He glanced over his shoulder. “There is no one quite like me,” he said, winking. Lena blushed furiously. That wasn’t at all what she had meant. “Good evening, huntsman, Rogue,” he said, inclining his head to each of them in turn.

And with that, Lord Chatham rode off through the indigo dusk, gray cloak flapping in his wake. Emris wheeled the carriage into a slow, circling descent. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. The encounter had affected him more than Lena could understand.

“What did he mean about the theft?” she asked tentatively.

“When Constance left the city, she stole something of his,” he said, apparently reluctant to talk about it.

“And what about when he said that some people don’t need superstitions to control their magic?” Lena asked as the temple district grew closer and closer. She held out the card. “Is that what this means by ‘Independent Certified Magician’?”

Emris sighed. “Yes. Lord Chatham and a few others like him claim that they don’t need the gods or the learning of the temples to control their magic. Instead, they pass a series of tests and are independently certified by the King, bound to his service.” He shook his head. “They would argue that that’s the way it was two thousand years ago, before the gods revealed themselves to humankind—that, therefore, there is something to it. But I don’t like the idea of gambling with Chaos.”

Lena watched the temple district draw closer. When she was sure Emris wasn’t looking, she rested a hand over the butterfly in her pocket, stroking its delicate wings. She had left the only home she’d ever known—the person who’d made it a home lost to her forever. What’s more, she was heading for a place where she’d be forced to pledge herself to a religion she’d always been warned against and a practice—magic—she’d long been taught to fear. But if haughty Lord Chatham was right and you could control magic without the gods, perhaps there was a middle way after all…

She hadn’t liked the man, and she squirmed at the memory of how his eyes had first rested on her birthmark. But she slipped his card into the pocket, alongside the butterfly. It might just be another piece in the puzzle of figuring out where she really belonged.

SIX

The Garden

It was just past midnight. Constance stalked the narrow passage through the castle walls and past the west tower, heading for the gardens, her face buried in the upturned fur collar of her dress. She had stayed late at the feast, until there was no one left (or at least no one conscious enough) to observe her departure. Lord Irvine had slipped out earlier. Constance had borrowed a lantern from outside the doorway of the great hall; one cracked pane allowed a breath of air to tremble and tease the flame within.