“Still suspicious about the Outis death?” she asked with a sly smile. She had told him nothing about the mysterious Mr. Reis, the prince who had created Outis and also, as promised, uncreated him, but Khabir had clearly been vexed by the news of the author’s death. Fae might have said something, but she was home once more. She had left after Miranda assured her (without rancor, without resentment) that she had learned and healed enough to take care of herself, that the town house was safe in Kieran’s hands, and that the mystery had been solved as much as possible.

Lying to Fae had been too easy, just as saying goodbye to Khabir now was too easy, but Miranda had found herself surprisingly tired of being grateful.

“Coincidences happen,” said Khabir. “He didn’t live what you might call a healthy life, and heart failure isn’t that unusual an end.”

“Well, then,” said Miranda, her words meaningless but her tone final.

He gave that small smile again. “I suppose you don’t need the distraction anymore. I’m glad you’ve let go of your obsession with that case.”

Miranda sniffed. “As if you weren’t as intrigued. You still are, I think.”

He shrugged. “Loose ends. I’m accustomed to that, but still . . .”

He sighed a little sadly, and Miranda recognized the sound. It was that depression he got after a big case or project until the next big thing turned up, a depression that had trained him to know all the wine bars and rum shops within walking distance of his office and the law courts. The thought brought an unexpected wave of envy. She was still not allowed alcohol. She picked up one of her canes and absently prodded the low hedge of bright pink flowers that bordered the patio, trying to ignore her own melancholy.

They both heard the sound but were slow to react, expecting any noise and shadow in the twilight to be the scheduled cab. It was indeed a cab, but instead of drawing up to the patio, it paused halfway down the long drive, deposited a sole passenger, and departed again with an unusual haste that raised white clouds of dust from the unpaved edges of the road.

Unfazed by this strange behavior, the passenger turned his back on the cab and began to walk toward them. He wore a long, draping coat and a hat pulled low—appropriate garb for late-year fogs in the City, but terribly out of place on the dry, warm plateau where the villa was located. By the time he was ten meters away, there was no longer any need to guess who he was. Miranda clutched her cane, the flowers forgotten, and wondered what in the world she was going to do.