Well, yes, Raisa thought, unwilling to say it aloud. But I know what I saw. His fair hair had badly needed cutting, and his blue eyes were as brilliant as she remembered in his appallingly handsome face.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered in cuts and bruises, his arm splinted, courtesy of the Queen’s Guard. Now his face was marked by a different kind of injury—pain and loss and betrayal—and layered with a new wariness.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell one person from another when they’re wrapped up like that,” Amon persisted.

Raisa rubbed her forehead, trying to recall every detail. Now that she thought about it, the boy she’d seen in the stable yard was riding a clan pony. He’d been dressed in expensive trader garb—a boiled-wool cloak and fine clan leatherwork boots.

That didn’t make sense. Alister was a slum dweller—where would he learn to ride a horse? Where would he get one? And why would he be dressed as a trader?

Raisa’s certainty began to crumble. Did she want Alister to be alive so much that she’d conjured a ghost? Had a stranger’s resemblance to Cuffs brought him to mind?

“Even if he were alive, what would he be doing here?” Amon said, his voice a constant drip-drip-drip against her hopes.

“I don’t know,” Raisa said, too stubborn to concede. “Maybe he’s going to school, too. Or maybe he’s just hiding out here until things settle down in the Fells. Like me.”

“He’s not like you, Rai,” Amon said. “He’s a thief and a killer, and you’re—”

“You’re right, of course. There’s nobody like me,” Raisa said, wrapping her arms around her knees and feeling sorry for herself.

Amon raked his fingers through his wet hair so it stuck up in all directions. “Why do I get the impression you hope it was him?”

“Well,” Raisa conceded, “I hope he’s not dead.” Ever since she’d heard that Alister had been murdered, she’d felt hollowed out and guilty. She’d failed him, like the queen had failed all the desperate residents of Ragmarket and Southbridge.

“If you’re going to hope, then hope that he’s alive and happy someplace far from here,” Amon said. “Eventually you’re going to be recognized, but I’d like to put it off as long as possible.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his carry bag and wedged them onto a free corner of the table.

“Alister doesn’t know who I really am,” Raisa said. She blew on her tea to cool it, and took a cautious sip. “So he can’t give me away.”