“Stop,” said Kell. “Please. I don’t want to hear about your romantic interludes with the man currently posing as me.”

“Don’t be obscene. I haven’t been with him since he agreed to take up this particular role. And that right there is a testament to my respect for you.”

“How flattering.”

Rhy caught the man’s eye, and a few moments later, having toured the room, the false Kamerov Loste—well, Kell supposed they were both false, but the copy of the copy—ascended the stairs to the gallery.

“Prince Rhy,” said the man, bowing with a little more flourish than Kell would have used. “And Master Kell,” he added reverently.

“Master Loste,” said Rhy cheerfully.

The man’s eyes, both grey, drifted to Kell. Up close, he saw that they were the same height and build. Rhy had been thorough.

“I wish you luck in the coming days,” said Kell.

The man’s smile deepened. “It is an honor to fight for Ames.”

“A bit over the top, isn’t he?” asked Kell as the impostor returned to the floor.

“Oh, don’t be bitter,” said Rhy. “The important thing is that Kamerov has a face. Specifically a face that isn’t yours.”

“He doesn’t have the coat.”

“No, unfortunately for us, you can’t pull coats out of that coat of yours, and I figured you’d be unwilling to part with it.”

“You’d be right.” Kell was just turning away when he saw the shadow moving across the floor, a figure dressed in black with the edge of a smirk and a demon’s mask. It almost looked like the one he’d seen on Lila the night of Rhy’s masquerade. The night Astrid had taken Kell prisoner, taken Rhy’s body for her own. Lila had appeared like a specter on the balcony, dressed in black and wearing a horned mask. She’d worn it then, and later, as they fled with Rhy’s dying body between them, and in the sanctuary room as Kell fought to resurrect him. She’d worn it in her hair as they stood in the stone forest at the steps of the White London castle, and it had hung from her bloody fingers when it was over.

“Who is that?” he asked.

Rhy followed his gaze. “Someone who clearly shares your taste for monochrome. Beyond that …” Rhy tugged a folded paper from his pocket, and skimmed the roster. “It’s not Brost, he’s huge. I’ve met Jinnar. Must be Stasion.”

Kell squinted, but the resemblance was already fading. The hair was too short, too dark, the mask different, the smile replaced by hard lines. Kell shook his head.

“I know it’s mad, but for a second I thought it was …”

“Saints, you’re seeing her in everyone and everything now, Kell? There’s a word for that.”

“Hallucination?”

“Infatuation.”

Kell snorted. “I’m not infatuated,” he said. “I just …” He just wanted to see her. “Our paths crossed one time. Months ago. It happens.”

“Oh yes, your relationship with Miss Bard is positively ordinary.”

“Be quiet.”

“Crossing worlds, killing royals, saving cities. The marks of every good courtship.”

“We weren’t courting,” snapped Kell. “In case you forgot, she left.”

He didn’t mean to sound wounded. It wasn’t that she left him, it was simply that she left. And he couldn’t follow, even if he’d wanted to. And now she was back.

Rhy straightened. “When this is over, we should take a trip.”

Kell rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

And then he saw Master Tieren’s white robes moving through the hall below. All night—all week, all month—the Aven Essen had been avoiding him.

“Hold this,” he said, passing the prince his drink.

Before Rhy could argue, Kell was gone.

* * *

Lila slipped out before the crowd could thin, the demon mask hanging from one hand and her chosen pennant from the other. Two silver knives crossed against a ground of black. She was in the foyer when she heard the sound of steps behind her. Not crisp boots on marble, but soft, well-worn shoes.

“Delilah Bard,” said a calm, familiar voice.

She stopped mid-stride, then turned. The head priest of the London Sanctuary stood, holding a silver goblet in both hands, his fingers laced. His white robes were trimmed with gold, his silver-white hair groomed but simple around his sharp blue eyes.

“Master Tieren,” she said, smiling even as her heart pounded in warning. “Is the Aven Essen supposed to drink?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “The key to all things, be they magical or alcoholic, is moderation.” He considered the glass. “Besides, this is water.”

“Ah,” said Lila, cheating a step back, the mask behind her back. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Normally her two options upon being cornered were turn and run or fight, but neither seemed appropriate when it came to Master Tieren. Some small part of her thrilled at being recognized, and she honestly couldn’t imagine drawing a knife on Kell’s mentor.

“That’s quite an outfit you’re wearing,” observed the Aven Essen, advancing. “If you wanted an audience with Prince Rhy and Master Kell, I’m sure you could simply have called for one. Was a disguise really necessary?” And then, reading her expression, “But this disguise wasn’t simply a way into the palace, was it?”