She did not reply. Instead she ducked inside a bakery and emerged again a moment later with a round loaf. When she cracked it open, steam burst from the spongy brown bread inside.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked. “You were always so busy dashing hither and yon, you would forget to feed yourself. Don’t pretend to me, now. I’ve learned some of my master’s art and will see it in your eye.”

“I suppose it’s been no more than a day,” he said, thinking of the almonds he’d eaten while he watched her go inside Hazoth’s house the day before. He had to admit the bread was making his mouth water. “Not here, though. Let’s break our fast properly.”

They found an inn that had just opened its doors, and for a piece of silver they were given a private room. The hostler looked askance at the shifting tattoos on Cythera’s face but said nothing, nor was he slow in bringing wine and a half wheel of cheese when they called for them.

“Sit. There,” she said, and pointed at a bench by the room’s sole table. Croy did as he was told. “Will you take a cup?” she asked, lifting the flagon.

“You don’t need to serve me,” Croy said, and took it from her hands. His fingers touched hers—only the lightest, gentlest of meetings, but enough to make her wince and nearly drop the wine. Croy made as if he hadn’t seen her fearful gesture. “You’re not my slave. Nor my wife. Yet.”

“Oh, Croy, dreams are fine things, aren’t they?” she said.

“Call it no dream. Say vision. Or prophecy.” He cut the bread and the cheese with his belt knife and handed her a slice of the former. She took it very carefully. He studied her face while she ate. The painted vines that curled around her cheekbones sprouted new leaves—and new thorns—while he watched. Around her throat they were as thick as a tangle of briars, with shadows deep and black between them. Once, he saw a pair of bestial eyes glowing in that darkness, but they winked out before he could meet their gaze.

He knew perfectly well what those images meant. Cythera’s mother—a woman of fierce demeanor and considerable power—had placed this enchantment on her, that Cythera would never be harmed by curse or spell. Such magic could never penetrate further than the top layer of her skin. Yet that arcane energy must go somewhere, and thus manifested itself as these fell images. The curses lingered on her skin until such time that any man tried to attack her physically—and then they would be released, like a shock jumping from an iron door latch to one’s finger in the winter, only with far more lethal results.