“There’s cheese in the pantry, and some biscuits I brought back from the dining hall, if you are hungry from the road,” Dancer said. He gestured to a grouping of chairs by the hearth. “Here, come sit by the fire.”

Bird made no move to sit, but stood shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I need to speak with Hunts Alone in private.”

Han wasn’t sure he wanted to visit one-on-one with Bird. “Dancer can hear whatever it is you came to say,” he said. “I don’t mind.” He knew he sounded petulant, but he felt wounded and wanted to wound her back.

Bird looked from Han to Dancer. “No,” she said. “He can’t.”

“Hey, now,” Han said. “You’ve only just come, and Dancer is glad to see you.” He put the emphasis on Dancer.

“It’s all right,” Dancer said. “I’ll visit with Bird later. I was assembling a complicated piece anyway. I’ll get back to it.”

Dancer loped up the stairs, ignoring Han’s pointed look.

“So,” Han said, when Dancer had gone, “we’re alone.” He didn’t know what to think, what to hope for.

Bird folded her arms across her chest, gripping her elbows to either side—a familiar gesture. “I’m not going to shout. Are you coming down or should I come up there?”

Feeling a little foolish, Han walked down the stairs and crossed to the hearth, where the kettle was already steaming. Using a rag, he lifted the kettle and poured water over the leaves.

“Sit down,” he said, waving her to a chair by the fire. She finally sat, and he sat also, resting his hands on the arms of his chair.

Han felt the loss of her friendship like a huge aching hollow in his middle. He and Dancer and Bird had been inseparable every summer of his childhood. This past summer his relationship with Bird had evolved into something more. Memories churned forward, despite his efforts to tamp them down—slow kisses and the warmth of her summertime skin, her drowsy voice as they lay on the riverbank. He’d thought he’d seen his future in her eyes.

Now there were secrets between them, mistrust and betrayal creating a chasm so wide he doubted it could ever be bridged. She was a Demonai warrior, committed to a thousand-year-old fight against wizards. She’d chosen that vocation despite the fact that Han was a wizard. She’d chosen it instead of him.

“So you’re a full-fledged Demonai warrior now?” he said, fingering the worn damask on the arm of the chair.

She nodded. “Since November.” Silence grew between them again, until she said, “You’re looking well. Are you taller than before?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” Once, they’d measured their heights against each other. “It seems like being a warrior agrees with you.”