Enough, enough, enough, Malden thought to himself. Kemper was largely safe from harm, no matter what came. And Croy would be nowhere near the villa when he broke into it. The knight would be useless in any scheme he could imagine.

It was up to him to get the crown back. He could put together a crew but he couldn’t truly count on them. He would have to pass the barrier, get through the hallway of traps, and retrieve the crown, all without being detected. He would then need to do that which might be harder, which was to escape with his skin intact.

Even then his troubles might only begin anew. Anselm Vry might be watching him at that very moment, waiting until he recovered the crown before swooping in and taking all credit for himself. Cutbill might have him killed regardless of what happened, just for causing so much trouble in the first place.

And Hazoth would still have his demon, and Bikker would still have his acid-drooling sword. And both of them would have reason to want him dead.

The problems seemed insoluble.

Well, they always had. He had to keep going.

He had to think of something.

Eventually Malden did sleep, despite the companions of his bedchamber. He sank deep and came back only when the first rays of dawn burst in through the gap between the shutters and the window. He opened his eyes, checked that his bodkin was under his pillow where he left it, and only then sat up.

“Good morning,” Croy said, smiling down at him.

The knight had never looked happier.

“Hmm,” Malden said. He rose and pulled on his tunic, slipped his bodkin into its sheath. Kemper was lying curled in one corner, snoring and farting, dead to the world. Croy, however, was fully dressed and looked like he’d just taken a bath. He had his shortsword out and was polishing it with a cloth.

Malden wondered if the man had gone mad during the night. Maybe Croy was going to kill himself. It was not something he wanted to witness. “You seem recovered from your cares,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, yes. Everything is better now,” Croy said.

“It is?”

“I had a dream, Malden.” He put the sword down and rose to his feet. “No. I tell a lie. It was a vision. I saw Cythera in her bridal veil. I saw myself standing before her, with flowers woven in my hair. And when I woke, I understood. Nothing is broken between us that cannot be repaired. She is merely testing me.”

“Is she, now?”

“Indeed. All the stories of knights and dragons and fair maidens go like this. The maiden refuses to accept the knight’s troth until he slays the beast. He must prove himself, in combat, before she can truly love him.”

“In the stories, you say,” Malden went on.