Mehtap sits in the center of her chamber, a harp cradled in her lap. She’s beautiful to watch, the way her arms bend delicately over the strings, and her marred skin doesn’t take away from the grace of the act. As she plays, she tilts her head toward the instrument, her gaze in the distance as if she can see the music’s path. Her face radiates joy.

Her father sits nearby, his hands folded and his eyes peaceful. There is genuine love in his eyes. I’ve seen how he comes to visit Mehtap several times a week, and I’ve seen how he spares no expense on her care. I’d wondered why he was so kind to me, and I think it is because I remind him in some way of his daughter.

The commander is as good a father as anyone can ask for. Yet, I look at his hands, and they are calloused from wielding a sword. His sandals are scuffed from long marches, and there are bloodstains on the straps. I’ve seen the scars on his body from previous battles, and I’ve heard of the honors he’s received for his swift and thorough defeat of rebellious states. It makes me wonder if it’s possible for two different men to reside in the same body.

Mehtap’s song ends. For a moment, the music hangs in the air. Arxa stirs, as does Mehtap, and then they both look at me.

I realize I might have wandered in where I’m not welcome. “I’m sorry. I heard the music and—”

“Nonsense,” says Mehtap. “Come in. We’re having tea.”

Cakes have been laid out on a small carved table. The smell of saffron tea floats overhead. I fill my own cup, then refresh Mehtap’s and the commander’s.

“I trust things at the hospital are well?” says Arxa.

“Quite well,” I say. “In fact, one young man, a boy really, was brought in fevered from outside the walls. He’s become umbermarked.”

Arxa’s eyes widen over his cup. “Good work. I understand that’s quite rare. Jesmin can help him leave the compound when he’s ready.”

I drink my tea, more to fortify my courage than out of thirst. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. He doesn’t remember anything of his past.”

Mehtap tilts her head. “How curious,” she says. “If his memory’s been burned away, and he’s been abandoned with no sign of where he’s from…”

“He’s tried to remember,” I say, “but there’s nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing at all?” asks Arxa.

“We only have two clues,” I say. “He has a brand on his wrist. His body is also greatly scarred. I would guess he’s a soldier of some sort.”

There is a glint of interest in Arxa’s eye. “A mystery patient,” he says. “That is very intriguing indeed.”