He looked weary and worn down—vulnerable. It was more than his clothes. Purple shadows smudged his eyes, and his face was streaked with dirt. It almost seemed like the spark of optimism that always burned within him was failing.

Impulsively, Raisa reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

He pressed his hand over hers, took a deep breath. “They found another dead wizard down in Pinbury Alley. Older woman name of Hadria Lancaster. Do you know her?”

Raisa nodded. “Slightly. She didn’t spend much time at court. Last I knew, she was in residence at her country home. I wonder how she ended up in Ragmarket.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I wish I knew.” Han met her gaze directly, as if awaiting whatever judgment she meant to impose. She closed her eyes, but his image was imprinted on her eyelids—his golden hair, burnished by lamplight, the faint zigzag scar over his cheekbone, his predator’s grace under the mucky clothes.

Raisa reluctantly withdrew her hand. “Do you have time to talk now?”

“Now?” He looked down at himself, brushing at his clothing as if embarrassed. “Are you sure? I’m sorry. I just…I’m filthy.”

“I know you’re tired,” Raisa said. “But I’ve been gone, and you’ve been unavailable. I need to talk to you before the next meeting of the Wizard Council, and I don’t even know when that is.”

“Can I clean up a little first?” he asked, scrubbing vigorously at his chin with the heel of his hand.

“All right,” she said. “But make it quick. I’m tired, too.”

Five minutes later, he knocked softly, then pushed the door open.

He was still barefoot, but he’d changed into a loose linen shirt and clean trousers. The cap was gone, his hair finger-combed, and he’d washed his face. He looked almost boyish in this fresh-scrubbed state.

“Could you please erect some barricades against eavesdroppers?” Raisa said.

Han circled the room obediently, muttering charms, sliding his hand under his snowy linen shirt to grip his amulet.

When he had finished, Raisa motioned him to the chair opposite hers at the table. He sat, his hands resting on the table, his expression guarded and yet somehow vulnerable. Now that his hands were clean, she saw that the knuckles were skinned and scabbed over. When he noticed her staring, he thrust them under the table, too late.

“What happened to your hands?” she blurted.

“I got into a scrape down in the market,” Han said, grimacing. “I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Why do you go down there?” Raisa asked. “Is that where you’re spending all your time?”