She walked forward, out of the alley, raised her head, and looked into a pair of blue eyes she thought she’d never see again. Her heart swelled almost to bursting, and she struggled to breathe, to force air past the lump in her throat.

“Blessed Hanalea, it is you,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears too sudden to prevent.

“Hello, Rebecca,” Cuffs Alister said, then rushed to add, “Hey, now. Don’t look so peaked. I an’t a spook, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“But I heard you were dead,” Raisa said, almost accusingly. “They found your bloody clothes on the riverbank.”

Cuffs shrugged. “I needed to get the bluejackets off my back. So I faked it.” He smiled, an oddly painful smile. “Guess it worked.”

Resurrection seemed to suit him. He was dressed more finely than she remembered. Not extravagantly, but his clothes looked new, of good-quality fabric. They fit him well, revealing a tall, spare frame and broad shoulders under a wool cloak.

Last time Raisa had seen him, his hair had been shaggy, dyed a dirty brown, and he’d been wearing clan garb. Now his hair had been recently cut. It glittered like spun gold under the streetlights. It was like one of those old romances where the pauper swaps out his rags and becomes a prince.

His face was different, too. Last she’d seen him, he’d been bruised and battered from the beating the Queen’s Guard had given him. Now she saw he had high cheekbones and a long straight nose with a little bump on it, as though it had been broken. There were shadows carved into his features that hadn’t been there before, a history and an expectation of pain.

“What are you doing here?” Raisa asked, her bubbling questions bursting into speech.

“I go to school here. Same as you.” Cuffs looked over her shoulder, into the alley. “Let’s slide off now, before your friend finds his courage again.” He paused, tilting his head. “Or do you want to call the provosts?”

He probably wasn’t in the habit of calling on the law.

Raisa imagined that messy scene, the crowd it would draw, and shook her head.

“Then let’s go.” He directed her left, toward the river, with a hand between her shoulder blades. There was a buzz to his touch, a heat and a tingle, almost like…

“Would you like to walk up to Bridge Street?” he asked. “We could tip a cider and talk.”

Raisa practically skidded to a halt. Cuffs looked down at her as if worried he’d overstepped. “I mean, unless you got other plans. It’s just…I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’d rather not go to Bridge Street,” Raisa said. “After all that’s happened, I don’t want to be out among people.”

“Well, then,” he said, scraping his fingers through his hair. “I could walk you back to Grindell.”