“Ignazio’s a traitor,” I said. “He drugged you. I’ll explain while we run.”

Zaira’s eyes fluttered open in response to mere shaking. The girl burned through potion as quickly as she went through food.

“That filthy rat,” she spat. “Drugged! I’ll kill him myself.”

“We need to get out of here,” I said. “We have to rescue the children. If we don’t hurry, they’re going to kill them.”

Zaira swore. Together, we hauled Marcello to his feet, though between her slight frame and still unsteady legs, Zaira couldn’t take much of his weight.

“Don’t forget, we need tools to open the grate,” she reminded me.

“Right. One moment.” I dashed upstairs to grab my bag of artifice tools. My ears strained for any sign of Ignazio waking, but the rest of the house remained silent while I thundered back down to where Zaira struggled to hold up Marcello against his inexorable slide toward the floor. We made quite a set as we staggered into the foyer, heading for the door.

Beatrix stood before us, a dagger shaking in her hand.

“Stop,” she squeaked. “You’re not to leave. The master’s orders.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Zaira snapped. “Release me, and I’ll burn her down.”

Beatrix dropped the knife with a clatter and bolted. We limped to the door and threw it open.

Waiting for us in the street were my broken-nosed friend and an overmuscled colleague, both with swords drawn.

“Still no time!” Zaira cried in disgust. “Say it, Cornaro!”

A loud crack jolted straight through my bones, and a flash in my face nearly blinded me. Broken-nose dropped with a gurgling cry, a bloody hole in his chest. Marcello swayed, smoke rising from the muzzle of his flintlock.

The other scoundrel swore, threw down his sword, and ran.

Together, the three of us stumbled out into the chill of the deepening night.

The fresh air seemed to help Marcello and Zaira revive more quickly, and soon we could move at a brisk pace. It was an hour for lingering over the remains of a meal with cheese and wine, so the streets were free of crowds. Only occasional tradesmen heading home late, young gentry flitting from one evening engagement to another, and the carved Graces staring down blank-eyed from the frieze of a temple bore witness to our passage.

It must have been nearly two hours since I took my grace vial. That left me an hour—maybe three or four, if I could keep going through the early poison symptoms—to rescue the children, discredit Savony, and avert a war. Afterward … I couldn’t think of it. I was too alive now for death to be so close, and so real.

A sharp command sounded from around the corner, along with the tramp of booted feet. Zaira swore. “They’re coming to arrest us.”

“They don’t have the authority,” Marcello objected.