“I never pretend,” she said, really hurt now, because she was always honest with lovers; it was a lesson she’d taken to heart long ago. “I think you’re the one who’s been pretending something!”

“Well, you see the truth of me now,” he said, and she did. “You use people,” he said. “You never give.”

“That’s unfair!” cried Bitterblue, who’d loved exploring his body, learning what made it sing. “I am a generous lover!”

“You never give your heart,” he said, then swept away through the big doors, visibly upset, probably giving the guards outside her rooms plenty to gossip about.

Alone, Bitterblue sat with a blanket pulled around her shoulders, working through his words. She was certain that he’d been unfair. He’d wanted more than she’d offered. When she hadn’t given it to him, he’d lashed out, as if it was something he was entitled to. This was part of the reason Bitterblue liked Katu Cavenda so much. He took responsibility for his own feelings. When it had been time for Katu to go home and they’d parted with no promises, he’d pulled her close. “I can’t wait to see you again someday,” he’d whispered, breath soft against her ear, “and see what happens.” Pella could have parted that way. Instead, he’d been unfair.

A few minutes later, Helda padded up the hall from her own rooms in a robe and slippers. Of course she did; Helda always knew what was going on. She touched Bitterblue’s hair and sighed gently, her own white hair pulled back messily and her pale face lined with sleep.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” she said, and Bitterblue started to cry.

“I never intended to hurt him,” she said, then glanced up at Helda. “Or wake you, dear Helda.”

“I’ll make you something warm to drink,” Helda said, giving her shoulder a squeeze and shuffling away. The warm drink, placed gently into her hands, comforted her. Nonetheless, Bitterblue sat for a long time, thinking. She’d begun to wonder if Pella’s accusation—not the earlier ones, but the final one—might be true.

On the ship, after the pregnancy scare, when it all came back to her, she did what she always did: She asked Giddon his opinion.

“Do you think,” she said, “that I’m incapable of giving anyone my heart?”

First, a series of indescribable expressions crossed Giddon’s face. Then he said something so on the nose that she went silent, keeping his words close, pulling them out frequently afterward, thinking about them as she lay, nauseated, in her cabin bed.

“Maybe you have too much experience of the bad things that happen when you love someone, and too little experience of the good things,” he said. “Maybe you’re protecting yourself.”