“Oh, immeasurably.” He licked a droplet of amber from his weak attempt of a mustache. The God of Hair had wasted all the good strands on his eyebrows. “A good nickname, Scratch, is a story of its own. It’s a ballad.”

“It’s a word.”

“Two, you’ll find.” He wriggled his nose. “Or a compound word, at least.”

“It’s cheating. You gave it to yourself.”

“Did I?” He arched an eyebrow. “Or did Burnfen think of it on his own?”

“No, you did. Remember, darling, we were out at the pub—”

“Thank you, Scratch. If you could lower your voice a touch, that would be lovely; there’s a dear.”

“And you said to Burnfen—after several pints of course, ‘I do love your new name for me.’ To which he replied, ‘What name’s that?’ And you said—”

“Scratch, I will poke your eyes out I swear to the God of Threats.”

“‘Bowstring, of course, because I’m tall and lean and I can use a—’”

“If you’re picking on me to assuage your nerves, it’s very mean and small,” he sniffed, pointedly shifting away. “Go ahead, then. Be nervous. Big night for you. Are you really sure about those pants?”

That popped her bubble. She speared a potato, squeezing her fork so hard the blue veins on the back of her hand popped out. “Lake veins,” her mother had called them. The water of the Tangled Lakes flows through you. Purpose Keyes had been wrong, of course: Scratch was filled with blood, just like everyone else. Blood and bone and viscera, all turning to sausage within the casing of these ridiculous pants. If she hadn’t been wearing undergarments, they would likely have made their way up to her throat by now.

“At least someone else looks as miserable as you do right now.”

Scratch lifted her head. “Hmm?”

James jerked his thumb towards the dais. Beside the king, the princess poked forlornly at her meal, nodding diligently as the king’s wizard whispered in her ear, his long, oily hair trailing on the wooden table.

Scratch shivered. “I’d be miserable too if I had to sit next to Gorn.”

“Nah. She likes Gorn.”

“She likes Gorn?”

He nodded. “Ferrin is guarding her now. He says she likes Gorn.”

“Which Ferrin?”

“Ginger Ferrin.”

She scoffed. “Gossip.”

“Sure,” he conceded. “But an honest gossip.”

“Oh yes, a model gossip.”

“The gods’ own gossip. Anyway, Ginger Ferrin says the princess likes Gorn and hates Levon.”

Levon. Scratch spared a glance for the King’s Hand as he sucked on a bit of hambone, his craggy lips glistening with pork fat and the sticky remnants of ale. Heavy rings loaded his thick hands, the largest sitting atop his pinky like a silvery fortress.

“Well, if given a choice between the two . . .”

“And, if you please,” James leaned in close, batting his overlarge eyelashes, “Ginger Ferrin says the princess has a lover.”