“If we owe no explanation of the gifts to the Qin, I don’t see why I owe an explanation to us either.”

“We should know! I should’ve known!”

“Why?”

“So I could…you know why! I have secrets, my father has secrets. I thought they were safe!”

I crumpled to the floor. I was a gangly pile of jutting limbs. “That is why I want to keep it to myself. People know, and they won’t let themselves get close. People know, and all they can think about are their secrets, the things they wouldn’t want me to find out, and then I’ll find them out, and all that’s left is distance. Shayat, I don’t know anything about you or Parvi that you haven’t told me. I swear. I don’t want to know anything about you that you haven’t told me.”

“That’s not true! You read me on the street!”

“It just happened! What, your gifts have never slipped out?”

She sighed. She made uninterpretable gestures with her hand. She sighed again. “You are maddening.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Every time I think I understand you, you pull the rug out from underneath me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She sighed again. “Well, at least you’re not boring. You’re serious about getting training?”

“I am.”

“Good,” she said. “Good. Your secret’s safe with me. I hope mine are safe with you.”

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Dirva and Nisa were ready to marry the second we drank the wine. The only thing that stood in the way was logistics. A razehm willing to officiate an elvish wedding needed to be found and negotiated with. Legal documents had to be drawn up. Nisa and Dirva each had to find the time to write their genealogies. Dirva and Nisa had to find adequate housing for a joint life.

All these things take time, but not as much time as you would think. Dirva pulled strings and called in favors for the legalities quite quickly. Nisa leveraged the goodwill of the borough to find a suitable apartment without much trouble. It took them no more than three weeks to get things in place. And then it was a matter of waiting, because ultimately the marriage happened on Vathorem’s schedule and not theirs.

Vathorem was the only part of the wedding Dirva could not rush, the only element out of his control. Dirva had written Vathorem the night Nisa’s parents gave approval, some weeks before I gave approval myself. He had sent the news in a clockwork bird, which, though expensive, was both faster and more reliable than the post. Vathorem sent the bird back with congratulations and a promise to attend. He sent a promise, but politics were politics, he said, and the red queen was the red queen. He would send word when he was able to get away.