Hazoth’s retainer lifted one mailed hand to swat the girl away but she was already gone—along with his purse. He must have realized that as soon as he returned his hand to his belt, because he cried out that he’d been robbed. He tried to give chase but was tangled in the poplin and fell flat on his face. The owner of the bolt of poplin came storming out of his booth to berate the fallen retainer, and the crowd laughed riotously at this spontaneous farce.

Perfect. Malden reminded himself to ask for the girl’s name. She was born to the game, he could tell.

“—solve all our problems with one stroke,” Croy was saying, his voice rising in volume. Malden came rushing toward the knight to shut him up. “And it will only cost—”

Cythera did Malden’s work for him by interrupting.

“Last night he had her arm broken,” she said, speaking over Croy’s words. Her voice was ice hanging in the air.

The effect on Croy could not have been more profound if she’d slapped him across the face. “What? I don’t understand,” he said. He looked like a whipped dog.

“Did you think Hazoth would not hear of your antic at the palace?” Cythera demanded. “Calling on Vry to storm his home. Such a fool! I cannot believe I ever pinned hopes on your star, Croy.” She turned away from the knight in disgust. “Hazoth knows about our connection, of course. He believes I set you to this reckless end. I could not convince him otherwise, and when I refused to confess, he sent two of his men with a bar and a piece of rope. They tied her arm double, and then twisted the rope with the bar until I heard the bone snap.”

A tear ran down the garden of painted lilies that decorated Cythera’s cheek.

“I meant only to—”

“I know what you meant to do! How much do good intentions mean in your world, Croy? In this storybook place you inhabit, where brave knights ride to the rescue of poor helpless women, is there glory in merely wanting to do good? Because in my world—and his,” she said, jabbing a finger toward Malden, “what’s in your heart means nothing. Not when all your best hopes and desires only make things worse.”

Malden watched the two of them closely. Croy was like one thunderstruck, unable to speak or move. Cythera was so wracked with care that her skin was ashen under the vines and flowers on her face.

There was no time for this.

“Milady,” he said, “we have moments only before your watchdog comes sniffing for you. Think me not heartless.”

“No, Malden, I know you care,” she said. She took a cloth from her sleeve and dabbed at the tears on her face, though with such gentle and hesitant motions she barely mopped up any of them. “What say you?”