Garsh eyed his colleague without enthusiasm and reached for the shackles on his belt.

The night exploded with crow-voices. A torrent of black wings plucked at Sevaka’s cloak and swept over the constables.

Garsh’s wild screech gurgled into nothing. His body hit the cobbles at Sevaka’s feet. Somewhere behind, steel scraped free of its scabbard, only to be drowned by a chorus of crow-shrieks and small, wet tearing sounds.

Blinded by the storm, Sevaka wrapped her arms about her head and ran for the railings.

Malachi rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. Even with the terrace’s gloom to confuse matters, Josiri suspected his lordship was close to losing his patience.

“That’s your proof, Rosa? A pair of forbidden texts?”

“It’s more than enough to involve the provosts.”

Josiri was well accustomed to listening to gaps in conversation. Life with Calenne and Anastacia had taught him that what was not said was often as important as what was – especially when you could practically hear the evasion rushing like a river beneath the words.

It seemed Malachi thought so as well. “But not for accusations of conspiracy,” he said, “let alone murder. You know better than most that an unusual gift is no proof of blackened character.”

Josiri had thought Rosa’s stare couldn’t get any colder. He’d been wrong.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Malachi . . .” growled Rosa.

Malachi set his glass down on a planter. “It means dear Rosa here is what legend once called an eternal. She doesn’t bleed. She can’t die. Sadly, it also seems to have rotted her brain.”

Rosa sprang. One hand about Malachi’s throat, she slammed him against a trellis.

“How dare you!” She drew Malachi in and slammed him forward again. The trellis rattled in its moorings. “That’s not your secret to tell!”

Malachi spluttered and clawed at Rosa’s forearm. Josiri flung his arms about her shoulders and heaved. He might as well have striven against a tree. A thrust of her elbow sent him sprawling, gasping for breath.

“The provosts . . . are killing my friend,” gasped Malachi. “There’s . . . nothing I don’t . . . dare.”

Rosa snarled and flung him away. He thumped into the balustrade and scrabbled for purchase on the stone. Braxov hurried out of the night, a pair of wooden-faced hearthguards looming to either side.

“Is there a problem, my lord?”

The steward’s tone made it damn clear that he knew there was a problem, but Malachi waved him away. “High spirits, nothing more. Brandy’s a mocker of dignity.”

Braxov’s expression did nothing to hide his scepticism, but he withdrew all the same, the hearthguards on his heels.

Malachi rubbed his throat. “I’m sorry, Rosa. I spoke out of turn.”

She stared off into the night. “I’m sorry too.”