Iseult nods. Water doesn’t bother her. It is the thought of leaving Safi that bothers her.

That, and the gaping question that has nagged ever since she saw Leopold tap three times at a stone wall. Ever since they fled a Monastery together in the Sirmayans. Ever since she saw him and thought he was the dappled god she called Trickster.

And ever since Esme asked her, Are they owls or are they rooks?

Yes, Iseult knows she should walk away now. She knows that if she asks, he will not give her a straight answer. Honesty defies the Trickster heart of who he is. But she cannot resist. She must know before she leaves forever.

“Leopold,” she murmurs.

His head lifts.

“What happened to your silver crown?”

A beat of tan confusion. Then understanding flushes it away, followed by turquoise surprise—none of which reaches his carefully controlled face.

His eyes bore into hers, green against gold, and heartbeats thump past. Three. Six. Then at last: “How did you know?”

“I suspected at the Monastery,” she answers honestly. “But only here could I finally believe it true. How?”

He laughs, a familiar sound with no amusement. A self-loathing laugh that says, I am a fool for letting you catch me. Then comes the languid shrug Iseult knows so well. “I truly can hide nothing from you, can I?”

“How?” she repeats, and this time, her voice is sharp. Owl waits several paces away, and time is running out if she wishes to flee. He knows that; he is hoping to use it against her.

But she is tired of being played, tired of his games. “Leopold, explain how.”

Another shrug, this time with a bored twirl of his wrists. “It is the nature of our spirits. We are destined to die and be reborn for all eternity, watching the follies of humanity yet unable to prevent them.”

“And she is like you?” Iseult dips her head toward Owl.

Leopold nods. “She is like me, though the collar seems to dampen that part of her. A good thing, I think. It is hard to adjust when the past lives come, and the younger one is when it happens … well…” His cheeks twitch. “The harder it is.”

Iseult nods. She has always known Owl is different, though a Paladin is never something she’d imagined. Never something she’d believed could be real. So she simply repeats “Thank you,” before turning to leave.

She only makes it two steps before Leopold’s Threads flash with lilac, with sapphire and a desperation bordering on panic. “I love you.” His voice cracks.

Her footsteps stop.

“I love you,” he says again, and she curses herself. For she should have seen this coming. His Threads have not been subtle, even if she refused to look at them. He is wrong, though, in his interpretation.