“It doesn’t matter,” said Darkheart. “Show me your hands. Your tattoos.”

Prince Abu put his hands palm up on the blanket. “I’ll tell you what I’d like,” he said. “I’d like a bath.

You can barely see them under the dirt.”

Darkheart ignored him. “What does this one mean?” he asked, pointing to the golden sun.

“All whims must be indulged, all requests granted, all commands obeyed.”

Darkheart laughed. “That—must come in handy,” he said.

“You’d be surprised how seldom.”

“You’re not in the right line of work. Now I, I would find it useful. And you will too, I promise you.

Spider has a plan for you. Spider!”

He shouted, and the boy appeared in the doorway as if he had been listening there.

“Wait,” said Mrs. Darkheart from the floor. She unplugged the baby from her breast and covered herself, but it started to whimper, so she gave it to her husband. It was a little boy, and Abu noticed it had no tattoos, no horoscope. No parson had yet touched it.

“Wait,” said Mrs. Darkheart. She sat down next to Abu on the bed. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“There’s no air in here,” the prince complained. The room seemed crowded with five people in it, now that the baby was awake. “I have a headache,” he said.

“I’m not surprised.” She reached her hand out to touch him; her fingers were dry and cool. “You’re sweating,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“No. I’d like some water.”

She turned to the boy. “Spider,” she said. “Please bring the prince some aspirin and a glass of water.”

He went, with a puzzled expression on his face, and Darkheart, too, showed signs of impatience. “I’m not interested in his comfort,” he muttered, trying to soothe the baby by grimacing and sticking out his tongue.

“Well, you should be,” said the woman. She took up one of the prince’s hands from where it lay on the blanket. “You’re a strange man,” she said. “Why are you here? Aren’t you comfortable in your own house?”

“I have no friends.”

“It’s your conscience. Look, there’s the line.” She brought his palm up to her face, to study it more closely. “Are there many like you? Rich men with consciences. I suppose there must be.”

“We are prisoners as much as you,” said the prince.

“Yes, I can see that. Your hand is much like Darkheart’s. This is your way of breaking out. You don’t have long to live, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Death by fire. Look at this.” She turned over her own hand. There, in the lap of her left thumb, someone had tattooed the mark of the gallows in white ink against her black skin. “How can people be so cruel?

You’re not an informer, are you? You know enough to hang us.”