Royce was finding it hard to breathe.

  Probably because all those blasted peacocks have filled the place with smoke.

  Hadrian had left with the professor, and Albert was off doing who knows what, leaving him trapped alone with Gwen.

  This is so, so bad.

  All he wanted was for Gwen to enjoy herself, but he knew she wouldn’t be able to if she thought he?—?or anyone?—?was unhappy. The woman was odd that way, but it was a nice odd. Thinking about it, if he had to pick a freakishly peculiar character flaw, this was about the best he could hope for.

  At least she wasn’t making the mistake Hadrian always did by trying to cheer him up. Gwen was respectful. She knew enough to leave him be.

  Or is she just frightened of me? Is she sitting there right now absolutely terrified because she’s alone with a murderer?

  It seemed logical, but as Hadrian had reminded him, “She’s always known who you are. By Mar, Royce, she lives in the Lower Quarter, a place that you decorated with the blood of Raynor Grue! Believe me, she knows.”

  Royce’s plan had been a simple one. He would stay, so as not to give the impression he was angry or upset with Gwen, but he’d remain silent and still, so he couldn’t say or do anything to upset her.

  No abrupt moves, no misunderstood comments.

  His plan should have worked, except everyone else had abandoned him. Now, it was impossible to go; he couldn’t leave her unprotected. And because there was just the two of them, he couldn’t sit in silence any longer. He had to say something, but he’d had too much wine. His silence wasn’t a problem earlier because chatterbox Hadrian Blackwater could fill any void with an endless stream of useless babble. Royce could hide behind all that blathering. But now . . . he was alone, exposed, and he had to hold a delicate conversation where each word must be vetted and cross-checked, and of course, the wine hobbled him. He needed something to break the ice, something pleasant, fascinating, and perhaps even witty.

  “Like your meal?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s very different. Have you tried the Flame Broiled Sea Monster?”

  “No, and I’m not going to.” His tone was harsh.

  That wasn’t good. I sound angry, but that’s because I am. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? Most people resent being trapped. And that’s exactly what happened. Arcadius isn’t sick?—?not physically. The bastard left me on purpose. They all did.

  Royce glared at the empty seats.

  Atyn returned with a wide smile. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together with relish. “Are you ready for your frozen magpies, or shall we wait for the others to return?”

  “Get away from us while you still can,” Royce snapped.

  Gwen gasped. “Royce!”

  “Ah . . . I’ll hold off on the pies then,” Atyn said and promptly moved away.

  Royce saw the shocked look on Gwen’s face. He was only vaguely aware that the band was loudly playing, and a hundred different conversations were roaring all around them. As far as he was concerned, the room was utterly quiet. And in the empty space created by that choked silence, stress and tension flooded in.

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” Gwen said, her voice the whisper of a butterfly. “I know you don’t want me here. And I’m sorry I ruined this trip for you.”

  Gwen stood up.

  So did Royce.

  She was crying. Her face was away from him, but her body hitched, and he could hear the muffled sobs.

  So much for making her happy.

  Gwen started to dart away but halted abruptly as if something had grabbed her. It took a wine-soaked second for Royce to realize that something was him. He had a hold of her wrist. “I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you think,” he told her. “I would never do that, Gwen.”

  When she turned back, he saw the tears running freely down her cheeks, leaving ugly dark lines. “I know that, but?—”

  “I’d kill anyone who did, I swear it.”

  “I know, but?—”

  “Hundreds if necessary.”

  “Yes, but?—”

  “A whole city if?—”

  “I understand, Royce.”

  Remembering he was still holding on, he let go of her wrist.

  I shouldn’t have grabbed her. Doing so is frightening. What could be worse than being grabbed and held by a ruthless killer? What was I thinking? She’ll run now.

  Royce would have to let her go.

  Fish and birds. She knows it; I do, too.

  He would never see Gwen again. Or worse, he would, but she would be married to Dixon. They would have children. Of course they would; why wouldn’t they? When Royce visited, she would smile and welcome him as always, as if nothing had changed, but he wouldn’t talk to her?—?not really. He couldn’t. It would be too awkward, too painful, and Dixon wouldn’t like it. He’d never see her again, never hear her voice, never . . .

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he told her.

  A heartbeat passed, and then another. Gwen didn’t run. She continued to look at him, stared at his face as if this was the first time she’d ever seen it.

  “Royce?” Gwen took a step toward him. Slowly, gently, she reached up and drew back his hood. “Royce . . . you’re crying.”

  “You don’t actually need to walk me all the way back to the rolkin, Hadrian,” Arcadius told him.

  “No?” The two stood outside on the steps of the Parrot, the sound of the music dulled behind the closed doors. It felt nice to be out of the turmoil, like coming to the surface and taking a breath. “Feeling better already, are you?”

  The professor winked. “I just wanted Royce to have some time alone with Miss DeLancy.”

  “I had a feeling,” Hadrian said.

  Night had arrived, and with it came a different world. Cooler by far, it was pleasant to stand on the warm stones, feeling the breeze and breathing the salt air that blew up from the harbor and smelled vaguely of fish. Shouts and laughter came out of the dark, and the donkey wagons and carriages continued to clip-clop along the streets. Far more people wandered the city than in daylight. The hordes of turists moved in small groups the way foreigners do when exploring a new place. The northern well-to-do, dressed in their heavy finery, no longer seemed foolish now that the sun had stopped its baking for the day. Some, those speaking louder than necessary, were inexperienced drinkers. One dignified fellow in a long coat and broad-brimmed hat who was momentarily lost in a fit of laughter walked right into a lamppost. He fell on his backside, nearly taking down the elegantly gowned woman beside him.

  “She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?” Arcadius said.

  For an instant, Hadrian thought the professor meant the woman on the arm of the collapsed drunk, whom he suspected might very well have been a duchess from the cold and colorless realm.

  Seeing the confusion, Arcadius added, “Gwen, I mean.”

  “Oh. Yes. Very.”

  “And she likes him.”

  “It certainly seems so.”

  “And he likes her.” ?This wasn’t a question, but a statement of unbelievable fact that Arcadius followed with a shake of his head. “While I certainly had my hopes, I harbored doubts that Royce Melborn could ever manage to muster enough sentiment to show affection for so much as a floppy-eared puppy.”

  “He hates dogs.”

  “Does he now?” Arcadius arched his brows while shifting his lips. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit. That Royce has developed a fondness for a human being, however, that’s a shocker. And yet it seems he has.” Arcadius moved down the street and off to the side to avoid door traffic, and there, he took a seat on the step. “I must admit that I wasn’t pleased when I heard about the goings-on in Medford a few years ago?—?with the fire and all.”

  “We had nothing to do with that,” Hadrian was quick to assert as he took a seat beside the professor. The two, shoulder to shoulder, looked out on the lights that trimmed the tiers rising behind the nearby buildings.

  Arcadius stared at him for a moment with judgmental eyes. “And Lord Exeter?”

  Hadrian frowned. Wasn’t much he could say in defense of that.

  “You didn’t play a part, did you?” Arcadius continued.

  Hadrian shook his head.

  “Good. But it still shows Royce hasn’t changed.”

  “He has. Royce hasn’t murdered anyone in the last two years.”

  “I suspect that’s only because you stood in the way. Prevention isn’t the same as real change.”

  “But I think he has, a little, at least.”

  Arcadius sighed. “Just recently, he took a job to murder an innocent woman.”

  “She wasn’t innocent, and he didn’t do it.”

  “Only because she paid him more.” The professor took off his glasses and began wiping. “I had so hoped that just being around you would help Royce find his moral compass, but it has been four years, and he still appears as lost as ever.” He looked back at the entrance to the Parrot. “But . . . perhaps she can help. A woman can do wonders for a wayward man. Should have thought of it sooner, but given the trouble I had putting the two of you together, I could never take that chance with something as delicate as a young lady.”

  “I think you’ll find Gwen is far from fragile,” Hadrian said. “The woman has faced more than her fair share of hardships and demons.”

  “You know, I’m getting that impression, which is good, considering who we’re talking about. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Hadrian recalled the first year he’d worked with Royce, which he’d often described as similar to trying to tame a feral, knife-wielding wolverine, and nodded. “You were right about us, though. We make a pretty good team.”

  “I know,” Arcadius said, and he looked back at the Parrot. “And I’m right about them, too. So, you go back inside and enjoy yourself but do me?—?and them?—?a favor. Take your time returning to the table. The furnace is just about the right temperature for the forming of another bond. They merely need a bit of time.” He looked up at the front of the danthum. “And I couldn’t have asked for a better forge.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Returning inside the Parrot, Hadrian was greeted by the spirited and rollicking sound of blaring trumpets, which had been included with the other instruments. He’d only ever heard trumpets on the field of battle or used as fanfares for dignitaries. This was not that. These horns were blasting out a bouncy rhythm along with the big kettle drums as a heavyset man in a vibrant yellow shirt sang on stage and somehow managed to still be heard. The song was intentionally silly, claiming that the singer was sad and lonely while the music was nothing of the sort.

  Waiters were still weaving between tables, delivering plates, but several of the seats were now empty as people danced in front of the stage. Among the gentry of Avryn, dancing was a formal affair where men and women faced off in lines and performed strict pass-through maneuvers designed to maintain distance, decorum, and decency. It took training and practice, and partners?—?who switched often?—?rarely touched more than hands. Smiling was considered lewd, and if they had any fun at all, they didn’t show it.

  In the small country villages like the one Hadrian grew up in, they danced carols or rounds where men, women, and children held hands in a circle and did simple side steps and sweeps with their legs. In the taverns, they danced jigs and reels, in a sort of informal hopping stomp where folks kicked up their heels in brazen and shameless ways. Most often men danced alone, but if women joined in, they kept their distance.

  What transpired in the Parrot was the sort of wild capering and close-quarter cavorting only seen in the east, where cultures and customs were distinctly different. Few, if any, northern turists were on the floor. They remained aghast in their seats, pointing and gawking wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Most of those stomping and twirling were locals or Calians, though Hadrian noticed that the entire table of sailors were out there. Those fortunate enough to find women danced with them; the rest made do with each other.

  Royce and Gwen were still at the table. The two were sitting close and talking, which Hadrian took as a good sign. Royce’s hood was down, which was even better. Something was clearly transpiring between the two, and Hadrian followed the professor’s suggestion. Instead of returning, he wandered toward the gorilla side, where every stool was taken.

  “Hadrian!” Albert waved at him. The viscount had a seat just left of center. Next to him was a beautiful woman in a bare-shouldered, front-plunging green evening dress who sat primly stiff. “Estelle, this is my good friend Hadrian; Hadrian, this is the Countess Ridell of Warric.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir.” She spoke with the formal disregard common to noble ladies, a tone that let you know they were better than you. “From which house do you hail?”

  “Excuse me?” Hadrian asked.

  “He’s not noble, dear,” Albert told her.

  “No?” she asked, then took a second look at Hadrian and relief filled her face. “Oh, thank the gods!” The countess slouched in her seat and crossed her knees, exposing an elegant calf as she grabbed up her drink and took a mouthful of something clear garnished with a slice of orange. “I come down here to get away from all that ego-bloated, politically infused bosh, and all those titled men with their lances jammed up their blue-blooded buttocks. I certainly didn’t feel like putting the cloak of decency on again. I’m on holiday, by Mar!” She said this last bit as if the god of man could hear her.

  “No worries here,” Albert assured her. “Neither Hadrian nor I amount to anything at all. We’re a couple of absolute louts.”

  “Wonderful!” Estelle grinned and raised her glass. “A toast to louts and knuckleheaded hooligans!”

  “Hold on, my dear!” Albert stopped her.

  “Why? You have something against degenerate ne’er-do-wells?”

  “Of course not. I’m president of the Medford chapter where I serve with distinction. But poor Hadrian here is unarmed.”

  She looked him over again, then gasped. “Where in Elan is your drink, you poor fellow?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “Don’t have one.”

  “That’s taking the whole ne’er-do-well thing a bit too far, don’t you think? Get a weapon, my good man. This is war! We must band together to slay the foul wretch that threatens the world or die trying.”

  “Which wretch is that, Estelle?” Albert asked.

  “Respectability, of course. He and his henchmen: Priggishness and Gentility and their sidekicks: Manner and Decorum. I particularly hate Decorum?—?such a bore.” She swept her naked arm at the array of exotic-looking bottles behind the bar where shelves were lined with various liquors. In addition to the typical whiskeys and rums, they also offered the Calian spirit, Hohura: a Ba Ran Ghazel liquor that came in a dark wooden jug held fast by iron straps and a chain-linked cork.

  “Have any beer?” Hadrian asked the man behind the counter who sported a thin mustache, slicked-back hair, and a damp towel over one shoulder of his blue jacket.

  “Jareb, give the man a Regal Ale,” an older gentleman on the other side of Albert told the bartender.

  “Hadrian, this is Calvary Graxton, otherwise known as Mister Parrot.” Albert swirled a finger in the air. “He owns the place.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Graxton was a plump man with a graying beard and long hair that he tied in a ponytail. He wore the same blue as the help, but his was a long formal coat with large gold buttons that he wore over a gold-colored waistcoat that made him look a bit like a macaw.

  Mister Parrot, Hadrian mused.

  “Nice manners for a roughneck,” Mister Parrot said with a smile. “Jareb, put it on the house.”

  “Not necessary, Cal,” Albert told him. “I’m on retainer this trip. All expenses paid.”

  “By whom?”

  “Lord Byron.”

  Mister Parrot grinned. “Outstanding! In that case, Jareb, bring us all double shots of ?Terrible Typhons and put it on Winslow’s tab.” He leaned over toward Albert. “I get it from the pirates of Vandon. Who knows where they get it from. It’s a ridiculously expensive liquor?—?but smooth as dwarf-polished stone and rich as Cornelius DeLur. Besides, old Byron will explode after discovering he subsidized the very contraband he’s tasked with prohibiting.” He clapped Albert on the back hard enough to rock him.

  “Is that three glasses or four, sir?” Jareb asked, deftly holding up three cordial glasses and motioning at the countess with a fourth.

  Estelle glared at Mister Parrot so viciously that if they had both been men, Hadrian would have expected a brawl to break out. “Careful how you answer, Calvary.” She clacked her nails on the counter of the bar. “You wouldn’t want to shatter a girl’s innocence by saying something awful. You see, I’ve always liked parrots.”

  “Most pit vipers do,” he replied. “But fortunately for both of us, I’m not the one paying.” Mister Parrot grabbed Albert by the back of the neck and shook him. “What say you, Lord Winslow? Are you the sort to contribute to the delinquency of a countess? Does the wench get a sip?”

  “Is this illegal liquor strong?” Albert asked.

  “Very.”

  “Then by all means, serve the lady. I’ll need all the help I can get tonight.”

  “Thank you, your lordship.” Estelle batted her eyes. “Though you should be aware that absolutely no assistance will be necessary. Although . . .?” She looked at Hadrian, and not so much at his face. “Hopefully, this one isn’t very happily married or if he is, he doesn’t have the morals of a paladin. If so, you may have competition.” ?Then she smiled most wickedly. “Or better yet?—?company.”

  “And this is the lady you’re concerned I might corrupt,” Albert told Calvary.

  The typhons were handed out. The cordial glasses were like tiny wineglasses and filled so high that the dark amber liquid spilled and drizzled down the sides like thin syrup.

  “To our benefactor, Lord Byron,” Estelle declared, holding her glass aloft with two delicate fingers. “May he one day learn that smiling is not a sin, and that laughter is actually good for the soul.”

  They all drank, swallowing the contents of the glasses in one go.

  Having once sampled authentic Hohura boiled fresh in the jungle by a pair of Ba Ran Ghazel and served in bleached-white human skulls, Hadrian braced himself for the impact of this mysterious drink. The liquor warmed all the way down with a nutty, smoky, creamy flavor and left a sort of cherry aftertaste. Unlike Hohura, which made him seriously consider cutting his tongue out, the Terrible Typhon was a palate pleaser and didn’t burn any more than a dessert wine.

  The blaring, horn-led music stopped, and most of the dancers left the stage. This caught Mister Parrot’s attention. “Jesse! Dex!” he called to his workers. “She’s up next. Blow out the chandeliers and turn down the lanterns. Just leave the one big bull’s-eye on the stage.”

  The word was passed, and all around the hall, men in blue jackets raced to lower the big chandeliers and extinguish their candles. Others turned down the wicks in the various lanterns around the hall.

  “What’s this all about?” Albert asked.

  “A new girl. A singer. Andre sent her over.” Mister Parrot explained.

  The room darkened until the only lights were the little candles on each table that flickered like tiny stars. The stage itself was black. Conversations hushed in anticipation, then everyone heard footsteps on the stage and a man in a scarlet robe and royal blue cape stepped into the single beam of light thrown by a huge bull’s-eye lantern.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he addressed the crowd in a loud voice.

  “That’s Andre,” Mister Parrot whispered to Albert. “Her handler.”

  “Tonight, I introduce to you a new talent. She’s a bit shy, so extend the courtesy of your attention, and please welcome the magnificent Millificent LeDeye.”

  A few clapped, but not many, as Andre disappeared into the shadows. A moment or two later, a young woman emerged into the light. Dark hair, pale skin, red lips, wearing a long, tight-fitting black gown, she was breathtaking.

  She began to sing, and her voice was clear as rainwater, but quiet as a whisper. So soft and delicate, that Hadrian had no idea how it carried across the room. All the previous acts were loud, bombastic performances with singers that shouted more than sang. They had to in order to be heard over the raucous din. Even the Calian duo had belted out their lyrics. But Millificent LeDeye whispered to the audience in a wickedly seductive voice that, by its intimacy, demanded attention. The hall gave it, and the room was silent. She sang,

  “Here we sit together in the dark, just you and I.

  Two lonely people out for a lark, but too afraid to try.”

  Hadrian thought she looked directly at him. Soft strings began to play, filling the gaps, flooding the shadows with an emotional, heart-swelling buoyancy.

  “I want you; I do.

  And you know it, too.”

  Soft drums slid in under the strings as Millificent LeDeye’s voice rose in octaves and volume to a sustained heartfelt cry.

  “Please lie if you must, but don’t let me go.

  Hold me tonight, after the show.

  I’ll be there. I will.

  If you want me still.

  Together, we two in the dark.”

  The music grew and the song went on until Hadrian could genuinely believe that he and she were the only two in the room, and her words were a message specifically for him. Then he saw shadows. Patrons were on the floor again, only this time they did not stomp, or twirl, or hop. Embracing couples were swaying, barely visible in the candlelight.

  Just then, Hadrian noticed his table was empty. Royce and Gwen were missing. The thought that followed was so absurd, it made him laugh.

  In the confidential security of the dark, Gwen had drawn Royce to the dance floor.

  “My mother taught me,” she explained in a whisper. “It’s easy. You’ll like it. Just put your arms around my waist.”

  Royce didn’t even hesitate. The thought never crossed his mind, but then most of his mind had been left back at the table in the bottom of an empty bottle of Montemorcey. There were people all around, but in the dark, they were easily ignored?—?just a bunch of shadows. And the music was so?—?personal.

  “Two lonely people out for a lark, but too afraid to try.”

  The voice fluttered down from the stage, but it seemed to Royce that he heard Gwen: her words or perhaps her very thoughts whispered in his ears. It couldn’t be. Not because it was impossible to hear thoughts or that Gwen’s lips weren’t moving, but on account of the world had never been so wonderful?—?not to him.

  He considered that it must be a dream, but once more this explanation suffered from flaws, not the least of which was that?—?as he had so recently pointed out to Hadrian?—?he never had nice ones.

  Unbelievably, his arms were around Gwen’s waist, one hand on the small of her back, the other on a hip. Beneath his palms, these two parts shifted independently, rocking in time with the slow seductive rhythm of the song. She pulled him close. His body and cheek brushed against hers. She was warm and soft. Royce could smell tamarisk in her hair, and roses on her skin, and he felt each breath swelling her chest, and every exhale wafted warmly across his neck. He had no idea what to do, how to move, where to place his hands, what to say or even if he should speak at all. Oddly, he didn’t care. Thinking was a product of the mind, and Royce no longer had his. He was drunk and knew it. Royce was also vaguely aware that he shouldn’t be, not with Gwen. In all the world, she was the only person whose opinion mattered.

  He ought to leave before making a fool of himself. He should play it safe and slink away. In the dark, it would be easy. He could apologize tomorrow. But the way her body moved beneath his hands, the feel of her hot breath on his neck, and the fact that his mind was waaaay back at the table trapped by a cork, made it easy, even sensible, to be reckless.

  He pulled her closer, pressing their bodies tight until he could feel her heartbeat. His cheek pressed firmly against hers. He waited for a response, held his breath until her arms mimicked his, locking tighter around his neck.

  Neither said a word. They didn’t need to; the song spoke for them.

  “I want you; I do.

  And you know it, too.”

  All of it was so unreal, like loving families, promises kept, happy endings, tranquility, and contentment?—?myths and fairy tales all. That’s how he knew it to be a hallucination. He’d never had one from drinking, but that night he’d had quite a bit and on an empty stomach.

  “Please lie if you must, but don’t let me go.”

  If this wasn’t real, then nothing he did mattered. And if nothing he did mattered . . .

  “It’s easy,” Hadrian had said. “Not complicated at all. You really only have two options. You can express yourself?—?you know, tell her how you feel.”

  Royce tried to think of what to say, but that was impossible because, again, his mind was trapped in a bottle.

  "So, go the other way."

  Royce turned his head, pulled back slowly and felt the incredible softness of Gwen’s cheek against his. As he did, he moved his hand, which had been on her back, up to the nape of her neck. His splayed fingers slipped into her hair. He tilted Gwen’s head gently to one side.

  “I’ll be there. I will.

  If you want me still.”

  His lips found hers and were welcomed with a trembling that ended as the two moved as one, rocking slowly among the shadows, intertwined within the music.

  “Together, we two in the dark.”