“Safiya?” Light fingers hit Safi’s elbow. Her lungs clenched. She whirled about, arms rising. But it was only Leopold—of course it was only Leopold.

“Are you all right?” Genuine concern darkened his seafoam eyes.

And Safi nodded. “Of course.” She forced a smile. “I am perfection. As are you on this fine winter’s day.” Nothing she said was a lie.

Leopold wore soft silver beneath a cape of glistening mahogany. Unlike most days, he wore no extra ornamentations. No decorative weapons at his waist, no jewels upon his fingers or at his neck. It was as if his outfit was selected to highlight the colors of the garden, and Safi had to wonder, not for the first time in her life, if he had chosen his clothes or some well-paid attendant had.

Growing up, she had always assumed the latter, for even as children, he had dressed in a way that flattered while it also impressed. But in the last month, her judgment had changed. He might have given her the Truth-lens and a clever means of examining it, but in the end, he was as duplicitous as his uncle—and far more inclined to laugh while he watched his enemies fall.

“Thank you, my Empress.” He flourished a bow. “If it is acceptable to you, I will have the Hell-Bards leave us in solitude.”

Of course it was acceptable, but Safi found it hard to believe they were allowed to lose sight of her. As if sensing her thoughts, Leopold added, “Oh yes, my own Bards are in position with spyglasses and crossbows fixed this way.” He motioned a lazy hand toward the ramparts that surrounded the outermost edges of the garden complex. “I expect no danger here.”

“In that case…” Safi turned to Lev. “Please wait for me outside the garden.”

A curt bow from Lev, face invisible inside her helm, and as one, the Hell-Bards marched stiffly out of sight.

“Now then.” Leopold offered Safi his arm, and once she’d accepted it, he murmured, lips unmoving, “We must pretend to be very much in love. Do you think you can manage?”

Safi bared her sweetest smile. Even cocked her head and cooed, “As I once told Captain fitz Grieg, I can smile at even the ugliest toad and flatter him on his perfectly placed warts. And you, Polly”—she reached up to gently touch his jaw—“are the ugliest of ugly toads.”

“Excellent.” He cupped his hand over hers before she could withdraw it. He wore no gloves; his fingers were cool against her fur-warmed ones. “We will provide a good show for the spies then.”

“Are there many?” Safi batted her lashes.

“Always.” His eyes flicked to her lips.

“Should we be worried?”

“No.” His eyes moved back to her own. They were a vivid green in the light of the flowers. “My uncle was the one who suggested that we rekindle our passion.”

“Rekindle?” Safi asked, pulling her hand free.