Because it could be a mess. Brella wasn’t a fighter. She didn’t understand what could come of this meeting. The stakes, as Scratch could see them, were too high for anything other than calm, reasoned strategy. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t even about Frances. Not really. This was about Ivinscont.

“Take Keyes and Ursus to the dungeons,” Frances commanded.

Scratch went willingly, not even looking back at Brella’s anguished cry.

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

“Were I a poet,” James mused from the floor of his cell, “I might have something to say on this.”

Scratch huddled on her straw mattress and poked at the remnants of what could charitably be referred to as her dinner. “Soldiers aren’t poets.”

He gestured dramatically to the wet stone walls. “Do you see any soldiers about?”

Not as such, no. The guards who had thrown them into the dungeons hadn’t stayed for longer than it took to lock the bars behind them. Aside from James, the only soul Scratch had encountered in their night and day of incarceration was a meek kitchen maid who shoved a dish of lukewarm gruel under the grates and skittered away before Scratch could properly thank her.

“I’d say something about journeys,” he continued, unprompted. “About ending up where we started. Cycles, and all that.”

“A bit on the nose, don’t you think, darling?”

“Forgive me, Scratchalina. The conditions aren’t ideal for art.” He sprawled along the floor like a lazy, overbred cat. “Do you think she’s going to keep us in here long?”

“Not much longer.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She sighed, shoving her food away. “We’ve been here for a full day without interrogation. Any more and she’ll look thoughtless, wasting any valuable intelligence we may have on vengeance. Any less, weak. She needs us hungry enough to talk, but not so hungry that we’re delirious.” She shrugged. “It’s fairly obvious.”

“Clever.” He kicked a cell bar with an outstretched foot. It clanged dully in the echoey space. He hissed at the pain, and she politely kept from mocking him. “I’m surprised she didn’t send your Brella down here with us.”

Your Brella. Despite the chill—which James, irritatingly, seemed entirely immune to—the words warmed her.

It wouldn’t do to dwell. “Frances loves Maisie, and, for all their fighting, Maisie loves Brella. They’re sisters.” She stared at the drippy ceiling, hoping nothing vile decided to off itself into her eyes. “Even if you royally pissed me off I wouldn’t find joy in detaining any, uh, companion of yours.”

“Companion?” He beamed. “You’re so cute.”

“Shut up.”

“Never.” He chewed on his lip. “Have you planned what you’ll say to her?”

“Frances?”

“No, The God of Lizards. Yes, Frances.”