Malden had grown up in the company of harlots, and knew well the ways of physical love. He’d often heard them talk of the other kind, of romance and true love. They’d even talked of the fabled love-at-first-sight, though most had considered it a myth. He himself had never considered he might feel that way about another human being, much less an enchantress covered in tattoos.

So it must have been magic. There was no other possibility. Was there?

He decided to talk of anything but, rather than continue in that line of thought.

“You intrigue me, Cythera. You seem a lady of quality, yet you associate with the likes of Bikker.”

“He’s not so bad. Honest, in his way.”

“He’s a ruffian. Cheerful, perhaps, but uncouth. I don’t think you chose his company. You work with him because you were ordered to do so. I think you both work for someone else. Someone who wants my services, who—”

“Who shall remain nameless.”

“Very well. Though the number of citizens who could afford your services must be small.”

“Not every wage is paid in coin.”

It was a funny kind of thing to say, and it birthed all manner of questions in Malden’s mind. But it was clear it pained her to speak of it, so he let it go. He had another thing to ask her about anyway.

“Those tattoos on your face and your arms—”

“They are not tattoos.” Her voice grew sharp when she said it.

“The designs, then. Did I really see them move?”

“Yes. They are never still.”

“What artist paints them? What kind of pigment does he use?”

Cythera sighed. “No artist. No paints. They are a curse. Or rather, they were imposed on me as a gift by my mother. Or perhaps she meant to curse another.”

“Your mother was a sorceress? I can believe that, for you certainly enchanted me.” There it was again. That thought he couldn’t explain.

She seemed unwilling to discuss it herself. “You’ll hold that scoundrel tongue of yours, if you know what’s good for you. My mother was never a sorceress. And she still lives. She is a witch.”

“Naturally,” Malden said.

Cythera sighed. “Must you always be so glib?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Oh, you have charm? I hadn’t noticed.” But she was smiling.

“You wound me to the heart,” he said. “But it’s all right. We’ll find some way you can make it up to me. When this is over, what say you we both—”

“Stop,” she said, interrupting his half-serious attempt at courting. “Ship your oars.”

He did as she said. “Is this the place? Have we really come so far?”

“Conversation makes any night fly. Yes—look. There is the pipe I was told to seek out. This is exactly the right spot.”