Lily offered a crisp nod. “No time for a physician, curfew or not. I’ll do what I can. Braxov? You know what I need: hot water, clean linen . . . whatever salve hasn’t lost its colour. You two, get out. I need room.”

Braxov, who’d entered a pace behind his mistress, vanished into the hall once again. The hearthguards followed.

“Malachi. You have a handkerchief?” asked Lily. “A clean one?”

He fished the folded cloth from his pocket and handed it over. Lily shook it open, gave cursory examination, then pressed it against the wound. Sevaka’s eyelids twitched. A thin moan escaped her lips.

Lily brushed a weed-caked fringe from her patient’s forehead. “Where’s Rosa?”

“I don’t know.” Malachi shook his head. “How can I help?”

“You can stay out of the way. I don’t need you fainting on the poor woman.”

“What about Sidara?”

“Patching up her battered father’s one thing. Death creeping in under your hands? She’s too young for that.”

Braxov returned, arms laden with cloth and vials. “Water’s coming, my lady.”

“Good. Keep pressure here while I get this coat off her.”

Lily set a knife to Sevaka’s coat. Malachi turned away, isolated and useless in his own house. He blotted out Lily’s terse instructions and Sevaka’s soft, breathy cries. Instead, he stared out into the garden, and lost himself in unanswered questions. Why was Sevaka out after curfew? Who had attacked her? Was it chance that had brought her to his door?

Only Sevaka knew the answers. Sevaka, and perhaps Rosa.

The kitchen door burst open to admit a harried and breathless Josiri.

“Where’s Rosa?” asked Malachi.

“Gone. I lost her when she hit the streets.”

Malachi scowled. “You should have followed!”

“Yes. I, a southwealder, should have traipsed my way through the curfew-laden streets. What could have gone wrong?”

Malachi winced, embarrassed. It had barely been a day, but already Josiri was so intertwined with Malachi’s world that it had become easy to forget the weight of history and intrigue that had made it necessary. Even now, protected by the Akadra name, Josiri’s freedom was more illusion than truth. Even the small transgression of a broken curfew could doom him.

“Josiri . . .”

“Bicker elsewhere,” snapped Lily. “I’m trying to save a life. Go!”

Knowing better than to argue, Malachi gestured to the passageway door.

Josiri hesitated. “I’d rather help.”

“This is no time for well-meaning bumblers,” said Lily.

Josiri’s expression cleared. His tone took on aristocratic hauteur Malachi had not yet heard him use. “Don’t mistake me for a fool, lady.”

Lily held his stare for a moment, then nodded. “Take over from Braxov. He has water to fetch.”

By the time Apara arrived at Freemont, confusion and sorrow had given way to howling rage. Otherwise she’d never have dared take the tone she did.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”