So he showered and changed, and took a moment to study himself in the full-length mirror. The royal purple of the tunic turned his face a sultry midnight blue; the bones of his cheeks looked longer and heavier. His hair shone with azure highlights. He did not look at all familiar.

He ate the food—now cold—then wandered back and forth between the sitting room and his own chamber, not sure how to pass the time. Perhaps, if Kit was awake when the guards returned, she could ask if the palace boasted any reading material in bluetongue. If not, and she would not speak to him, he would be reduced to doing mathematical equations in his head. It was how he had convinced himself to fall asleep when he was a boy; sometimes it still worked. Only he was not quite ready yet to seek his bed.

But. The thought of running formulas through his mind gave him an idea. He had paper and ink in his suitcase. He could find a way to profitably use his time.

Accordingly, he dug out a notebook and a pen and made himself comfortable on one of the low chairs. The hours passed, and he barely noticed. He did get up twice to check on Kit and make sure she was still breathing. Other than that, he did not stir. He merely experimented with numbers, X’d out impossible combinations, refigured models, and tried again.

When he finally went to bed, numbers and symbols danced before his eyes, and it was a long time before he could quiet his questing brain. But he had time. It would be days, maybe weeks, before Chay’s physicians and pharmacists verified Nolan’s data. He could play with these new numbers as long as he wanted.

*   *   *

In the morning, Kit was awake before him, looking pale but calm. Guards had brought breakfast while they were both still sleeping, and she was eating a pastry when Nolan emerged from his room. He was delighted to see her, but kept his greeting grave.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Somewhat savaged,” she admitted. “I’m sorry I made such a scene last night.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said swiftly, seating himself on a sofa across from her. “Not to me. I’m the one who brought you to this.”

She gave him one lengthy, unfathomable look. “You’re the one who may have saved Chay’s life,” she said. “If it can be saved.”

He longed to ask her one simple, direct question: Did you really mean what you said to Chay, about my goodness and my kind heart? But he could not bring himself to voice the words. “I hope it can,” he said. “So! What did they bring us to eat?”