“I heard you were dead,” Mrs. Felda said.

“I’m not.”

“Very good!” With that subject disposed of, Mrs. Felda looked up at Marcus. “Who’s this?”

“His name’s Marcus,” Raesinia said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

“Fair enough,” Mrs. Felda said. “And these two lads?”

“Protection,” Marcus said, feeling as though he ought to hold up his end of the conversation a bit. “The streets aren’t safe.”

“The good Lord knows it,” Mrs. Felda said. “Cora’s over at the back. Look for the stacks of books. Help yourself to a bowl if you’re hungry.”

She moved off without waiting for an answer, attracted by someone shouting her name on the other side of the room.

“She runs some kind of charity?” Marcus said.

“More or less.” Raesinia scanned the room, her mouth set in a frown. “Come on.”

“Stay here,” Marcus told the two guards, and hurried to keep up with Raesinia. They had to step carefully, since every flat surface was occupied, and Marcus had to stop himself from apologizing for nearly treading on people. Eventually, they made it to the vicinity of the big table, and he saw that in the corner beyond it there was what he could only think of as a small fortress made of books. Two haphazard stacks made the walls, with a narrow gap between them. A lantern glowed inside, and by its light Marcus could see a pale teenager bent over a stack of papers.

“Cora?” Raesinia said when they were close enough that the noise from the hall wouldn’t drown her out. “It’s me.”

The girl, Cora, looked up. Her round, freckled face showed signs of many nights without enough sleep, with dark crescents under her eyes that made her look as though she’d been in a boxing match. When she saw Raesinia, though, she lit up, and shot to her feet as if she’d been mounted on a spring.

“Raes!” She ran forward, kicking several books out of her way, and wrapped Raesinia in a hug. Raesinia seemed to take this act of lesse majeste in stride, and ran her fingers affectionately through the girl’s short, spiky hair.

“Cora,” Raesinia said. “This is Marcus.”

Cora looked up and blinked. “You’re Captain d’Ivoire.”

Marcus frowned. “Have we met?”

“Not exactly. I was in the Vendre,” Cora said matter-of-factly. “The night of the siege. The guards were beating a woman because she didn’t want to . . . service them. You came and stopped them, then sent the Concordat men away and put your own in their place.”

“Oh.” Sometimes that awful night blurred together in Marcus’ memory into the roar of the crowd and pools of blood on the stone steps of the ancient fortress. “I’m sorry we had to keep you there.”