Nothing else to say, really.

Rath made his way to the s.p.a.cious and-given his experience-the surprisingly clean kitchen. As it was Winter the staff numbered four; during the busy merchanting season, when the port was not occupied by empty ships, there were at least triple that number. He knew this because it was not the first time he had used this fine inn for business transactions. Admittedly, the tour of the kitchens that he had insisted on making had been entirely secondary to his goals, but the role he had taken for that particular job had required no less.

He glanced around the large room and frowned. There were two ap.r.o.ned cooks-a woman of Rath's age, and a young man; the man who ruled the kitchen could be seen nearer the large stoves that occupied the far wall. But the man he had come to see, briefly, was nowhere in sight.

The woman, however, rose as Rath paused. She eyed him dubiously. But if she was brisk, she chose to be polite; it was, after all, a spa.r.s.e season, and everyone needed to eat.

"Here," she said. "You've taken a wrong turn. These are the kitchens, and they're no place for guests."

"My apologies," he said. "I serve as a courier for Lands-don's, and I was instructed to carry a small parcel for Marrett. His daughter's been unwell," he added.

She frowned. "Aye," she said after a long pause. "She has, at that. But maybe whatever it is that made her unwell has also caught Marrett-he's not come into work today." She lowered her voice and added, "and the Cook's fit to be tied; we've an important guest for the off-season."

"I beg your pardon," Rath said, running a hand through his hair. "But you said he hasn't been in this evening? Perhaps I have the wrong shift."

"Oh, no, you've got the right shift. But he's not come in, and he's sent no word." She shook her head. "Maybe you should take that parcel you're carrying off to his home; he might find it more useful there."

Just like that, the world shifted. Rath was a practiced liar, a practiced con man. He nodded briskly to the woman and apologized, just as briskly, for the interruption, before retreating from the kitchen.

But if the Arboretum was a surprise, the man who waited, at a long, perfect table, was no less of a surprise. Jewel had, she realized, built an image of him in her mind, and that image and the man clashed horribly, the one shattering like the gla.s.s walls wouldn't.

She had expected someone who looked like Rath's friends-tall, forbidding, and very dangerous. She had expected someone handsome and cold, with dark hair, dark eyes, and an obvious penchant for cruelty. She hadn't really thought of his age, of how old he must be, or how young-but this man could have been her father. Or someone's father. He was not tall, at least he did not look tall, and he was not so lean and scarred as Rath's almost unnamed friends. His hair was shot through with gray, and he had a beard that was almost unkempt. His hands were thick, like carpenter's hands, although the rings were out of place, and many. She looked at him as if, by making this list, she would understand what she saw.

Understand, perhaps, the difference between what she saw and what she had expected to see. She had expected guards; Duster had been so certain there would be guards; there were none. But Haval had been certain as well-and that meant Haval could be wrong.

It should have comforted her: this stranger, this unexpected man, shorn of guards, no obvious cruelty in his expression.

Her Oma had always told her that life was a series of lessons, and most of them were harsh. It was a pride to the old woman to have survived so much hardship, and she was never so happy-in a grim sort of way, pipe cooling in the corner of her mouth-as when Jewel swallowed either fear or disappointment with a grim child's acceptance. Not cowed, never that, but not broken.

She had cautioned Jewel to be suspicious of all things, especially appearances: the appearance of wealth, the appearance of poverty, the ways in which children would pretend to be crippled to swindle money out of the foolish. She cautioned Jewel not to be led astray-never to be led astray-by the whim of a foolish heart, a stupid kindness. But she also waited for the inevitable, because Jewel was her father's child, and it did happen.

So you've learned something, she would say, and then slowly pad the bowl of her pipe. And you're still alive. You're not bleeding. Nothing's broken. You've no scars and you've lost nothing important but stupidity. Not a kind woman, her Oma, never that.

Now, Jewel looked at this man, sitting casually in a chair at a table that was neither too long nor too intimidating. Certain, watching him, that he had children, and that he was even kind to them.

Had she been another person, she might have looked back at Duster, looked askance, demanded acknowledgment that this was the man who had so hurt her. But she was Jewel Markess, and before she could do any of those things, she understood what she was supposed to learn here.

She swallowed, and then offered the man a formal half-curtsy. "My father," she said, in a quiet girl's voice, "asked me to deliver this letter." And she walked toward him, slowly, as if aware of his importance. His t.i.tle.

She was. She hated it with a ferocity that did not banish fear, but deepened it. It was harsh and unexpected, and her hands were shaking as she extended them, Rath's carefully sealed letter the bridge between them.

He nodded genially and took the letter with care. But he didn't open it immediately. Instead, he said, "How old are you, girl?"

"Fourteen," she replied carefully. In the dress and the cloak, it might even be true, but it was a young fourteen.

He raised a brow, not believing her, and there was genuine amus.e.m.e.nt in the smile he offered. "Fourteen," he said. "Almost an adult."

She nodded hesitantly, stiffly, letting her fear inform her movements. Working with it, as Haval had taught her. When he returned her smile, he looked almost gentle.

Almost.

"Please," he told her, lifting a hand, palm up, and gesturing around the table as if he owned it, "take a seat. It is cold outside, and you've traveled some distance; join me while I eat. Your father is waiting?"

"I am to call a carriage," she replied, "when I'm ready to leave." Lifting her chin, now, and striving to look the elevated age of fourteen.

This seemed to amuse him, and she remembered dimly that amus.e.m.e.nt was often one way of stemming rage, of averting danger. It had been so when she had been a child in her Oma's home. But what amused this man?

She did not look at Duster when Duster came and retrieved, in perfect silence, her winter clothing; the fine cloak, the gloves, the scarf that Rath had taken pains to arrange so carefully.

"That will be all," Lord Waverly told Duster, in a tone of voice that was both cool and dismissive. "Your mistress will call for you when she requires your service. Wait in the servants' quarters until you are summoned."

Jewel had not believed that Duster could come here and be unrecognized. Haval had promised her that she would pa.s.s unnoticed, and she had accepted his word as truth-but she hadn't truly believed it until this moment. Duster was beneath the lord's notice, here.

And Jewel was increasingly aware that she was not.

She didn't want Duster to leave. But she nodded in silent agreement with the officious command. To do anything else might be to lose this unexpected miracle of anonymity. It might be the only miracle of a long evening.

She listened for the sound of retreating steps, aware that she was the only one who did. It had not occurred to this man-would probably never occur to him-that his careless, casual command might be disobeyed.

Duster had hated Jewel. This was the truth.

The fine woolen cloak she had draped so carefully over her servant's sleeves trailed the edge of the leaves that had failed to catch her attention as she walked away from Lord Waverly.

Hated her, yes. Hated what she could offer from the comfort of her easy, easy life. Hated the fact that somehow, for Jewel, Rath had been there, offering her both food and shelter in return for-nothing. For nothing at all.

She had hated the fact that the others had deferred to Jewel, had listened to her, and had treated her as if she were somehow important. Resented the fact that Jewel, who had suffered so d.a.m.n little, had so d.a.m.n much.

In the dark of night, when Jewel slept, she had wondered what Jewel might be like, left alone with Waverly. No; wonder was the wrong word; her imagination was vivid, lurid, angry. In the silence of the small room, kept warm by distant woodstove and breath, she had imagined just what Waverly would do to an idiot like Jewel, had laughed at how easily Jewel would break, at exactly how she would come to truly understand what life was like.

And it was here, now: a gift. A daydream, a night thought, come true. Offered to her by a fool, handed to her without any scheming or planning on her own part. The robe draped so carefully over her arm slipped beneath her feet, and she tripped over its hem. Stopped herself from cursing, because cursing here would draw attention that she didn't want.

She hesitated, just outside of the gla.s.sed-in room, taking refuge behind plants that were almost overpowering, they were so sickly sweet. She could hear Waverly's voice. Could not fail to hear it, although memory gave it words and cadences that were absent in fact. When he had been introduced to Duster, he had not bothered to hide what he was behind this civil mask; in the holdings, he had paid a great deal of money to dispense with pretense. He had come with her jailers, and he had treated her like a dog, like less than a dog.

And his laughter had been almost gentle. She could hear it now. What was he saying to Jewel? What was Jewel thinking? Did she even understand the danger she was in?

No, she expected rescue; her whole life had been one d.a.m.n rescue after another. She didn't have to lie for it, or beg for it, or pay for it in any of the ways with which Duster was painfully familiar. She could afford to be high and mighty; when had anyone ever let her fall?

Duster reached up and tore a leaf in three pieces, absently destroying the peaceful arrangement. Wanting many, many things; seeing in the light just another way of casting shadows. Enjoying the possibilities of suffering that wasn't her own.

Duster had hated Jewel.

And if it weren't for Jewel, she wouldn't be here. If it weren't for the fact that she had saved Finch-to spite the d.a.m.n demons, nothing more-she wouldn't be here. If Jewel didn't trust her, she wouldn't be here.

Her grip tightened around the slender knife her servant's clothing hid. Hating was easy. It came as naturally as breathing. Contempt came that way too; and anger, and irritation. Even fear, although she would never admit it where anyone could hear it.

If you had had Jewel's life, what would you be?

There. She'd asked it. In this place, leaf bits strewn in her shaking lap.

It wasn't the same question as, If you had what she had, what would you do with it? She knew, because she'd considered stealing most of it from the moment she'd first entered the old man's apartment. It was a different question.

Duster wondered what she would be, with friends and guardians and people she could trust. People who wouldn't sell her out, wouldn't sell her, wouldn't casually beat her to show others how strong they were.

Would she be Jewel? Could she? Could she have cared for some sniveling wreck like Lefty, some flighty girl like Finch? Could she have shopped and cooked and cleaned and argued and tried to make some sort of family out of a bunch of losers without killing one or two of them to make a necessary point?

No.

Honest answer. Even if she had had Jewel's life, she wouldn't be Jewel. None of them would. And who was to say that the inverse was true? Who could really say that if Jewel had had Duster's life, she'd end up being Duster?

The demons had said Duster was special.

Not death, not for Duster. Not freedom, either. But something else. In the shadows. In the darkness they could see in her.

If darkness was what she had, why not use it?

Because they win, she thought. And no one beat her.

But she sat there, in the Arboretum, listening, and dreaming, and knowing that part of her wanted Jewel to suffer at the hands of Waverly. Because she would enjoy it.

"Yes," a soft voice said, above her, "you would."

She looked up, then.

Ten feet away, in clothing that spoke of riches and finery, stood a man she had never seen before. But his eyes-the darkness of them, the lack of white-were familiar.

"You are a resourceful girl," the man said, examining his gloved hands with care. "And I admit that you eluded the lesser of my kin." He wore dark colors, black with a hint of purple, a hint of coal gray, and cold gold around his neck. He had very little hair, but the lack didn't speak of age.

He was also taller than Arann.

"You are far more resourceful than we had a.s.sumed, but it does not displease me, Duster. You have had some time to contemplate your past; contemplate your future now. I a.s.sume," he added, his voice growing so soft it might have been a purr, "that you intend to have a future."

She was not chained now, not bound; she was no one's captive. But standing ten feet from this stranger, she could not say she was free.

"I am Patris AMatie," he told her, inclining his head. "And I have lost a number of servants in the last month. It is not to my liking, and it leaves my household bare. You were to take your place among my servants," he added, "later, rather than sooner; you were not deemed ready."

"And now?" she asked, hedging, knife still in her palm, her dry, shaking palm.

"Now?" His smile was slight, like the edge of a sharp knife is slight. "You are mortal," he replied with a shrug, "and few indeed are the mortals judged worthy of service to the Shining Court."

"And me?"

"You are close enough now to make that decision. To prove your worth," he added, "or to fail to prove it." Again, he smiled. "But there is, in you, the darkness that beckons. You are almost with us," he added. "This life, or the next, little one, and you will be among us, and mortality will be a simple illusion.

"But you can be victim," he said, voice colder, "or victor; the choice is yours. There will always be suffering; cause it, or be consumed by it."

Duster straightened. "I want Waverly," she told the man evenly. "Give me Waverly, and I'll serve you."

But the Patris shook his head. "Serve me," he said, "and you obey me. That is the law of power. When you have power greater than mine, you may force me to surrender that which I hold. Only then." And he reached out to touch her face.

Ten feet? Five. Four. He had moved; she hadn't even noticed. But his fingers felt like claws against her skin; claws beneath it, when he flexed them. Her cheek stung; she knew that she was bleeding.

It wasn't even a cut worthy of notice; she didn't blink.

"You came here with another child," he said. "And you have been contemplating her fate as you sit here. You have been enjoying what you imagine."

She said nothing. She didn't even ask him how he knew; she knew. We can taste it, we can sense it, we can see every thing about you that makes you almost . . . kin. "Waverly is there, but it is not of his death that you dream; it is of the pain he will cause. Is that not so?"

She nodded grimly.

"Then watch," he said softly. "Take what you can. Waverly is mine; he serves my purpose here. Pa.s.s only this test, and his purpose will be yours as well."

"I want-"

"And I will give him to you, when I am ready. We will see how creative you can be then."

Rath had approached the Arboretum with caution.

He could. He had spent every favor owed him by those who inhabited the dim and forbidding reaches of the Magi's tower; he had badgered Andrei, cajoling and threatening by turns, until he had obtained some of what he desired. He was not invisible-that, no amount of bribery would allow him-but he walked completely silently, and even his breathing could not be heard by anyone who was not paying attention. But the familiar cadences of a voice that he almost recognized had drawn him into the Arboretum; he had intended to skirt its edges, to go to Jewel, or as close to Jewel as he might come.

And this, with Patris AMatie in attendance was as close as he could safely come. He had written his letters, had set his stage, had prepared for all eventualities he could think of. But this, he had not seen.

He wondered, briefly, what had become of Marrett. Wondered how he had failed in his attempts at secrecy, how he had drawn AMatie here. He stared at Duster, at the answer that presented itself.

If he had been a different man, he would have a.s.sumed that Duster had betrayed them all; he had trusted her so little that he had not explained all of his plan to either of the two girls. But . . . her carriage was wrong. He was a betting man, and he thought-reluctantly-that she was as surprised as Rath himself.

He had intended, of course, to be present. To be where Duster and Patris AMatie now sat. And all of his plans, the knife's edge of his deception, the risk of it-were made manifest. He was numb with it; beyond something as simple as fear.

He had never trusted Duster. His first advice had been to have her removed. His last advice had been no different. And Jewel had remained unchanged. But beyond them, behind the gla.s.s walls whose adornments were living and growing plants, she might not remain so for much longer. And yet, in the end, he had given way to Jewel's quiet determination; to call it demand was unjust. He had allowed her the freedom to choose, and with choice came consequence.

He watched the Patris, and the girl who stood quietly before him in her perfect servant's clothing, green flecks catching light as they nestled in the falling wrinkles of her skirts.

Her hair was pale, her skin pale, she looked in all ways like a different child. But the Patris had recognized her instantly. She had not recognized him; Rath would have noticed that. But she either knew of him, or recognized something about him. She was not yet terrified.

She was not angry.

Nor was Rath; if anger came, it would come later; now, he felt cold, and even weary. Jewel was to be tested here; he had told himself that, and believed it still. But he knew that part of Jewel's test was Duster. And so Duster, herself, was to be tested.

But not like this.

She had been with Jewel scant weeks. Before that, she had ama.s.sed a lifetime of specialized knowledge, and he could see it in her expression: Power ruled. Only power.

And the Patris was powerful.

Jewel, Rath thought, almost numb.

"We shouldn't be out here," Finch said quietly, her breath hanging in the air before her slender face. Arann's, a full head above her, came out in a silent cloud.

"She said we could come," Teller told Finch quietly.