It was exactly what Hassan had been desperately trying to find since they’d arrived in Tel Amot, while Jude had been spending his time trying to track down any sign of Anton. He should be glad. He should be thankful for this, for a plan, for something to do. But all he could think about was what it would feel like to get on that ship and sail away from any last hope of finding Anton.

“Thank you,” Jude said uncertainly, tucking the ring and the sphere away.

She tipped her wineglass toward him. “Hope it works out for you.”

She said it so casually, like they were discussing the outcome of a game of cards rather than the fate of the world.

“Yeah,” Jude replied. “Me too.”

“So do we trust them?” Hector asked the moment they stepped outside the slyhouse and into the cooling evening. “This Lady Bellrose person? The Lost Rose?”

Jude shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, I guess Hassan does,” Hector said. “Since he’s been trying to contact them this whole time. Maybe it’s a sign—a good one. We could use one of those.”

“Maybe,” Jude said. But his mind was not on the Lost Rose and Lady Bellrose. It was on the first thing that Zinnia had said to him—to give up on Anton. Hector fell silent as they trudged through Tel Amot’s red light district toward the ocean and the sun fading behind it.

“All right, are we going to talk about it?” Hector asked at last as they began to descend the wide steps down to the harbor and the Night Market.

“Talk about what?”

Hector took hold of Jude’s elbow, wheeling him around. “You’ve hired—what was it, six bounty hunters to find the Prophet? You could have told me what you were doing. I would’ve understood. You know that. I’ve been down this road before. The first time I left the Order, I searched for almost a year to find the Pale Hand. Threw away everything to do it.”

“This isn’t the same thing,” Jude replied hotly, jerking away from him.

“How?”

“Because your family was already dead!”

For a moment, Jude thought that Hector might hit him. His hands tightened to fists, his eyes going cold and deadly. Jude wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t have deserved it.

But then Hector let out a breath and slumped.

“Hector, I’m—I’m sorry,” Jude stuttered.

Hector waved him off. “Don’t. Like I said, I get it. I’ve said worse to you—done worse.”

Jude’s gaze dropped. He knew they were both recalling it—how Hector had left Jude bleeding in a burned-down ruin in Pallas Athos. For a long time, Jude had thought that would be his last memory of Hector.