Outrage and disbelief conspired to strangle Bitterlich’s voice. Isabelle’s hand clamped down on his shoulder and she steered him unresisting from the room. He staggered out into the cold night air and nearly tripped down the steps.

“Talk to me,” Isabelle said. He got the feeling she’d said it several times, picking through the wreckage of his emotions, looking for signs of life. “Bitterlich, can you hear me?”

“Gah,” was the first utterance, the first syllable his unknotting tongue could form. “That … that…”

“Bitch?” Isabelle suggested.

“Bitch,” Bitterlich agreed. “Unbelievable, shit-tongued, bitch. Saints. Oh my saints.” He rubbed his face with his hands, his pads sweaty. Isabelle guided him along the front of the building and across a pocket park to a fountain, where she sat him down and sat beside him, her one arm draped across his shoulders. It was warm and heavy, one solid, friendly human thing. He practiced breathing and tried to pull himself back together.

When at last he’d stopped shaking—when had he started shaking?—Isabelle asked, “What happened … back then?”

Bitterlich clenched his teeth. “What have you heard?”

“Conflicting reports,” she said.

Silence stretched. Isabelle showed no sign of breaking it.

Bitterlich steeled himself. He’d never talked to anyone about this. What would have been the point? The rumor had followed him around like a badger’s stink, but he would have gained nothing by bringing it up. Not even the pettiest of revenges.

Yet Isabelle changed that calculation. She needed to know. He needed to tell her.

He started slowly, “I met her at a party. I was supposed to be standing post by the door, a military decoration, as if the event might have been invaded by ruffians. People at the capital were more or less used to me by then and had taken to ignoring me whenever possible, but Eulalie was new. She’d been brought in to meet prospective suitors, it being about time to get on with the business of making heirs, but she noticed me. She was nice to me. She’s nice to everyone, it turns out, but to me that was something special. I had been admired … by a girl.”

“A very comely girl,” Isabelle pointed out.

“That fact was not lost on me,” Bitterlich said. “So of course I went and lost my damned mind. I courted her enthusiastically. I had it in my head that I could win her heart and get her to renounce the plans her family had for her. I was her hero and she my object of desire. Absolute romantic drivel, but she kept cheering me on.”

Isabelle said, “I am reminded act three of a lovesick adolescent romance is usually a tragedy.”