The Falconer’s voice rang out above the clamor of the growing crowd across the canal. “In the name of His Serenity the Doge, I claim you for the Falcons of Raverra!”

That certainly got her attention. The flames bent in his direction as if in a strong wind.

“I don’t belong to you, either!” Her voice was wild as a hissing bonfire. “You can’t claim me. I’ll see you burn first!”

Now she was going to kill him, too. Unless I stopped her.

My heart fluttering like an anxious dowager’s handkerchief, I struggled to calm down and think. Maybe she wouldn’t attack if I didn’t rush at her. I tucked my precious satchel under my coat and hustled toward the bridge as if I hoped to scurry past her and escape. It wasn’t hard to pretend. Some in the crowd on the far side beckoned me to safety.

My legs trembled with the urge to heed them and dash across. I couldn’t bear the thought of Muscati’s pages withering to ashes.

I tightened my grip on the jess.

The Falconer extended his hand toward the girl to keep her attention. “By law, you belonged to Raverra the moment you were born with the mage mark. I don’t know how you managed to hide for so long, but it’s over now. Come with me.”

The balefire roared at him in a blue-white wave.

“Plague take you!” The girl raised her fist in defiance. “If Raverra wants my fire, she can have it. Let the city burn!”

I lunged across the remaining distance between us, leaping over snaking lines of flame. Eyes squeezed half shut against the heat, I flung out an arm and looped the jess over her upraised fist.

The effect was immediate. The flames flickered out as if a cold blast of wind had snuffed them. The Falconer still recoiled, his arms upraised to protect his face, his fine uniform doublet smoking.

The girl swayed, the fire flickering out in her eyes. The golden jess settled around her bone-thin wrist.

She collapsed to the flagstones.

Pain seared my hand. I hissed through my teeth as I snatched it to my chest. That brief moment of contact had burned my skin and scorched my boots and coat. My satchel, thank the Graces, seemed fine.

Across the bridge, the gathering of onlookers cheered, then began to break up. The show was over, and nobody wanted to go near a fire warlock, even an unconscious one.

I couldn’t blame them. No sign remained of ruffians in the canal, though the burned smell lingered horribly in the air. Charred black scars streaked the sides of the buildings flanking me.

The Falconer approached, grinning with relief. “Well done! I’m impressed. Are you all right?”