Marcello grunted. “Do you really think if Raverra didn’t protect them, no one would make them fight?”

Zaira scowled, but said nothing.

“You know Terika?” Marcello nodded toward the older of the two girls Zaira had been talking to, who now was drawing something on a scrap of paper that had the other girl breathless with laughter. “Her gift is alchemy. She was born in a remote village in Callamorne. Before word of her reached the Falconers, an assassins’ guild bought her from her father. As soon as she was old enough to stir the magic into potions without spilling, they put her to work making Demon’s Tears. Have you heard of it?”

My breath stopped in my throat. “Yes,” I whispered. But Marcello and Zaira didn’t notice.

“It’s a deadly poison,” Marcello went on. “It takes several hours to kill, so if you’re lucky enough to find an alchemist before it’s too late, they can brew a draft to counteract the poison and keep the victim alive; but they have to take that elixir for the rest of their lives, because there is no true cure. If the poison runs its course, no one can survive it.”

My fingernails dug into my palms. I tucked my hands under the table so the others wouldn’t see.

“The poisons that girl made killed dozens of people before she was seven years old.” Marcello’s voice was fierce but quiet. “She doesn’t know. We got her out and brought her here, where she makes potions that cure, not kill. So yes, I call it peace.”

I stared at the alchemist across the hall. She laughed and swatted playfully at her friend, who must have said something outrageous, by the grin on her face. She could be the one who had made the poison that still flowed in my veins. The timing was about right. We’d never found out who had tried to kill me.

“So you helped one girl.” Zaira’s voice sounded less sure than usual, her brashness hollow. “I was doing fine without you.”

“I could tell you more stories like that, I assure you,” Marcello said. “But what about you? Was the day we found you the first time your balefire hurt anyone?”

Zaira’s face paled, and her lips pressed together. I almost reached out to her, but stopped myself. I doubted she liked being touched.

“I know it’s hard to control,” she snapped. “That’s why I don’t loose it often. Believe me, if I used it on every wretch who deserved it, I’d have burned down the Tallows long ago.”