Han sat in a straight chair, his hands gripping the armrests, hearing every third word. His mind’s eye strayed to that rose tattoo on her collarbone, to her tiny waist, to the green eyes shadowed by thick lashes and black brows set against her tawny skin.

It was a special kind of misery to recall her fresh-air scent and forthright kisses. It had been a pleasure to kiss someone who seemed to enjoy it as much as he did.

An inside door connected Han’s quarters to the queen’s, meant to allow the servant that was supposed to be living there to come and go in privacy. While attending Raisa in her rooms, Magret kept it locked, and rattled the lock several times a day—a warning to the wizard on the other side.

Han mastered the lock his first day. And then it took all the self-discipline he had to stay on his side of the wall.

He fetched his own water from the pump in the courtyard and either ate in the dining hall or carried food back from the kitchens himself. While he wanted to fit in with bluebloods, he wasn’t going to chance food or drink that had been sitting unattended in the hallway or carried by a servant. There were too many people who would like to see him dead, and too many slick clan-made poisons that could be added to food and water undetected.

Each of his rooms had its own fireplace. Darby Blake, Han’s personal servant, had the idea he would slip in when Han was out and replenish the stack of wood and fill the water pitcher and empty the chamber pot. Han had to break him of that because he’d laid charms on all the doors and windows to keep out intruders. Servants could be threatened, charmed, or bribed. So Han carried his own wood from a bin along the corridor just outside his room and set his chamber pot outside when it needed attention.

Darby was always there, ready to receive his slop jar like it was a privilege or a gift.

For Han, living in the palace was a lot like living in Ragmarket—surrounded by enemies, with death always a footfall away. Only plusher. There were several dining halls. Like taverns, some catered to the quality and others to the working class. The food was always good and there was plenty of it, even though others in the queendom might be starving. Any time of the day or night, food could be had.

His sitting room led onto a terrace that overlooked the courtyard in the center of the palace. The stone walls of Fellsmarch Castle afforded plenty of handholds and footholds for an experienced second-story thief. The walls took him to the roof, to the glass gardens up there, and the roof took him wherever else he wanted to go.