Magret had said he had a hungry look about him. Was that what she’d meant? And what exactly was he was hungry for?

And then it was gone, replaced by what he called his street face, and Raisa thought maybe she’d imagined it.

He walked toward her, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black, a frequent choice for him these days. But tonight his clothes were uncommonly elegant. Lace cuffs drooped over his hands, and his coat was finely tailored.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing stiffly. “Almost Your Majesty. Having second thoughts about climbing onto the Gray Wolf throne?”

Raisa rocked to her feet, swiping away her tears. “How did you get up here? How did you find me? I’m supposed to be alone.”

“I came up the side,” Han said, nodding toward the edge of the roof as if she should have figured that out on her own. He made a show of looking around. “I thought maybe I’d find Micah Bayar up here,” he said.

“Why would Micah be here, of all people?” Raisa snapped.

“Last night, at the dance, you two were snuggled in so close I worried he might strum you on the fly,” Han said.

“Just stop with the thieves’ slang, all right?” Raisa said furiously. “I have no interest in taking up with Micah Bayar again.”

“Again?” Han raised an eyebrow.

Raisa folded her arms, lifted her chin, and said nothing.

“Anyway, that’s not what I hear,” he said. He paused, and when she volunteered nothing, added, “I can’t believe that you would let him put a hand on you again.”

“It’s complicated,” she said, in no mood for confession. “I’m putting on a show, and not for you. Anyway, what about you and Fiona?”

His eyes narrowed. “Fiona? What about Fiona?”

“At the dance. I never saw two people so wrapped around each other—who were standing up, that is.”

“I can handle Fiona,” Han said.

“That’s exactly what you were doing,” Raisa said sweetly. “Handling her. Why is it that I should be reassured that you can manage Fiona, but you have no confidence that I can manage Micah? That’s condescending, Alister.”

Han shook back the lace and counted off the reasons on his fingers. “Because he has the morals of a flatland slave trader. Because he’s a wizard and you’re not. Because he’s a Bayar. Because no girlie that catches his eye is safe from him.” He paused. “Because I think you still have feelings for him, and he will use that against you.”

“You are wrong,” Raisa said flatly. They stood glaring at each other for a space of time, and then Raisa sighed. “Let’s not fight about the Bayars tonight, all right? Did you really come up here to talk about them?”