I shouldn’t have.

—Notes from Jovis’s translation of Dione’s journal

Mephi’s soft fur beneath my fingertips steadied me. I’d almost lost him to the Ioph Carn. I should have been tired after two battles in just a span of hours; instead, I felt alert and jumpy, my bones thrumming and my heartbeat fluttering against my ribs. Philine and Kaphra had escaped with the sword – a sword that could hurt Alanga. I needed to find a way to tell Lin. Next to me, Ragan was droning on, explaining to Lin the ossalen hibernation process and how few records there were of ossalen in general. She was listening with half an ear, her expression troubled.

And then Chala approached to speak to Lin, and Ragan had enough good sense to shut his mouth. “Eminence, I’d heard about the constructs in the construct army that looked like people. I had no idea they could be so convincing.” His expression was grim. “They fooled me, certainly.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Sai,” Lin said, her voice warm and soft. “My father was skilled – one of the most skilled the dynasty has ever seen. He fooled more than just you.”

I remembered what she’d said about befriending a construct of her father’s making. After we’d chased the spy construct, she’d said her father had a foster-son. Was the foster-son a construct too? I’d forgotten that she’d lived in a palace staffed mostly by constructs. A lonely life, to be sure. She spoke to Chala with the compassion of someone who truly understood.

Yet she’d turned me aside for my station and for my heritage. That still stung. I supposed the wound had occurred less than a day ago. No quick healing from emotional devastation, it seemed. I’d spent so many years being reminded that I was half-Poyer, and then so many years alone on the Endless Sea, almost able to forget. And now, with the respect of the people and my guards, I thought I’d put all of that behind me. I’d thought it didn’t matter anymore.

Apparently it still did – to the one person I wished it mattered not at all to.

I’d let myself grow too familiar with her, let myself believe that, in spite of everything, we could be friends. And in the heat of the moment, she’d kissed me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to forget the feel of her lips on mine, or if I wanted to hold the memory close, trying to keep it from slipping away.

They were still talking, and here I was, my expression as moody and thunderous as a wet season sky, my thoughts distant as the Poyer Isles. Some spy I was – derailed by one kiss.