“Why not? Are there regulations against Falcons going armed?” That didn’t seem right; they were soldiers. I knew I’d seen Falcons carrying weapons at the Mews.

Zaira shrugged. “Something about a fist to the eye being bad enough without a dagger in it.”

I bit my lip. If Marcello hadn’t armed her, it seemed impolitic and perhaps unwise to contradict his decision. But Zaira stared a challenge at me. This was a test.

“Well, so long as you don’t plan to stab any party guests in the eye—or anywhere else, for that matter—I see no harm in it,” I said lightly. There would be a full complement of imperial guards at the reception, after all, in plain sight and watching for assassins.

“Huh.” Zaira tilted her head back in apparent surprise; Rica gently corrected her position to begin styling her hair. “You trust me with a weapon?”

“I trust you not to make stupid mistakes.”

Zaira laughed, full and raucous. “Fair enough.”

Rica found a small ornamental dagger for her; Zaira eyed it with disdain, but took it anyway. The slim golden sheath provided a dashing accent against the vibrant silk of her gown. The blade itself would likely snap off if she actually stabbed anyone with it; still, Zaira seemed more content to sit through the application of subtle color on her lips and cheeks now that she had it. Her hand dropped to touch the dagger once or twice, as if for reassurance.

“There,” Rica said proudly when she was done. “Come look in the mirror. You’re a vision of the Grace of Beauty.”

She was hardly exaggerating. With jeweled pins in her hair and acres of red silk setting off her shining dark hair and olive-bronze skin, Zaira was nothing short of gorgeous.

Rica wheeled out a tall mirror from its corner, and Zaira stared at her reflection with an expression of shock. She touched an artful tendril of hair cascading down from the great elegant pile on her head, then her own face, as if wondering whether they might belong to someone else. Then she spun, watching her skirts swirl out like a little girl, and laughed.

“You’re going to turn heads at the ball.” I gave Rica an approving smile. She grinned back, pleased at her handiwork.

“Damned right I will,” Zaira crowed. Then her face sobered. “What poor bastards am I threatening?”

“What?”

“By attending this party.” She turned from the mirror to face me. The lamplight caught her eyes, bringing out the sharp black ring of the mage mark against their murky brown.

I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t care if the doge’s grand plan is to take over the world or to bugger a goat. But if he’s using my fire to make some sorry wretch wet himself, I want to know who.”