“For lying to you, back on the ship. You asked me what my intentions toward you were and I said I didn’t have any.” His tongue seemed to have taken on a life of its own and it had decided to babble. “I did have intentions. Ever since we met. I want you. I love you. I don’t know how else to say it. You are so true. You have such courage. You are kind, merciful, and brilliant, and I want the curiosity in your eyes, the compassion in your heart.”

He stumbled to a halt, and stuffed his hat back on his head. “I sound like an idiot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’ll go now.”

“Wait.” Isabelle grabbed his arm. Even with her light touch her needle-sharp talons stung his flesh through coat, cloth, and fur.

She shook her head, looking bewildered. “Why? Why did you say no if you wanted to say yes?”

Bitterlich deflated like an empty sack. Some things were harder to say than others. Some wounds bled, but if he didn’t speak his shame now, he never would.

“Because I’m not a man,” he said, and his voice caught. With an effort he unhitched it and stumbled on like a drunkard down a dark alley. “Eulalie didn’t just shadowburn me that night. Her father pinned me with his bloodshadow and she used her power to unman me. She cut all the nerves, gelded me like a bullock, and tossed me in the gutter.” The world went blurry and his voice broke, but he refused to fall apart. He must be calm, dignified, civilized, not howling in pain like some beast.

“Nothing to be done about it now, of course,” he said with a would-be casualness that wasn’t to be. “I mostly just got on with my life.”

Isabelle looked appalled, though for him or by him he was in no shape to tell. He was adrift in a fog.

“And you thought I wouldn’t want you because of that?” Her eyes shone and her l’Étincelle flared up, pink and purple motes wicking up from her skin along downy feathers and leaping into the air in great clouds, like a firework fountain.

Bitterlich shrank before her anger, even if it was friendly fire. “You said you wanted children of your own someday. You deserve someone who can give them to you.”

She arrested his gaze with her own, eyes he could drown in.

“Did you ever think to ask me about that?” Her voice was calm, sad, disappointed.

Bitterlich winced, for if there was one thing Isabelle could not abide it was other people making decisions for her. She’d take advice, even take orders if she’d agreed to, but never without consent beforehand.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a very small voice. “I was afraid.”