He did so with great care, unbuttoning my boots first. He slipped them off my feet one by one. He unlaced my bodice and drew my skirt down, and I could hear him breathing, deep and steady, like his heart was pounding. Soon I was sitting in my damp chemise and my knee-high stockings, and he hesitated before he reached beneath the hem of my undergarment to find the top edge of my right sock. I felt his fingertips trace my skin as he slowly pulled the wool down my leg, leaving goose bumps in his wake.

I closed my eyes as he reached for the second one, and I was wondering if I should let him completely undress me when he paused, my stocking pooled around my ankle.

I looked at him, brow arched. He was frozen, staring at something on my left calf. Two scars made by fangs, on a night not unlike this one. When I had nearly drowned and had pulled myself into Phelan’s boat. They were scars I thought he would never see, and so I had left them when Mazarine transformed me.

He met my gaze. I couldn’t read the thoughts that lurked within him—if he suspected I was not who I appeared to be—but nor did I have the energy to reassure or lie to him.

“I can handle it from here,” I whispered, and waited for him to slip away, the door latching behind him. I drew myself up with help of the cabinets, kicking off my left stocking. I let my chemise fall away and I stepped into the bath, sinking into the warm water with a tremor.

Alone, at last, I indulged the softer side of myself. I covered my mouth and wept.

I don’t know how long my mind whirled before a wave of misgivings crashed on me. I embraced the pain and finally relived my father’s betrayal, seeking to make sense of it. How long had he been hiding enchanted armor, and why was he stepping into nightmares? What power was he channeling to do it? Why had he not recognized me? Why had he appeared to look twenty years younger?

I wiped away my tears, my neck aching from his brutal hand. And then I studied my own palms, my fingers, the length of my brown hair. All of them lies, a facade that I had made for myself.

“Oh my gods,” I whispered, watching my hands quiver. My father must also be wearing a disguise. He was two-faced, as I was. How old was he, truly? Why would he need to hide his face? His age?

I would have to go to him and insist he answer my questions. Questions that threatened to burn through me, questions that I wanted to hone into swords and pierce him with.

He had lied to me. He was a hypocrite. He had nearly strangled me.