By the time he reached the common room, Rebecca was gone.

The patrons stared at Han with greedy interest. He ran out onto Bridge Street, looking both directions, and saw her, head down, striding back toward Wien House and her dormitory.

He raced after her, dodging students and faculty who strolled the streets, enjoying the spring weather.

His long legs proved an advantage—that and the fact that Rebecca was crying flat out and probably couldn’t see where she was going. Han caught up with her and took hold of her arm.

“Rebecca, please, please, don’t run off,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said the things I did.”

She just shook her head, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as if she could make him disappear. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “Leave me alone. I’m going back to my room.”

But she made no move to do so, just stood in the middle of the street, fists clenched, while the crowds parted on either side of her, staring and nudging each other.

“Come on,” he said, sliding an arm around her shoulder and guiding her back toward the bridge. He looked up at the sign that swung over the doorway. The Scholar and Hound. “Let’s go in here.”

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either, so he herded her through the door and into the warmly lit interior. It was crowded, but he spotted two bleary-eyed students leaving a table in the corner. He shouldered his way through the standees and claimed it, staring down a hulking cadet in a beer-stained tunic lurching toward it.

“The girlie needs to sit down,” Han said. “Back off.”

The cadet backed off, peppering him with black looks. Han settled Rebecca into a chair facing the corner, to make her tear-stained face less apparent. He sat facing the room, his usual position, and motioned to the server. He held up two fingers and tapped his midsection, and she nodded, moving off toward the kitchen.

Han looked back at Rebecca; she’d undergone a transformation. She’d wiped the tears from her face, and the ragged quality was gone from her breathing. Even her hair was in better order. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were still pink, or Han would have never known she’d been crying. She’d tapped into that steel core of hers, pulled herself together, and put on a street face to hide the misery within.

The girlie’s tough, for a blueblood, Han thought. Maybe tough enough to be with me. But something’s eating at her. Should it worry me that she’s so good at keeping secrets?