Shivers was leaning against the wall, pipe in his hand, puffing a plume of chagga smoke a manufactory chimney might’ve been proud to produce. “You’ve a visitor,” he said.

Rikke giggled. “Tell me it’s a handsome man!”

Shivers scratched gently at his great scar. “I’m no expert on handsome, but I have heard him described so.” And he nudged the door beside him creaking open.

Rikke stepped frowning towards it. “Well, this is a tantalising mystery and no—” She stopped just over the threshold, staring. “Bloody fuck.”

He half-sat, half-lay, draped across the cushions on one of those things between a chair and a bed they had down here, a mostly empty glass of wine dangling from one hand. His hair was a damp tangle, his face smudged with dirt, his clothes stained and torn, but his grin was the same as when he’d brought her an egg in bed, and it looked better than ever.

“Bloody fuck, Your Majesty,” said Orso.

“Everyone’s calling ’emselves that these days,” muttered Rikke. “I hear even babies are doing it.”

“Much to my dismay.”

“You look…” She took a step or two into the room. Felt like she couldn’t help it. “A touch less prosperous than last time we met.”

“I can only apologise for my wretched appearance. I have been slightly on the run the last few days.”

“I’d have thought you’d be used to being pursued.”

“Of course. Furious creditors, needy ambassadors, jilted lovers, husbands of jilted lovers, families of jilted lovers and so forth, but Leo dan Brock really does represent a new level of damnable persistence. He’s like a dog with a bone. Lion with a bone, maybe.”

“So you’re the bone?” asked Rikke, raising her brows.

Orso smiled a little wider. “Poor choice of words, perhaps. You look…”

“Like the fucking fortune-teller at an overpriced carnival?”

His eyes moved over her dress, which was clinging somewhat from the rain, then up to her face. Her blind eye and her Long Eye. The black rings pricked into the skin around it. “I was going to say beautiful and mysterious.”

“Oh.” Rikke found she was tidying a damp strand of hair behind her ear and made herself stop. “Well. In that case, proceed.”

“Don’t like this at all,” came Isern’s voice, in Northern. She was right at Rikke’s shoulder, her tattooed arm and her pale tightly folded across her purple ball-dress and her narrowed eyes fixed suspiciously on Orso. “This is dangerous.”

“Never mind that!” said Rikke, herding her towards the door. She was keenly aware of how dangerous it was. Maybe that was the appeal. Maybe she was a moth drawn to the flame and would very soon go up in a fireball.

“You need to think about this, Rikke.” Isern caught the door frame, leaning close to growl under her breath, “Just don’t be thinking with your quim.”

“Yes, yes, make of your quim a stone.” Rikke managed to bundle her out into the hall, wrestled the door shut and leaned back against it with an over-wide grin.