“Enjoy your dance,” he told the crowd, though he doubted anyone beyond the first few rows could hear him. He dropped from the stage and made for the exit, retracing his steps through the hall to the distant garden. At one point he passed a servant, and the smartly dressed man flung himself against the far wall as if avoiding the path of a hunting beast. It would have made Cyrus laugh if his mood were not so dour.

He burst out the door and into the garden, thrilled for the cool air. He thought Thorda might be waiting for him, but the gazebo was empty. Cyrus collapsed onto the bench in its center, and he sucked in long, deep breaths to calm his heart.

What he had done was right.

It was just.

It was necessary.

And he still felt like shit.

The door to the mansion opened, and Cyrus glanced up. It wasn’t Stasia, come to console him, nor the Coin or even Rayan. To his surprise, Keles walked the cobbled path to the gazebo. Moonlight sparkled off the gold of her dress and the ties of her braids.

“I suspect Thorda would prefer you were still in there prancing about,” she said, and she gestured toward the mansion and the faint sound of music playing within. “Perhaps licking the blood off your blades. A real brutal display to open up the coin purses.”

“You know of Thorda?” Cyrus asked. He adjusted the hood of his cloak to hide his face as she sat next to him. He was trying very, very hard not to stare at her. He was failing very, very hard, too. He could control his swords like a master, but apparently his eyes were beyond taming. The coloring of her makeup mesmerized him. The red and orange merged on her cheeks, then faded away as it trailed toward her mouth, only to be reapplied on her lips, a deep red mark in their center that streaked orange to yellow.

“My uncle has told me plenty, young prince.”

That got his attention off her lips. A flicker of panic danced through his chest, as if he’d been caught committing a crime. He’d relied on anonymity to keep calm amid the crowd. For Keles to know…

“So I take it you’re a member of Thorda’s resistance, then?”

A faint hint of sadness stole some of the starlight from her dark brown eyes.

“I was. No longer. I laid down my sword and shield when Lycaena died.”

Silence grew between them, but it wasn’t awkward, only heavy.

“When Lycaena…” he whispered, judging the distance of years. Suddenly he hated his mask, the skull, the hiding of his sincerity. “You had to have been fighting while yet a child.”