Ronan rubbed a thumb over the wheel closest to him, pressing his fingers into the etched word tamquam. This was a thing Hennessy was learning about Ronan Lynch: He always thought he was keeping his secrets by keeping his mouth shut, but he ended up telling them in other ways.

He said, “But what were you dreaming about really?”

“A lady never tells,” Hennessy said, “and it’s impolite to ask.”

“Whatever.”

“Jordan.”

“I said whatever.”

“And I said Jordan.”

If he had pressed her harder, she would have talked about it, and part of her wanted him to, but instead he just kicked one of the wheels. It occurred to her, in a distant way, that maybe he wanted her to press him about his dream, too. Something must have bothered him enough that he couldn’t prevent all these wheels from driving out of his head, after all. But the idea of holding the weight of his drama on top of her own felt like too much.

So they just silently assembled themselves. Hennessy got her sword. Ronan got his bird. At the door, he turned to survey what he had done. All those wheels. He was an unusual silhouette with the raven crouched on his shoulder, the sword strapped to his back. Hennessy thought he would have made a fairly good portrait subject, if everything about him wasn’t supposed to be secret, which made her think about how, in her dream, she’d thought about how Jordan would’ve thought Bryde an appropriate portrait subject.

“I wonder what she’s up to,” Hennessy said. “What she and your brother are up to.”

Ronan’s voice was dry and disappointed as he turned away. “Bet they’re having a blast.”

Chapter 4

Jordan felt a little bad about stealing Declan Lynch’s car.

Not overwhelmingly bad. Not enough to keep her up nights (or rather, mornings, since she was a night owl). Not enough that she wished she could go back and do it differently. Just enough that sometimes she saw a Volvo of the same make and model and had a vague, niggling sensation of wrongness. The opposite of the Volvo brand. The opposite of the Jordan brand.