“Oh, I don’t mean now. What I propose is that, well, Kylar, that you get betrothed. Ilena’s been infatuated with you for years, and I propose that we give it a couple of years to see if anything comes of it, while you’re . . . well, while you’re learning my business.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir. In fact, I’m sure I don’t understand.”

The count slapped his pince nez against his hand. “Kylar, I want you to—I want to give the chance to leave the life you’re in. Learn my business and take it over for yourself someday. I’ve spoken with the queen, and with her permission, I’ve found out that we could transfer my title to you. You’d be a count, Kylar. It’s nothing special, I know, but it would make you legitimate. You could be what you’ve been pretending all these years.”

Kylar’s mouth dropped open. “Transfer your title? What do you mean, transfer it?”

“Oh, Kylar, the title hasn’t done me any good anyway. Bah! I don’t have any sons to pass it on to anyway. You need it and I don’t. Anyway, I want to do this, even if the whole betrothal with Ilena doesn’t appeal with you. This would give you time, Kylar. Time to figure out what you want to do with your life. It cuts you free. Free of them.”

Free. Out of the Sa’kagé. It was the most noble gesture Kylar had ever heard of—and after last night, it was too late.

Kylar looked at the floor and nodded. “It won’t work, sir. I’m sorry. Believe me, I’m . . . You’ve been more than kind to me, far kinder than I deserve. But I don’t think that”—he nodded toward the picnic Logan and Serah were sharing—“is for me.”

“I know you’re planning on leaving, Kylar.”

That was the count. Right to it. “Yessir,” Kylar said.

“Soon?”

“I meant to be gone already.”

“Then maybe the God led me to speak with you now. Durzo told you not to listen to my preaching, I suppose?” Count Drake was looking out the window, but his voice was aggrieved.

“He said if I believed you, it’d get me killed.”

“A fair enough statement, I suppose,” Count Drake said. He turned and faced Kylar. “He used to work for me, you know.”

“Excuse me? Durzo?”

That brought a small smile.

“Before he was a wetboy?” Kylar could hardly imagine that there had been a time before Durzo Blint was a wetboy, though he supposed there must have been.

The count shook his head. “No. He used to kill people for me. That’s how we know each other. That’s how he knew he could trust me with you. Durzo doesn’t have much of a social life outside his work, you know.”

“You? You ordered kills?”