Santi’s mind gears were turning again—Jess could see that—and he waited while the captain reconfigured plans, calculated odds, came up with an answer. “How long would you need?” Santi asked.

“I don’t know. A few hours,” Thomas said. “Not much more. The workshop won’t be guarded, I think.”

You think. Jess didn’t voice his doubts. It was still a good chance, and he knew Santi thought so, too. Glain looked more grim about it, but, then, she usually did.

“We’re too noticeable as a group,” Dario said.

“I do need Morgan,” Thomas said. “It takes an Obscurist to do some of this. And I’ll need Jess.”

“Fine. Brightwell and Hault, go find the workshop; Glain, go with them. Wolfe and I will take Seif and Santiago with us. We’ll meet you there on Via Baccina as soon as we can.”

It seemed equitable, and it separated the ones most hunted—Thomas and, conceivably, Morgan—from the rest, and Jess and Glain provided trained protection, even if Jess didn’t exactly feel his best. Jess nodded and helped Thomas up. “Morgan, you come with me. We have to scout and see where they’ve sent the lions out in the Forum.”

She nodded and gave Thomas a quick hug before going with Jess to peek under Jupiter’s robes. They had to get on hands and knees to crawl under, and as Jess helped her up, he spotted a High Garda soldier walking toward them. On impulse, he turned to her and said, “Run.”

It wasn’t a good plan, and she had a much better one. She melted against him, kissed him, and he entirely forgot what he’d been about to say, because the feel of her, the taste, the rich and wonderful reality of Morgan pressed against him drove any thought of imminent danger away, just for a few critical seconds.

By the time he pushed her back, the soldier had passed them by, shaking his head. Why wouldn’t he? Just another boy kissing a girl.

“Don’t do that again,” he told her, but he was still pressed against her, mouth hovering too close. It felt like the world had tilted under his boots to keep him there. “This is dangerous work, you know.”

“I know,” she said, and her eyes burned into his with real intensity. “Go buy me a scarf. Hurry.”

“A what?”

“A scarf. I need to cover my face.”

He realized that she was right, and hurried off to the nearest stall. It was floating with colorful silken ribbons fluttering on the breeze. He caught one that he thought would bring out her eyes, passed over geneih, and then spotted hats. He bought three of them.

“Thanks,” she said, as he handed her scarf and hat, and wound the silk high enough to conceal part of her face. “Get Thomas.”

Jess bent down to motion for Thomas to come forward. He scrambled out, clumsy and breathless. Someone—Wolfe, Jess realized—had given him a black Scholar’s robe. It was too short on him, but voluminous enough to hide his prison-eroded clothing. Jess clapped a hat on Thomas. It looked a little ridiculous, but that was the point: it hid his matted blond hair and cast so much shade, it was hard to make out his features. Many tourists here wore sun hats. He put his on as well.