Malachite stands to my side, ruby eyes glinting determinedly as he holds his sword before my neck. Not to it, like a total threat, but just before it—at most an unfriendly reminder. From behind a stack of rubble, Fione stands, her cherubic face deathly serious and a crossbow clutched in her white-knuckled hands, made of the same polished wood as her cane. A familiar ivory valkerax head is carved into the beak of it, and it supports another gleaming belt bolt aimed right at me.

“Apologies.” Lucien smirks. “They insisted on coming. Something about refusing to leave me alone with a Heartless.”

Father’s sword is too far away on my waist. I chide my own brain for even considering drawing it against Malachite and Fione. They aren’t my enemies.

but neither are they your friends, the hunger assures me. you saw to that with your lies.

I put up my hands slowly. “If I knew it was going to be a party, I would’ve at least put on some blush.”

Fione and Malachite don’t move, don’t even blink at the quip. Lucien is the only one who dares approach me, his footsteps slow, each one beating like a drum against the stone. He puts a hand over Malachite’s blade.

“Easy, Mal.”

“I don’t care how many times you two have stuck your tongues down each other’s throats—if she tries to hurt you, I’m slitting hers.” Malachite narrows his eyes at me. The threat should burn, but it’s not hate in his eyes—it’s just a protectiveness for Lucien. It blazes bright in every corner of his paper-white face. He doesn’t hate me, per se. He just cares for Lucien more.

Lucien’s voice goes serious. “Be reasonable. Asking her questions would be much harder that way.”

“Reasonable?” Malachite snaps. “After all she’s done to you?”

“She’d heal soon anyway.” Fione stands up, crossbow steadied expertly on her forearm. “But she would feel everything.”

Malachite’s eyes don’t flicker, but Lucien’s do. No—I must be imagining it. Surely he knows better than to care for the pain a traitor could go through. Feelings aren’t temporary jewelry, but neither are they permanent tattoos, and he’s doing a miserable job of making either disappear.

“We can stop talking about me like I’m not here,” I lilt. “And start talking about why you called me out. Couldn’t we have conducted this nasty business inside the castle? Or is there someone there you don’t want knowing about this little inquisition of yours?”

Fione’s gaze flickers to Lucien’s, but the prince keeps his dark eyes steady and on me.

“You take a carriage every morning to South Gate,” Lucien starts. “You go in a door, and you come out roughly an hour later. Why?”

“Tourism?” I offer with an innocent smile.