Voices broke the cool air. Apara’s pulse quickened. Crouching low, she stared off through the trees at the firestone-lit paths leading to the mansion’s drive. She marked at least a dozen uniforms in the gloom. Another consequence of Nikros’ failure.

Still, the lady had been insistent, and the consequences of failure unthinkable.

Keeping close to the trees, Apara wended her way to the mansion’s rear. Twice, she fell prone as a patrol drew near. Twice, the hearthguards tromped on along the gravel without backward glance.

She could have used the cloak again, of course. But she didn’t like the way it whispered in her thoughts. Nor the creeping sensation that not all those thoughts were her own. She still heard the Raven’s dour, sardonic voice. His promise of further “gifts” if she proved herself mistress of those already given. Apara didn’t want the ones she had.

At last, the raised terrace came into sight, its vine-wreathed trellises concealing what passed within. Apara let the nearest patrol amble deeper into the darkness and eased the latch clear.

No firestone lanterns blazed beyond the gate. There was only the gentle glow of moonlight, and the soft murmur of water trickling away into the pond. Apara took a deep breath. The cool, moist air drove back the raven-cloak’s chill . . .

“I asked to meet with your cousin, not you.”

The lady emerged from the shadow of a rose bower, her expression the familiar mask of disappointment and watchfulness. Apara could have sworn she’d been alone but was not surprised to discover otherwise. A lady who knew as much of the Crowmarket as this one did likely had many hidden talents.

“My cousin now serves the Raven in Otherworld,” Apara replied. She drew back her hood. “Whatever business you had with him, is now with me.”

The lady’s eyes widened in surprise. Then the stony expression recovered itself. “I see. The Parliament were ever wasteful. Too much pride, and not enough heart. Was this your choice?”

Apara stared down at her moon-cast reflection in the pond. At the single white streak of hair that marred the black. “My cousins chose for me.”

“I’m sure it’s not what your mother would have wanted.” Was that a note of pity in the lady’s voice? “But I’m also sure you’ll acquit yourself with excellence. You always have.”

Apara hung her head to hide her woeful expression. “Yes, lady.”

She’d loved the thief’s art since her earliest days. The game was played for high stakes, but it was a game nonetheless, and put only her own life at risk. She’d broken bones and left bruises, of course. That was a cost the game sometimes demanded. But murder? That wasn’t a game, no matter how much her younger cousins might brag. You were changed by every dying breath.