She’d also had the foresight to bring a small tub of paste with her. After verifying that Henrick and his mistress were not yet done with their revelry, Safi unscrewed the tiny tub, slathered out several dollops of pale cream onto the leather, then shoved the new rubies in. She waited several seconds, blowing lightly, before wiping away excess adhesive.

Lev had said it would take a full minute—at least—for this paste to dry. She’d also said, once that happened, the stones would not be coming loose anytime soon.

Unfortunately, a minute was more than Safi had. As soon as she’d finished wiping, a great scream filled the room. Then a second, in a two-part harmony that made Safi’s stomach revolt. She hoped this woman was compensated for her time. Well compensated.

The crescendo ended, and silence descended. A net to cage in Safi. She went very still behind the armchair. Each of her breaths rasped overloud. If either Henrick or his mistress looked this way, they would see her shadow between the armchair’s legs.

She dared not peek at them. She just sat there, waiting for the paste to dry while two people enjoyed a postcoital haze.

Please don’t get up. Please don’t get up.

They didn’t get up. Instead, the sheets started rustling, and Safi suspected the two had settled in for a cuddle.

Inwardly, she screamed.

“Thirty-five years,” the woman said, “and it is still everything I want.” She had a deep voice, rough with age and time—and her accent was, to Safi’s surprise, lowborn. This was not a typical courtesan and not a domna who traded favors for an emperor’s time.

And thirty-five years? This woman and Henrick had been meeting for thirty-five years?

“How are the boys?” Henrick asked. “Did Dietrik get the money?”

“He did.” Paskella laughed, an indulgent sound. A loving sound, and in tones filled with maternal pride, she described how Dietrik had repaired the roof and used leftover funds to make improvements in her kitchen. “He will be a fine builder,” she said. “No witchery needed.”

“He already is,” Henrick replied.

Safi gulped. Almost dropped the belt, for just as maternal pride had thickened the woman’s voice, paternal pride shone in Henrick’s. No falseness in his words—no lies to shudder within her Truth-lens.

As he and Paskella continued their updates and questions, Safi realized three things. First, Paskella was indeed a commoner. Second, she and Henrick were Heart-Threads—true, real Heart-Threads like the children’s rhyme. Robins and magpies on branches above. Money for marriage, and Heart-Threads for love.