Jerith laughed. “Oh, don’t be coy, my lady. Your Council secrets are safe with me. Anyone who’s heard word of their troop movements knows they’re preparing for an invasion. It’s only proper we afford them the same courtesy in return.”

Marcello approached, a frown marring his brow. I couldn’t help but appreciate the flattering lines of his uniform doublet, despite all my efforts to remind myself over the past six months that we weren’t courting, couldn’t court—at least not yet. I wasn’t ready to throw away the power of political eligibility. But this uninhabited speck of an island he’d picked for our practice lay far beyond the prying eyes of gossips and rumor sheet writers; so when he stopped almost within hand-holding range, I edged a step closer to him instead of moving away.

“We should try that again,” he said. “For longer, this time.”

I eyed the tangle of brush and overhanging branches surrounding the charred spot where Zaira’s flame had burned. “Maybe in a place where it won’t spread quite so easily.”

Marcello scanned the beach. “How about there?”

He gestured to a line of barnacle-crusted rocks that extended into a thin spit a short distance down the beach, at the point of the island’s crescent. Balefire could burn on stone—or water, for that matter—but at least a chance breeze wouldn’t dip a tree branch into the flame.

Zaira shrugged her indifference, so we started over in that direction. She seemed in no hurry, and though I’d worn breeches, my city boots turned awkwardly on the soft, sliding sand; we soon fell back behind the others.

It was just as well. There was something I needed to ask her, a gnawing unease I had to face.

“Jerith’s right,” I said quietly. “It’s no feint, this time. Vaskandar is preparing for war. And you know what the Council will ask you to do.”

“Yes, I heard. Musketeers, chimeras.” She tugged gently at the jess on her wrist, as if testing whether it might come off at last. “Should be easier than burning some scraggly old bush, frankly. Small is harder.”

“Are you …” I tried to think how to phrase my question. “How do you feel about this?”

“Why does everyone ask about my feelings? Graces’ tits, you and Terika …” She clamped her mouth shut.

“Perhaps we care about you.”

Zaira snorted. “Must be nice to have the luxury to worry about bilge like that. In the Tallows, you learn feelings are worthless. They’re what drunkards piss away the morning after.”

Some things were worth arguing with Zaira about, and some weren’t. “I don’t want to see you put in a position where you’re forced to use your fire to kill.”