grown round. The glass in his hand was a tumbler, the liquid a thumb’s width high and deep green. It looked like the blood of leaves. He cleared his throat. Hoarsely, he said, “Yes?”

“Did you pray to them?”

“Kestrel, I am praying to them right now. Very hard, in fact.”

She shook her head. “Did you pray to your”—she rummaged through her memory—“god of souls?” She was ready to believe in a supernatural reason. It would explain his power over her.

He coughed, then gave a short, rasping laugh. “That god doesn’t listen to me.” He set the tumbler next to the carafe on the table. He paused, thinking. In a new, slow tone, he said, “Except perhaps now.” He dropped his cheek into an open palm and rubbed fingers into one closed eye. He nodded at the chair across the table from him. “Would you like to sit?”

Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to get closer to him. Her pulse had gone erratic. “I’m fine here.”

“I’d really rather.”

“If I make you uncomfortable, why don’t you leave?”

He laughed again. “Ah, no. No, thank you. Here.” He slid the glass across the table. The remaining liquid sloshed but didn’t spill. When she sat, curious (what would the blood of leaves taste like?), he said, “You might want to try only a bit first.”

“That’s not wine.”

“It decidedly is not.”

“What is it?”

“An eastern liquor. Roshar gave it to me. He said that if you drink enough of it, the dregs start to taste like sugar. I suspect a prank.”