“Good.” It hurt, though. I wanted to see her. I wanted to talk with her. But if anyone saw us together, they would know. If anyone even saw us looking at each other, they would know who I was. “Is she all right? Is she safe? Did you tell her we still have Zara?”

He nodded. ::Yes to all.::

“Thank you.” I wished I could rest my head against his shoulder, but even if that was who we were—people who casually showed affection—Chenda had warned me against letting anything touch the false tattoos. That probably included Aaru.

His hand slipped on the railing, toward mine. The quiet code came fast. ::I asked about your father.::

My breath caught.

::I’m sorry.::

I choked on a sob I wouldn’t release. I’d known, hadn’t I? If Father wasn’t here, then he’d died back there.

Still, the confirmation burned, and I almost wished Aaru hadn’t said anything, but then I would have spent all night wondering. ::Hristo’s father?:: Because my protector needed answers, too.

Aaru shook his head. ::Gone.::

I let out a long breath. One, two, three, four, five: those were the heartbeats it took for me to exhale. Both fathers deserved my grief, but I couldn’t let it show here. Instead, I pushed it aside, smothering those feelings to address later.

Behind us, the buzz of activity intensified, and we turned to find the Hartan matriarchs arriving in a swirl of soft robes, and then a trio of warriors just behind them. As the island governments spread throughout the crowd, I watched to see if anyone recognized me. But no one spared me a second look, except for Dara Soun of Bopha; when she saw my false tattoos on one cheek, my scar on the other, I could see her making a note to introduce herself later.

I turned to Aaru. “We’ll have to start talking to people soon. Before anyone who knows me decides to walk over.”

A pained look crossed his face, but he nodded. This, too, was something we’d discussed: there would be dozens of people here who knew me, and we would need to make it difficult for them to ask personal questions. Besides, we had to find Nine, and there was only one way to do that.

Soft clinks sounded as someone tapped their glass to gather attention, and then the Fire Ministry emerged onto the roof, High Magistrate Paorah in the lead. The guests quieted as they all turned to look.

The high magistrate had a softer face than most people expected, with small eyes and a weak jaw, but keen intelligence in his gaze. He always looked as though he was weighing, measuring, calculating the motives of the people around him. He had the kind of stare that prodded people for their weaknesses and waited patiently for the best moment to expose them. As he looked over the crowd of island elite he’d assembled, I forced my expression into anything that the Hopebearer would not wear: haughty, judgmental, expectant. It didn’t matter what he thought of me, as long as he didn’t think I might be Mira Minkoba.