It was a thing he carried with him always, transferring it from pocket to pocket, like a talisman to remind him why he did the things he did. It contained a few small, ciphered notes. They were the notes Bitterblue wrote to him and left on her dinner table on the days when her responsibilities kept her from dinner, and Hava and Skye were elsewhere too. Instead of letting him arrive unexpectedly to an empty table, she always had his dinner served in her absence and left him a note to puzzle over. The cipher key would be something on the table, usually something she’d placed in an odd position. An upside-down fork meant “fork” was the key. A napkin folded into a glider meant “napkin” or “glider” was probably the key. Then the note would say something so typical that he would sit there laughing. It might say, “Apple cake on bookshelf,” so he would search behind the books for his dessert. It might say, “Why didn’t the bear wear socks? Answer hidden among rubies,” which would send him to the crown, which sat on its own table in the room. There, he would find another ciphered note that said, “Because he had bear feet.”

He’d kept every note she’d written him, and he kept his three or four favorites in the envelope in his pocket, always. And the envelope was gone. It was useless to keep looking. He’d been to so many places since the last time he’d checked for it: across the sky in the airship to the Cavenda house, the long walk back again, the journey this morning to the harbor. It could be anywhere.

“What’s wrong?” said Hava, who was watching him with rising impatience.

What was wrong was that Giddon was realizing, with a bright white clarity he’d never had before, that a person did not keep notes like that from a friend, carrying them around like something precious, like a treasure, for no reason. It wasn’t normal, it wasn’t a routine thing to do, and Giddon had never wanted to be Bitterblue’s confidant and counselor as she searched for a husband. He’d loved her. He’d wanted to be her husband. And he’d never said a word, never even tried. Why? Because he was a coward. And now she was dead. She’d died not knowing how cherished she was. He’d done every part of it wrong and now she was dead.

The numbness of his shock made it easier for him to moderate his expression. “Nothing,” he said, with supreme calm. “I lost something.”

“Okay,” said Hava. “Can I help you find it?”

“I expect it’s gone forever,” said Giddon stupidly.