Her eyes warmed further, a blush stealing across her freckled cheeks. “You said home earlier. At the bar.”

He had. He’d tried not to think about it.

She went on, “I know you’re supposed to live in the barracks or whatever Micah insists on, but if we somehow solve this case … that room is yours, if you want it.”

The offer rippled through him. And he couldn’t think of a single word beyond “Thanks.” It was all that was necessary, he realized.

The rice finished cooking, and she divvied it into two bowls before dumping the meat mixture on top of it. She extended one to him. “Nothing gourmet, but … here. I’m sorry for earlier.”

Hunt studied the steaming heap of meat and rice. He’d seen dogs served fancier meals. But he smiled slightly, his chest inexplicably tightening again. “Apology accepted, Quinlan.”

A cat was sitting on her dresser.

Exhaustion weighed her eyelids, so heavily she could barely raise them.

Eyes like the sky before dawn pinned her to the spot.

What blinds an Oracle, Bryce Quinlan?

Her mouth formed a word, but sleep tugged her back into its embrace.

The cat’s blue eyes simmered. What blinds an Oracle?

She fought to keep her eyes open at the question, the urgency.

You know, she tried to say.

The Autumn King’s only daughter—thrown out like rubbish.

The cat had either guessed it at the temple all those years ago, or followed her home to confirm whose villa she had tried to enter.

He’ll kill me if he knows.

The cat licked a paw. Then make the Drop.

She tried to speak again. Sleep held her firm, but she finally managed, And what then?

The cat’s whiskers twitched. I told you. Come find me.

Her eyelids drooped—a final descent toward sleep. Why?

The cat angled its head. So we can finish this.

Chapter Fifty-Three

53

It was still raining the next morning, which Bryce decided was an omen.

Today would suck. Last night had sucked.

Syrinx refused to emerge from under the sheets, even though Bryce tried to coax him with the promise of breakfast before his walk, and by the time Bryce finally hauled him to the street below, Hunt monitoring from the windows, the rain had gone from a pleasant patter to an outright deluge.

A fat hoptoad squatted in the corner of the building doorway, under the slight overhang, waiting for any small, unfortunate Vanir to fly past. He eyed Bryce and Syrinx as they splashed by, earning a whiskery huff from the latter, and sidled closer to the side of the building.

“Creep,” she murmured above the drumming rain on the hood of her coat, feeling the hoptoad watch them down the block. For a creature no bigger than her fist, they found ways to be menaces. Namely to all manner of sprites. Even confined to the library, Lehabah loathed and dreaded them.