Chapter 3

Cassian closed the door, his eyes still on the book.

"I needed to be certain it was you in the square."

I pushed it toward him. Pages struck the inkwell and fluttered over.

"You know what I pawned, but you needed to be certain?"

"Or did you think I wouldn't find out if you acted as though we'd never met?"

He steadied the inkwell without denying it. His composure hurt, as though I wasn't the one whose life had been watched for three years.

"I ordered those reports."

He set the bottle down and finally looked at me.

"After your father died, people were looking for something he'd left behind."

"I needed to know whether they approached you."

I pointed to the entry about my fever.

"Then why didn't you ask me?"

"How would my being sick, working, or asking about a fare tell you where it was hidden?"

His eyes stayed on my finger.

"The reports were too detailed."

He wasn't looking at the book as he said it. Perhaps he was only now realizing those few lines described days I had actually lived.

I pulled my hand back. The paper had left a fine cut on my fingertip.

"But you read them all."

"You even wrote 'Continue.'"

He offered neither a defense nor an apology. After a while, I realized he intended to leave the conversation there.

I picked up the book and pressed its curled cover flat.

"I'm keeping this."

"It's about me, so I should at least be allowed to read it."

Cassian moved aside.

"All right."

"Names involving other people must not leave these grounds."

I carried the book past him, too tired to point out that I couldn't leave either. At the door, he called to me, looking at my bloody fingertip.

"There's clean cloth on the desk."

He stepped forward, raised a hand, then stopped.

"Clean the cut first."

I tucked my fingers into my sleeve and opened the door with my other hand.

"No need."

"Surely something this small doesn't deserve its own report."

Mira moved in that evening with two changes of clothes and a little jar of salve from my master. She said she had chosen to come. Then she dug out the purse I kept beneath a floorboard and quietly assured me every coin was there.

I took it and held her for a while. She didn't ask why my hands were so cold. She simply moved the bundle across the bed to make room for me.

I read until the candle burned down. The earliest report was dated the ninth of Harvest Month, three days after Father's death. A page had clearly been torn out before it. A narrow strip remained caught in the binding.

When Adrian came the next morning to ask what we needed, I showed him the gap.

"I want to know what this page said, or who tore it out."

He leaned down to look without touching the book.

"I've been the commander's deputy for only six months."

"I wasn't involved three years ago."

I closed it and stood in his path.

"Then help me find someone who was."

"Yesterday you found out my sister had been wrongly arrested."

"Today you can tell me where to ask."

Adrian looked uncomfortable.

"The old records are in the east building."

"Every visit must be logged, and you wouldn't be allowed to see sealed files."

I held out the date I'd copied the night before.

"I only want the casualties from the way station fire."

"The sixth of Harvest Month, three years ago."

He stared at the slip without taking it. I lowered my voice.

"They didn't even bring my father's remains home."

At last he took the paper, folded it, and tucked it into his sleeve.

"I'll check what can be released."

"I can't promise anything until I've looked."

I waited all morning, too distracted to eat when lunch arrived. After the afternoon bell, Adrian appeared beneath the covered walkway with a new records pass.

"The fire was an Inquisition matter, so the file isn't here."

He pointed to a note on the pass.

"But the infirmary has that night's admissions book."

"If your father was brought in, his name should be there."

It was raining. I fetched my shawl. My two guards started after us, but Adrian told them to follow at a distance. He opened a black umbrella and waited below the steps.

It wasn't large. My shoulder brushed his arm as I stepped beneath it.

"Sorry."

I shifted sideways, and half my shawl was immediately drenched. Adrian moved the umbrella over me, frowning at the water pouring from the eaves.

"Come back under it."

"Standing beside me won't turn me into an inquisitor."

I laughed despite myself and moved closer.

"You were fiercer than one in the square yesterday."

Adrian led me around a puddle and glanced down.

"You nearly cracked my knee armor."

"And the second guard says he didn't run into that pillar himself."

I lifted my skirt over the water, no longer hiding my smile.

"He's mistaken."

"You've already solved one wrongful arrest."

"Don't make more work for yourself."

Adrian stopped at the end of the walkway. Across from us, Cassian stood under the eaves with two knights carrying military reports.

He looked at me first, then at Adrian's hand on the umbrella. Rain struck the stones between us. He waited until we were close.

"Where are you going?"

Adrian handed over the pass, keeping the umbrella raised.

"The infirmary records room."

"To check an admission from three years ago."

"The visit has been properly registered."

Cassian read the pass and returned it.

"Your requested transfer order will arrive this afternoon."

"Wait for it in the duty office."

He turned to me, his eyes briefly on my shoulder.

"Come back when you're finished."

I pulled my slipping shawl into place and neither agreed nor argued. Beyond the walkway, I spoke quietly to Adrian.

"You're being transferred?"

He folded the pass in his hand, sounding matter-of-fact.

"The north needs men."

"I applied last month."

"It hadn't been approved, so I thought I'd be waiting until winter."

The infirmary records room smelled of old paper and bitter herbs. The keeper checked the pass and brought out a thick ledger. Adrian could only escort me to the door. Before leaving, he pointed out the string beside the desk, reminding me to tie the book up as I'd found it.

I read the entries for the sixth and seventh. There was no Thomas Vale. Most patients had fallen during training or been kicked by horses. One entry had been boxed in ink, its name written more neatly than the rest.

Cassian Thorne. Sixth of Harvest Month. Admitted at night. Blade wound across the abdomen. Severe blood loss. Emergency stitching.

I read it twice, following the date with my finger. He had been stabbed the night Father died. Yesterday, he had only said he'd been to the way station.

I turned the ledger toward the keeper and tried to keep my voice steady.

"Is there a fuller account?"

"Where was he wounded, or who brought him back?"

The keeper glanced down and immediately turned it away.

"You're authorized to see names and admission dates."

"Nothing else."

His hand stayed on the page, no matter what I asked.

At dusk, Adrian came for the pass himself. He wore a short riding cloak and had luggage strapped near his boots. Another deputy would take over in the morning.

I stood and looked at the bundles behind him.

"The order only arrived this afternoon."

"You're leaving tonight?"

Adrian put the pass away and managed a small smile.

"If I change horses at the way station, I can catch the supply convoy."

"They need me urgently."

I remembered Cassian looking at the umbrella handle. Cold spread through me. A month-old application had suddenly become too urgent to wait a night, just after Adrian helped me look at the records.

I grabbed my shawl.

"I'll speak to him."

Adrian briefly put out a hand to stop me, then withdrew it.

"I applied for the transfer myself."

"Don't fight him over this."

"Tonight is busy enough."

I looked at him and said no more in front of the guards. After he left, I gave Mira the salve and told her to go to sleep without waiting for me.

Cassian wasn't in his study. A servant said he'd just returned from inspecting the city defenses and was taking off his armor in his room. The door stood slightly open. I heard a buckle click, knocked twice, and pushed it open.

"What did Adrian do that you had to send him away in the middle of..."

I saw him and stopped. His breastplate was on a stand. He was undoing the last leather fastening at his waist, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders and back, its sleeves bunched at his elbows.

He looked up and paused before setting the piece of armor on the table. Metal met wood with a dull thud. Only then did I realize I still held the door handle, half blocking the entrance.

Cassian loosened his collar, as calm as if he were in a meeting.

"Do you always enter people's rooms without waiting for an answer?"

"Or is there something that can't wait?"

I dropped my hand. I'd almost turned away, but his second question stopped me.

"I did knock."

"Why is Adrian leaving tonight?"

He didn't answer immediately. His wet shirt caught on a cuff he hadn't unfastened. He undid it and slipped the fabric off his shoulders. It was an ordinary movement. Suddenly I had no idea where to look.

I knew he was tall and broad. I hadn't expected him to feel just as overwhelming without the armor. As he turned to set down his shirt, muscles shifted across his shoulders and back. Red pressure marks ran along his skin toward his waist.

I'd changed dressings at the shop. I'd seen plenty of shoulders and arms. None of those men had made me lose my place in the middle of a sentence simply by standing there.

Cassian draped his shirt over a chair and turned back. I lifted my gaze, only to see a drop of water slide down his neck and linger beneath his collarbone.

I clutched my shawl, trying to remember I'd come to argue.

"You haven't answered."

"His application sat for a month."

"Why approve it today?"

Cassian took a cloth and dried his neck.

"He requested a northern posting, and there's an opening."

"Have you read the order?"

I stayed just inside the door.

"I saw him packing."

"He helped me find a record and shared his umbrella, and suddenly you need him gone?"

Cassian stopped drying himself. He put the cloth beside the basin.

"He's the order's deputy, not your private guard."

The awkward flutter in me faded, and my anger returned.

"At least he explains things."

"If you don't want me investigating, deal with me."

"Don't send away the people who help me."

Cassian reached for a clean shirt without looking away from my face.

"You care a great deal about where he goes."

"You've known him for two days."

I stepped closer and met his eyes.

"Someone I met yesterday can still do me a kindness."

"Must your men watch him for three years before I'm allowed to say thank you?"

He didn't answer. He draped the clean shirt over his arm and used a dry cloth on his side. I was about to continue when I noticed a spot of red on the white fabric.

I stepped forward out of habit. As he started to put on his shirt, I held up a hand.

"You've rubbed the skin raw there."

"It'll hurt if the shirt sticks before you've dried it."

He looked down at my hand and left the shirt off.

"A scrape."

"It'll be fine by morning."

I pointed toward the basin.

"Then at least don't press the part you just wiped your belt with against it."

The words came without thought. Only afterward did I realize how close I had come.

It was warmer here. I could smell rain, leather, and the faint soap scent of clean laundry. Cassian looked down at me, then turned the cloth to a clean side and held it out.

"Since you know so much, which part should I use?"

He kept hold of one corner, waiting to see whether I'd take it. I glared, accepted the cloth, and dampened a clean edge.

My voice softened as I bent to find the scrape.

"Hold still."

"I just can't watch you mistreat a wound."

Cassian braced a hand on the desk behind him and gave me room. When the cloth touched him, his stomach tightened. My hand stopped too.

"Does it hurt?"

I only meant to ask whether I'd pressed too hard. But we were closer than I'd realized. Looking up nearly brought my face against his chin.

"Cold."

His hand shifted slightly along the desk.

"Go on."

I lowered my head again, my ears hot. The scrape was no bigger than a fingernail. Two wipes should have cleaned it, yet I was clumsier than with any other patient, even hesitating over which way to fold the cloth.

As the blood came away, the old scar beside it emerged in full. It was paler than the surrounding skin, slightly sunken on the left. It ran much farther than I'd seen from the door, across his stomach and into the shadow at his side.

Cassian's eyes rested on my motionless hand.

"Seen enough?"

Only then did I realize I'd been staring, the cloth still against him.

"I'm looking at the wound."

I drew the cloth away and briefly lost track of the basin.

"Don't move."

"I'm not moving."

He took the cloth and set it aside. His knuckles brushed my hand. My fingers curled instinctively, then straightened, as though that could make it look as if nothing had happened.

He looked back at me without asking me to move away. I had so much to ask him, yet all I could hear was his breathing. Even my own breath had fallen out of rhythm.

But the scar was right there. The slight hollow, the small marks on either side from the stitching, all matched the record I'd read. The heat slowly left my face. I remembered why I'd gone to the archives. I remembered the date.

I didn't look up. My voice had changed.

"How long did it take to stitch this?"

"A cut that long must have cost you a great deal of blood."

Cassian took his hand off the desk. His shadow shifted. The closeness that had overwhelmed me a moment earlier suddenly felt wrong, but I still wanted to see where the scar ended.

I lifted my hand. Before my fingertips touched it, he caught my wrist. Not hard. His thumb rested against the inside of it, holding my hand in the space between us. Neither of us moved closer.

His eyes moved from my hand to my face.

"Don't touch it."

"What did you find in the records?"

My throat tightened.

"Three years ago, the sixth of Harvest Month."

"The night my father died, you were brought back with a blade wound in your stomach."

Cassian let go. Warmth lingered around my wrist. The old silver badge on his chest shifted with his breathing, its chipped edge hanging directly above the scar.

I caught my own sleeve and forced myself to finish.

"The men who brought us the news said there had only been a fire."

"Then who stabbed you?"