Lena lifted herself onto her elbows and looked up. Despite the eggshell-pale mask covering his face—swirling with fire patterns around the eyes—his voice was unmistakable. “Emris?” He was holding the cat—purring fiercely—in his arms.

She scrambled to her feet. Her ears were ringing, a bruise rising at the side of her head. She stood in a nondescript redbrick corridor, the high ceiling shaped into a pointed arch. “What—?”

“Draw up your hood and follow me,” he commanded softly, setting down the cat and pulling his own gray hood down over his mask. “In the halls of the masked god, we can never be certain who to trust.”

The masked god? Her heart lurched. She followed Emris at a brisk pace down the long corridor. As the passage wound deeper into the building, it broadened out, red brick melding to stone, doors appearing on either side. The cat slunk away down a different passage. Despite the late hour, they passed a handful of other people wearing masks and loose purple robes, each mask as individual in decoration and even expression as their robes were uniform. One woman stalked past in close-fitting black, her hood pulled low, the smell of blood following in her wake. Lena shuddered.

Eventually, Emris stopped at a wooden door that opened into a modest, dark room, a fire crackling in a large fireplace. He shut the door behind them, locked it, and set his torch in an empty sconce on the wall. The room was windowless but contained a single bed, a desk, and a wooden chair, as well as two battered armchairs in front of the fire. Emris removed his mask, setting it on a stand on the mantelpiece. The painted flames around the eyes shone in the firelight. A mirror with a strange iridescent sheen hung on the wall next to the bed. He took a taper and walked around the room, lighting the candles.

“We haven’t got much time. The palace guards are searching for you in every corner of the city,” he said, “and the initiates of Mythris are not known for their trustworthiness. I’m sure the King has several in his pay.” He blew out the taper and signaled for Lena to sit in one of the low chairs by the fire.

“Tell me what’s going on.” She rubbed her forehead and whispered, “What is this place? Why are you …?” She gazed around a second time. The room showed definite signs of habitation: the half-empty glass on the table, the crumbs on the floor.

He sighed. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Like Constance, I am an initiate of the masked god, and by Mythris’s nature we are sworn to secrecy. But now, of course, the truth can hardly be avoided.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if the whole situation were entirely ordinary.

“I don’t understand. You’re…”