At the bottom of the box, she found a bottle of lizard-skin venom—too unstable to leave in food. And finally, a vial of clearberry. Kyra palmed it and set about looking for some way to use it, something that only James would touch. Her eyes fell onto a cup on his desk. She added three drops of poison to the water inside. Then, she poured some onto a parchment and used it to spread the juice around the cup’s edges. That would do.

A voice from the corridor made her jump. As footsteps sounded, Kyra snapped the box shut and ran to the window. It refused to budge. The steps drew closer, slowing and stopping on the other side of the door. Kyra abandoned her attempts to escape and vaulted back over the desk, ducking behind as the doorknob turned. Candlelight spilled under the desk, and she shrank back. Someone stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The silence that followed was long and thick.

“That was stupid, Kyra.” There was no mistaking the voice, dispassionate, with a cold, hard edge.

Kyra swallowed, steeled herself, and rose. James stood just inside the door. The flickering lamp cast his face in moving shadows. As Kyra stood frozen, he placed the lamp on a stand and stepped closer, reaching casually for his knife.

“It didn’t take long for you to switch your allegiance, did it?”

Cold rage, or fear, lodged in her chest. “I owe you no allegiance.”

“That so? After all I’ve taught you?”

He stepped forward. She took another step back. “What are you doing with the Demon Riders?”

“If my suspicions are right, you already heard the answer.”

So she’d made noise in the corridor. It was a bad time to make a mistake. “You’re not who I thought you were,” she said.

“No. I am who I’ve always been. It’s you who continues to be naïve. You think we can keep on with our raids, give handouts for the rest of our lives. But that wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Have you seen the fire?” she asked. “Have you counted the bodies?”

“Did the fire take more than what the Palace would have taken eventually? Lives lost when folk can’t buy medicine and food. Homes lost because the fatpurses forever grab for more.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re not here on behalf of the city. You’re here because the fire started at The Drunken Dog. Because you want revenge.”

Just the mention of the fire brought a wave of images—images she needed to ignore if she wanted to stay alive. She should change the topic or refuse to say anything, but she wanted—needed—to know more. “Why did you do it?” she asked.