“I’m mostly happy here,” she said, her voice soft and thoughtful. “Though I wish I could go home and see my grandmother more often. It’s a long way to Callamorne, and Lienne, my Falconer, doesn’t travel well. I don’t like to drag her there more than a couple of times a year, even though she says she doesn’t mind. Zaira could be happy here, too. But imagine living all your life knowing you had a fire inside you that could kill thousands of people. Imagine knowing the castle that waited for you, with those soft beds and that warm food, was bait put out for you by people who wanted that fire, to use against their enemies.”

“It’s not—” Marcello began.

“It is,” Terika interrupted him firmly. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but it is.”

Marcello’s lips tightened. He bowed his head. I wished I had words to comfort him that wouldn’t have been lies.

“So here she is,” Terika sighed. “A Falcon after all, comfortable and safe at last in the Mews. And all those sacrifices she made all those years—all the times she went to bed hungry or cold or did who knows what else, knowing there was a castle waiting for her—they were for nothing.” She shrugged. “Of course she doesn’t want to dig it all up again.”

I stared at my hands, folded on the table. They were smooth and soft, bearing no calluses of hard work, unscarred save for the old mark of the assassin’s dagger. I supposed if Zaira didn’t want me to know what had unfolded in her life before the day I looped a golden bracelet over her wrist, well, I could afford her that privacy.

Lienne approached, two steaming mugs in hand. Terika gave us a knowing smile. “She tries so hard,” she murmured. Then she rose to her feet, grinning. “Chocolate! Lienne, you’re a wonder.”

“Made like we do in Loreice, with milk and honey,” Lienne said cheerfully. “Sorry, Lady Amalia, Lieutenant, but I only got enough for the two of us.”

“That’s all right.” I stood, feeling as if I’d left some piece of myself on the chair behind me. “I was about to head home anyway.”

Marcello rose as well. “I’ll escort you to your boat.”

This time, it was both of us who walked in distracted silence, not meeting each other’s eyes. The Mews was Marcello’s home, and the Falcons his family; I could only imagine what must be going through his mind after Terika’s words.

As we passed through the gloomy grand hall, with its marble colonnades and dramatic paintings of Falconer history, we met Colonel Vasante coming in. She bore a sheaf of papers and an expression of relentless purpose. When she saw Marcello, she veered over to him, without slowing her brisk stride.

“Verdi!” she called. “We have orders from the doge.”