An Ardentine accent in the crowd jolted my memory, spilling other images of Ardence from the cauldron of worry that had simmered in the back of my mind since I overheard the intelligence briefing. The old men fishing off the Sunset Bridge, who told Venasha and me grisly stories of the Battle of the Arden, when the imperial infantry had lured Vaskandar into a deadly trap during the Three Years’ War. The heartbreakingly perfect taste and cloud-light texture of the half-penny summernut pastry from the corner bakery across from the university library. Throwing coins in the Wishing Fountain outside the Temple of the Grace of Luck—Venasha had wished for her baby to be a girl, and I had wished for Domenic to notice me. Neither of us had gotten what we wished for, but were happy enough with the results anyway.

My sunny bedroom at the Serene Envoy’s Palace, with its window overlooking the garden. Ignazio would be moving out now, to make room for the new envoy. One with a heavier hand at the tiller, whatever that meant.

Nothing good, I suspected, for the people and places I loved.

“Be careful,” Marcello murmured, pulling me back to Raverra and the bustling market, his breath tickling my ear. “There may be pickpockets in the crowd.”

Willing myself not to flush never worked. “Of course.”

“Our charge possibly among them.”

I looked more sharply at Zaira. Even in the crowded market, most people left an uneasy space around her bright Falcon’s uniform. A brocaded patrician couple eyed me as well, from a distance; the woman whispered to the man behind her hand, no doubt spreading gossip about the Cornaro Falcon. My mother would like that. Or they could be commenting on my breeches, which my mother would like less, but at least my coat was impeccably fashionable this time, covered in baroque gold embroidery over rich green velvet.

Not everyone gave Zaira a wide berth, however. She brushed by a shawled gentlewoman whose dreamy attention stayed locked on the mounds of golden apricots she was perusing.

A moment later, I noticed a dark lump tucked into Zaira’s hand.

Marcello lunged for her arm, turning it to reveal a small leather purse.

“Give it back,” he hissed.

Zaira yanked her arm free. She threw the stolen purse into Marcello’s chest. “Do it yourself.”

No one in the crowd had noticed anything yet, but from the stubborn lines of Marcello’s shoulders and Zaira’s jaw, this could explode into a full-blown scene any minute. The last thing I needed was rumors flying around that the Cornaro Falcon was a thief.

“I’ll do it.” I scooped the purse out of Marcello’s hands before anyone could object.

I hurried to the lady Zaira had jostled, who now contemplated purple-tipped tartgrass, and tapped her shoulder.

“Excuse me. I think you dropped this.”