“I’ve already forgotten it.”

It was a flat-out lie. The print of his touch still warmed my back.

As he led me down a long hallway, he didn’t seem quite sure what to do with his hands, and his eyes kept drifting sideways to catch glimpses of me. If I’d noticed him glancing at me, I must be looking at him, too. I peeled my gaze off the clean lines of his face and stared resolutely at the portraits of long-dead Falcons on the walls.

He stopped at last at a sturdy oak door. “Here we are.” He eyed the handle as if it might transform into a viper at any second. “Are you ready?”

I took a deep breath. “Probably not. But I’m willing to try.”

“Brave lady.” He flashed me a grin, showing dimples I hadn’t noticed before. “But I already knew that.”

I warmed inexplicably at the words.

Verdi squared his shoulders and knocked on the door.

“Go away,” a rough voice called in response. “I warned you, if you come in here again, I’ll give you a matching pair.”

He gave me a you see how she is shrug. “Perhaps another time, my lady,” he said.

“It’s all right.” If I didn’t do this now, I’d lose my courage. “Excuse me,” I called out. “I’m Amalia Cornaro, your new Falconer. I was hoping to meet you.”

There was a pause. Then she replied, “Come in, then. I suppose I’d better see your face, so I can hate it better.”

“My lady, you don’t have to do this,” Verdi murmured. “If I send you home with a black eye, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I don’t bruise easily,” I assured him.

I opened the door.

Chapter Four

The room would have been quite pleasant if it didn’t look as if animals had been nesting in it. The wardrobe stood open, with everything from petticoats to corsets strewn across the furniture and floor. Plates streaked with sauce and half-full glasses stood on tables, chairs, and windowsills, and lay spilled and broken on the rug. Warlocks needed to eat a lot to fuel their magic, but I still didn’t see how one skinny girl could have consumed so much in less than a full day. To complete the disaster, every drawer and chest had been flung open and dumped on the bed. Ink and cosmetics stained the fine coverlet.

In the center of the chaos stood the girl from yesterday, a wild cascade of unbrushed curls tumbling down her back. She wore a midnight-blue gown that must have been the finest of the dresses they gave her; it seemed shockingly out of place in the filthy room. She’d been admiring herself in an oval mirror. As I hesitated in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder.

“So, you’re my jailer,” she sneered. “Lady Amalia Cornaro.”