“Can you play?”

I didn’t answer, but instead sat on the bench and began a quiet little piece I knew by heart. When the last note trailed off into the darkness, I rose and walked over to where Tristan sat in the dark. The only light was the one dangling from my wrist, but it was enough for me to see fatigue written in the shadows of his face.

“She set you up,” he said. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Once I found who she was, I figured it out.”

Tristan tilted his head. “And if you had known from the beginning, what would you have done differently?”

I chewed my lip as I thought. Even if I had known it was a ploy, would I have been able to walk away from a woman being whipped? The blood was real, and so was the pain. “I would have done the same thing,” I admitted. “Which is probably pretty stupid.”

Tristan’s mouth quirked. “I’ve found that bravery and wise judgment rarely go hand-in-hand.”

“What would you have done?” I asked.

His smile faded. “I’d have walked away.”

“Oh.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

He rose, coming within an arm’s length. His coat was unbuttoned, and he seemed far more disheveled than usual. “But I’d have wanted to do what you did,” he said. “I suppose that makes you the brave one.”

“And you the smart one,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not so sure about that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve never seen Damia squirm. Ever. You made her confess everything without saying hardly a word. It was a clever bit of work. Reckless, mind you, but clever. I think my father was impressed.”

Pulling his hands out of his pockets, he took hold of my hand and pushed back my sleeve. A ball of light blossomed, and he examined the growing bruises surrounding the welt. “How fearless must you be to step in front of a blow, knowing you would have to live with the injury for days, weeks, even. That you could die?”

I remained quiet, sensing the question was not for me, but rather for Tristan himself.

Carefully, he pulled down my sleeve and then adjusted my cloak so that it covered my shoulders more fully. Then he stepped back. “I need to go.”

“Where?” I asked. It was past the dinner hour, and curfew would fall in another hour. Not that such things restricted him.

“Here and there,” he replied, stopping at the base of the stairs. “I like to walk.”

He would not tell me where, so I did not ask. What I did know was that Tristan paced the city throughout the days and into the nights, only resting when exhaustion pushed him to the brink of collapse. He walked, plagued by melancholy, anxiety, fear, and guilt. Except when I sang and he came to listen. I thought those were the only times he felt any peace.