The nurses had a fit when Tara tried to check out. Fortunately, the hospital knew how to handle fits. Tara ignored the usual arguments: that she should spend the day in bed at least; that her injuries, though superficial, merited observation given the slow infections that could spread from demonglass. Not a risk to her. Probably. Under normal circumstances. Regardless, she couldn’t afford the time.

“That was an unorthodox exit,” Shale said when they were safely a block away from the hospital. “They probably aren’t used to patients who turn into eight-foot-tall shadow monsters and jump out a window.”

She removed her jacket and clipped off stray tags with her work knife. “They’ll be happy to have their bed back. Why shops put so many pins in button-front shirts I’ll never know.” She drew one from her collar, the third she’d missed in her hurry to dress. “Blood for the cotton gods?”

“It’s so you can wear them fresh without ironing. You’ll see it most often with golem-loom shirts, though a few tailors use them, too.”

She donned the jacket and flexed her arms to test its fit. The fabric was the color of churned cream, and lush to the touch. “Fashion’s an odd interest for someone who wears clothes once every never.”

He crossed his legs. “I was made to be a scout, a spy.” His voice sounded strange denuded of its rumbling bass undertones and the susurrus of gravel.

“I remember.” Another pin in her side. That one at least had to be part of some weird ritual, or else a joke. Not that there was much difference between the two, in her experience.

“Infiltration is more than speed, and stealth is more than shadows. This flesh mask helps me walk through a city unnoticed, but skin is only part of the problem. People notice clothes that don’t fit. Before the God Wars it wasn’t hard. Clothes changed slowly. I once knew the traditional attire of all walks of life from the old Quechal kingdoms, from Iskar and Telomere and the Ebon Sea and Schwarzwald, Dhisthra and the Gleblands, Zur and Trälheim and the Shining Empire. I could pass for Telomeri street scum, a Zurish horse-lord, a midrank Imperial scholar with a gambling dependency. My knowledge staled slowly, since few were so pampered as to change their attire for a season’s fashion. After the God Wars, though”—he shook his head in wonder and confusion—“golem mills and Craftwork-enhanced manufacture made clothes cheap, and as gods’ holds relaxed, fashion churn spread from fops to the normal world. Though recent Iskari scholarship has challenged that narrative.” He shrugged, which gesture too seemed strange in his human guise—less threatening without wings.

“You read fashion magazines to be a better spy.”