She pulled back and fixed her ruffled brown-blond curls, her cheeks flushed. “Nothing, nothing, it’s just . . .”

Weysh raised his eyebrows at her expectantly.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said sheepishly. “It sounds silly when I say it now, doesn’t it? But after what happened—”

“You’re not angry with me?” Weysh said softly.

She sighed. “I was . . . am, maybe. But I’m also angry at Papa. It wasn’t right, what he said. You shouldn’t have grabbed him like a thug, but it wasn’t right—hey! Weysh!”

Weysh had lifted her right off the ground in a crushing hug, spinning her around before setting her down. “I can make amends with Montpierre as long as you and Maman can forgive me.”

“Oh,” Harth said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “That’s just beautiful.”

Weysh and Sylvie turned to him. “Shut up, Harth,” they said in unison.

“Hmph!” said Harth. “I take offense to this familial bonding at my expense. Shouldn’t you be out shopping for hair ribbons and petticoats and whatnot with your second-school friends?”

Sylvie rolled her eyes. “Do you not know me at all?”

Harth crossed his arms and smiled. “Better than you realize, which is why it’s so easy to get under your skin,” he said and winked.

“Harth has a point,” Weysh said. “How did you get here?”

“The tram, of course.”

“This late?” The image and the sickly scent of Yenni lying in the alley accosted him. That had been enough to drive him half mad, but Sylvie in her place . . .

“The sun hasn’t even set yet, Weysh.”

“I’m taking you home,” Weysh said. “I’ll likely take the blame for this, too, but that’s life I suppose. And it’s probably time I faced Montpierre, en?”

“Actually”—Sylvie’s shoulders slumped—“I doubt he’s there. He and Maman had a big fight about you, and now he’s always out surveying his warehouses or in meetings when he should be resting at home.”

Weysh froze. “They fought about me?”

Sylvie nodded sadly. “Yes.”

“Oh. And, erm, what did Maman have to say?”

“You can ask her yourself when you take me home,” she said and smiled sweetly.

Weysh narrowed his eyes at her. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

She bit her lip and looked away. “If you’re busy I’m happy to take the tram home. You know how I love the tram. And the walk from the stop is only about twenty minutes, and reasonably well lit. Except that one stretch where—”

“I should hire a carriage and charge it to the house,” Weysh said sternly.

Her face fell.

“But I miss you, conductor,” said Weysh.