“Because your fortune is the least of your good qualities, Amalia.” It was the first time he’d called me by my name alone. A warm glow blossomed under my ribs.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’m also an eccentric half Callamorne, who often dresses in breeches, and I fiddle about with artifice despite having no magical talent of my own. I’m sure I’d have no difficulty finding suitors if I weren’t fabulously wealthy.”

“I think you’re brave, brilliant, and beautiful.”

He wasn’t smiling. His expression had gone wistful. I nearly tripped over my own heels. “How alliterative.”

It was time to part again, circling around through the other dancers. I kept my eyes locked on Marcello, and nearly went the wrong way twice. I had a close call with a grand lady’s swooshing skirts. My heart pounded against my corset stays.

He’d meant it. He thought I was beautiful. And brilliant, and the rest of it. He was too honest to flatter with a lie.

A twinge of confusion snarled the warmth unfurling in me. Marcello might have a bright future in the Falconers, but he was still no aristocrat. When I’d sighed over Domenic, I used to worry my mother would consider a viscount too far beneath me to approve a courtship. But questions of rank and station seemed distant and irrelevant when Marcello was here, now, gazing into my eyes across the sea of dancers.

The music brought us back together.

“Amalia,” Marcello began. But he broke off, uncertainty vexing his brow.

“Yes?” I tried to keep any turbulence from my voice.

Marcello shook his head. “It’s a fine evening. I wish it were pleasure that brought us here, and not duty.”

For the rest of the dance, a shadow clouded his eyes.

I would have felt less uneasy about our meeting with Domenic the next morning if he had selected a different venue. The low ceiling of the coffeehouse gathered shadows and whispers under its wings, and there may as well have been a sign outside saying, “Welcome, Plotters of Sedition.” It had been hard to convince the guards Marcello sent with us that we wanted a quiet moment for private conversation and they should wait outside.

Zaira seemed unconcerned, and peered around the dim interior with interest as we maneuvered between tables full of the disaffected younger sons of wealthy merchants and minor nobles to join Domenic in the far corner. At least she didn’t seem ready to run off this time.

Domenic rose to greet us in a sudden surge of nervous energy, his attention on Zaira.

“Lady Amalia, Zaira. Have you tried coffee before?” He gestured to the steaming cups already awaiting us on the table.

Zaira shook her head.

I eyed the murky liquid dubiously. “Once. I will confess it was not to my taste.”