“Don’t pity me. I’m a soldier, remember?” She tried for a laugh as she stepped out of Brella’s grasp. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go over it again.”

Brella rolled her eyes, but she complied. “We say, ‘Hello, James. Things have changed. Please have a seat.’”

“Good.” She circled the area like a royal dance master, mapping out the steps. “And he sits. And I say ‘So, remember how I thought that Frances left of her own accord? I was right.’”

“And you do so love being right.”

She felt herself pinking. “Hush. And at this point, I expect him to be stunned silent. So I’ll say ‘Yes. She left with her real lover, another sister of Brella and Vel’s. Her name is Maisie.’”

“Is that really what you want to lead with?”

Scratch put her hands on her hips. “Would it be better if I opened with, ‘Guess what, we’re pawns in a sneaky game of royal chess, and we need to switch our national allegiance if we want to live?’”

Brella shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t play chess.”

“I find that extremely unlikely. Oh, hells.” She groaned, lying down on the ground. “Ugh. It’s rocky here.”

“That means we’re getting close.” Brella offered a hand. “Up you get.”

They didn’t speak as they shuffled along toward the gate. Scratch was too nervous to talk. She couldn’t guarantee words would come out; it was far likelier to be vomit. James had been as much a friend as an appendage for the past fifteen years. If he decided not to go on once he knew the truth, she wasn’t sure she could, either.

She heard a rustling ahead.

“Behind me, Brella,” she hissed, reaching for her knife. She crouched, readied.

“Scratch?” James burst from the foliage, his hair puffed huge and his eyes watery. “Scratch!”

She didn’t have time to sheathe her knife before he came hurtling at her. She tossed it to the side instead and felt herself leap into his arms. Back in the Royal City, she never let him lift her up. Today, it didn’t matter. She squished him and he squished her, and when he finally set her down, his eyes were full of tears.

“Scratch,” he wailed, “I missed you so—did you get a haircut?”

“It’s a long story.” She self-consciously ran a hand over the exposed nape of her neck. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Me first.” He bit his lip. “You had better sit.”

“I have, uh, things to tell you too.” Her hands were clammy. “You should also sit.”

“You first.” He pointed to the ground. “Sit.”

“No, really, James. Darling. Sit.”

“Scratch. Come on. Get on the ground.”

“James, please. Sit.”

“Scratch.”

“James.”

“Scratch!”

“James!”