Bryony knew he was only trying to keep things light to make her more comfortable, but it was having the opposite effect. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry. Look, humor is my way of deflecting the arrows the world shoots at me. You were being serious. Just ask me. I won’t judge you, I swear it on…my, my brother’s memory.”

He looked away, as though realizing he’d said more than he’d intended. She didn’t press him, though she wanted to. Instead, she continued where she’d left off before. “Have you ever felt like you’re looking down on yourself, and you know it’s you, but it doesn’t feel like you? Like you’re watching the life of some stranger, or no, more like some old friend who you used to know everything about, but who you no longer recognize?” Even as she finished the stumbling, uncertain question, Bryony felt surprisingly…good. Like a weight had been lifted off her at admitting her own weakness.

“All the time,” Ludo said. “All the damn time.”

“Really?”

“Well, for me it’s more that I sometimes feel like my own skin is something borrowed. Like it’s only mine for a while but at some point I’m going to have to give it back. Or that I was born into the wrong body, and somewhere out there is another body walking about with nobody inside it. Wondering what went wrong. Waiting for me to show up.”

“Have you always felt that way?”

He looked away again, but then, with a speed that made her breath catch in her throat, returned his gaze to her. There were lives lived in that one-eyed stare. “Yes. For my whole life.”

Bryony had the urge to embrace him, to tell him he was going to be alright. To treat him like he was something fragile and precious that needed to be protected, despite his rugged, capable exterior.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Why not? she thought bitterly. Is Farrow right? Am I only capable of shallow, vapid relationships?

She’d always thought she was being strong, protecting herself from those who could gain power over her, over her heart. But now…it only made her feel weak.

“Your sword…,” Ludo said, thankfully changing the subject. Had he sensed her inner turmoil?

“My serash,” Bryony corrected, out of habit. “What about it?”

“Can you show me how it…”

Bryony raised her eyebrows. “Transforms? You mean, you’ve never seen it before?”

“How would I?” Though she couldn’t make out the color of his cheeks in the gloom, he looked almost embarrassed to be making the request.

“Well, you know, because of your occupation.”

“So because I’m an assassin I should know all about other assassins’ weapons of choice?”