And he laughs at that. A pleasing sound, a real sound that replaces the lilac with amaranthine delight. And Iseult realizes, with a tiny hitch in her chest, that he might be right: she can see feelings, and what a power that is indeed.

For half a moment, Iseult’s spine unfurls. Her lungs expand. She is glad the Leopold she knows and likes has returned, and she pretends that she and Leopold are truly alone with no Hell-Bard Threads tucked into the narrow hall outside. No Threads of elated Cartorrans to wave like the ocean below.

It is the opposite of reaching for her magic. It is shrinking. It is forgetting. It is stasis. And it is dancing.

She and Leopold spin and slide, dip and sweep. The moves repeat every twelve beats, and Iseult quickly starts to remember them. Each step becomes easier than the last. Each worldly reminder more distant. Until at last, the final refrain of the dance susurrates against her skin. Leopold stops his dancing, and she finds herself facing him, her hands still clasped.

“Forgive me for my earlier comments,” he says, and there is an urgency on his face and in his Threads. There is something darker too: a deep, frozen blue. “You are the last person I wish to hurt, my … friend.”

Friend. It is such an odd word to fall from his tongue, and yet there is undeniable need scraping across his Threads.

Then she understands. “You are lonely.”

He tenses almost imperceptibly. “One man’s loneliness is another man’s freedom.”

“Not yours, though.”

His lips part, and though he does not move, cold seems to swoop between them. After several moments, he pulls away. “Let a man have his secrets.”

But Iseult will not. For once, he has worn honesty with her and she refuses to let that pass. When he moves to the balustrade, she follows. “You are am-lejatu, Leopold.”

“I am?” He arches a wry eyebrow, his usual mask sliding into place. “And pray tell, what does that mean?”

“It means ‘the life-sleeper.’” Iseult rests her elbows beside his. He watches the people below, and she watches him. “It is one who goes through this life, never fully awake. Never fully connected. The Nomatsis believe it is a fate worse than death.”

He sniffs. “And you think I am a ‘life-sleeper.’”

“Well, you certainly aren’t living awake.”

His Threads flash darker; blue unspools, and Iseult knows she has found the spot that even he does not study too closely. She keeps her secrets behind her left lung; he keeps his buried even deeper.

“You have no Thread-family,” she continues. “I see it, you know.”

He bristles. “And here I believed you were my friend.”