He tried to signal to her that he wanted to talk, but he could never catch her eye. She seemed to be willfully ignoring him. The next thing he knew, the sun was sinking into the river and the fisherfolk were heading to their beds. Evelina walked off with the patriarch’s daughter. Marcus did not want to make a show of running after her, especially in view of the men, who were drinking and swapping stories around the fire. Marcus bid everyone good night and returned, alone, to the house.

Having slept most of the day, he was not ready for his bed. He sat by the fire, brooding over Evelina, Ven, Draconas, the dragon, his father—everything he’d refused to let himself think about all day. He made up his mind to the fact that he would never see Ven again, nor could he even dare contact him, for the dragon was always lurking about, trying to find a way inside. Draconas was dead; Marcus was certain of that. Dragonkeep would remain hidden beneath its blanket of illusion as its army marched on to conquer his people.

“Yet if I told these fishermen that there is a city of living souls not twenty miles from where they ply their nets, they would bind my arms with rope and take away all sharp objects,” Marcus muttered. “I’m not even sure my own father will believe me. It’s all so fantastic—”

A gentle knock sounded at the door. “It’s Evelina,” said her voice, speaking softly.

Marcus breathed a sigh. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but he needed to set things straight, let her down gently.

He opened the door.

“No one saw me,” she assured him, slipping in past him. She wore a cloak, with the hood cast over her head, and she carried a basket on her arm. Placing the basket on the table, she removed her cloak and hood, and tossed them aside.

“You should close the door, Marcus. Someone will see the light.”

He hadn’t realized until she said something that he’d been standing there with the door wide open. Feeling uncomfortable, he did as she bade him and shut the door. He turned back to find her removing a stone jar and a mug from the basket.

“I brought you some wine,” she said.

“Evelina, I want to talk—”

“And I want to talk to you, Your Highness,” she said.

She poured wine into the mug and carried it over to him. She stood before him, holding the wine in her hands. She had washed her hair; its blond curls fell around her shoulders. Her eyes were soft and warm in the flickering light.