“The Fortress doesn’t train soldiers to fight,” Bram says. “It trains them to survive torture.” A shiver goes through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I pull my cloak more tightly around myself. Bram’s hand goes to my upper back, his fingers resting lightly on my scapula. A comforting token of affection for Rasmus’s benefit, I’m sure. I resist the urge to shake him off. I resist the urge to move closer.

A chilled silence settles over the group as we consider the implications of a challenge in this particular location. I kick a loose pebble with the toe of my boot and send it tumbling toward the river.

“Don’t worry,” Bram says, finally. “I doubt they actually plan to hurt us.”

But the words come out forced and empty. We don’t really know what Norah and the Grand Council might be planning.

“So what are we supposed to do until tomorrow?” Jacey asks.

“Let’s explore the town,” Tessa says, her voice false and overly bright. I shoot a quick, panicked glance at Rasmus, but his expression is the same as always.

Tessa strides off toward the center of town without waiting for a reply. Jacey shrugs and follows her. Then Talon and Niklas do too. Bram and I stay at the back of the group. He now rests his palm at the small of my back. The gesture makes my heart stop briefly, then gallop ahead at twice the speed.

A memory tickles at the back of my mind and I feel the ghost of Bram’s fingers in the precise spot they rest now. Strong. Protective. But that was on another path, in another time. And it meant something different then.

I quicken my steps just enough so that his hand falls away.

The town square in Leiden is even more spectacular than its pier. Every building—humble or grand—is graced by colorful stained-glass windows, and sculptures like the ones we saw on the pier. We pass a bakery with a window depicting a scene of a woman removing a steaming round loaf of bread from a red-hot oven with a long wooden paddle. In front of the building, a giant glass basket overflows with shimmering pastries.

The calligrapher’s shop has a series of windows showing scenes of apprentices learning the craft, heads bent over scrolls of parchments, inky black drops spilling from feathered pens. Across the road, the cobbler boasts a display of glass shoes—slippers, boots, sandals—sculpted in hues of crimson, green, and blue.

The breeze carries the briny scent of the sea.