Inaya expected Michel to come for her. Or even one of their minor operatives working out of Inoublie. She did not actually expect her estranged husband. She had left Khos Khadija nearly seven years before in Tirhan, and had not spoken to him since. He raised their children with his second wife while Inaya led a revolution. She had regretted that decision many times. But what mother consigns her children to live in a world that hates them, when she could transform it into something different?

Her captors brought her into a tiny windowless room divided by an organic filter so tight that it made her skin crawl the moment she walked in. The closer she got to it, the more her skin itched. She began to wring her hands as she waited. Stopped. Then paced. Three steps right. Turn. Three steps left. The light was haunted; a ghastly, dying orange light produced by worms in glass. When the door began to open on the other side of the filter, she was hopeful. She and her operatives could speak in code, at least. They may even be able to slip her something on another occasion to neutralize the saffron. If she could shift and avoid the filters, she could escape. Fourré operatives knew what she needed. She had organized escapes from prisons before. None this secure, it was true, but the basics were the same.

The door on the other side of the filter opened. A large man filled the doorway. She knew him instantly.

It really was her husband, Khos Khadija.

She was suddenly unsteady on her feet, yet buoyant with emotion. The fear, longing, hurt, and sense of betrayal that swamped her was overwhelming.

He entered the room, and someone shut the door behind him. They were alone, but Inaya knew better than to believe they were unwatched.

Khos approached the filter. The expression on his face nearly took the breath from her. She had not seen a man look at her with so much love in a long time. He had grown out his hair again, and it hung in long yellow dreadlocks, knotted at the nape of his neck with an amber cord. He was thick in the shoulders and chest, and tall; her head barely reached his shoulder. The blue tattoos that crisscrossed his body were mostly covered. He wore long dark trousers, boots, and a pale coat that fell to mid-thigh. Compared to Tirhan, Ras Tieg could be a chilly country, and the clothing appeared new.

They stood a long moment on either side of the filter, neither saying a word, for some time.

“When did they send for you?” she asked, finally.

“Nine, ten days ago. It was the soonest I could get here.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They said I’m to sign for you, and bring you home.”

“Home?”

“Tirhan,” he said.

“Exile, then?”

“It’s better than losing your head, isn’t it?”