Calling out for him was a stupid idea. Jess moved down to the far end of the wall, which surrounded a garden, and effortlessly swarmed over it and dropped down on the other side. Darker there, though a fountain whispered in the corner, and lotus flowers drifted on the surface of a pond.

He found the side door, quickly touched his fingers to the household god next to it, and got out his tools. Not a bad lock, but, then, thieves always bought the best. It took him more than a minute to open it, and then he stepped inside, into the soft shadows and the smell of sandalwood incense. Quiet.

Too quiet, he thought, for Neksa and Brendan to be here. And then he sensed movement and ducked instinctively into a crouch. Just in time for the club to crash into the wall behind where his head would have been. Jess lunged forward in the next second and found himself pushing a strong, lithe, curved body back against the wall.

He immediately moved his hands to more neutral territory and said, “Neksa? Neksa, it’s Jess! Jess! I’m not going to hurt you!”

She went still for a few seconds, and then he heard the sound of the club hitting the tiled floor and a trembling intake of breath. “Jess?” Then he actually felt her steady herself and her voice grew firm. “Let me go!”

“All right,” he said, and made sure to kick the club away into the dark before he did let her loose. That had been a very respectable attempt to kill him. “I’m looking for my brother.”

“By sneaking in the side door?”

“You didn’t answer the front.”

“He’s not here,” she said, and turned a switch on the wall at her back. Lights hissed on, gradually brightening. She left them low, for which Jess was thankful, and he saw the swollen redness of her eyes and nose. For all her bravado, she looked devastated. “He left this morning.”

“Left,” Jess repeated. “Are you sure?”

“I found this when I got up this morning.” She silently reached into a pocket of her dress and handed him a folded sheet of paper. Jess took it and held it up to the light. He recognized his brother’s hand, the jagged points and long loops. It was a terse message, saying he’d had enough, he was going home, and that he’d send for the rest of his things soon. No affection. Only the vaguest of good-byes. Even for Brendan, it seemed abrupt and cold.

“It’s from him, isn’t it?” she asked, and he slowly nodded. “Why? Why would he leave so suddenly? Why would he not talk to me first? I would have gone with him. I love him! He knows that!”

He doesn’t love you, Jess wanted to tell her, but that seemed cruel. He wanted to be relieved, but the timing couldn’t have been worse; he needed Brendan. No, you don’t, the old cold part of him told him. You need her. And you can still use her. His father wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have threatened exposure, pushed past Neksa’s shock and anger and tears, and made her into a tool to be used as needed. That was what Brendan had been intent on doing. That was the Brightwell way.