“The last few days have been some of the longest of my life,” I agreed wearily.

“I don’t know about you, but I could really use a drink.” Ridley stopped, and I realized that we’d reached his house. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed where we were.

He didn’t actually live that far from the Costars, but his cottage was much smaller than the royals’ mansions that populated his neighborhood. It was a very short and squat little place made of stone, with a thatched roof. Small round windows in the front gave it the appearance of a face, with the windows for eyes and the door for a mouth.

“I’d rather not drink tonight,” I told him.

“Come in anyway.” His hair cascaded across his forehead, and dark circles had formed under his eyes. He still hadn’t shaved, but that somehow made his face more appealing. Though he looked just as exhausted as I felt, there was a sincerity and yearning in his eyes that I didn’t have the strength to deny.

Ridley saw my resistance fading, and he smiled before turning around and opening the door. His cottage was built half in the ground, almost like a rabbit burrow, and that’s why it had such a squat look. Only a few feet of it actually sat above the ground, and I had to go down several steps when I went in.

Inside, it was cozy, with a living room attached to a nice little kitchen, and the door was open to his bedroom in the back. As soon as we came in, Ridley kicked off his shoes and peeled off his scarf, then went over to throw a few logs in the fireplace to get the place warmed up.

“Sure I can’t interest you in a drink?” Ridley asked when he went into the kitchen.

“I’ll pass.” I took off my jacket and sat back on his couch before sliding off my own boots.

I’d been inside his cottage a couple times before, but usually only for very brief visits to ask him a question about work. This was my first real social call, and I took the opportunity to really take his place in.

The coffee table was handmade from a tree trunk, made into an uneven rectangle with bark still on the edges. The bookshelf on the far wall was overflowing with books, and next to it he had a very cluttered desk. On the mantel, there was a picture of a grade-school-aged Ridley posing with his father, who was all decked out in his Högdragen uniform.

“Have you ever had to make a notification before?” Ridley came back into the living room, carrying a large glass mug filled to the brim with dark red wine.

“This was my first,” I said. “It’s the only time I ever came back without a changeling.”

He bent down in front of the fireplace, poking a few logs to help get it going. “I’ve done it once before. It’s never any fun.”

“This time must be worse.”

“Why do you say that?” Ridley sat on the arm of the couch at the far end from me and sipped his wine.

“This time it’s kind of our fault.”

“It’s not our fault,” he said, but he stared down at his mug, swirling the liquid around. “We left as soon as we got our assignment, but she was dead by the time we even got to Calgary. There was nothing we could’ve done.”

“No, there’s nothing more you could’ve done,” I corrected myself. “But I should’ve taken care of Konstantin when I saw him in Chicago.”

I said that, but I wasn’t sure if I meant it anymore. Even after we’d found Emma dead, I felt more conflicted than ever. I didn’t know what Konstantin’s role had been in her death, and although I was certain he carried some culpability, I also thought things were far more complicated than either Ridley or I had realized.

“What happened with him, exactly?” Ridley asked carefully, giving me a sidelong glance. “Back in the hotel.”

I pulled my legs up underneath me, leaning away from him. “I already told you.”

“No, you didn’t. Not really.” He slid down off the arm of the couch so he could face me. “You told me that he’d been in the room, you’d fought, and that he must’ve knocked you out. That was about it.”

“That’s about all there is to tell.”

“But what I don’t understand is, why was he there?” Ridley paused. “Was he waiting for you?”

“I don’t know.” I ran my hand through my hair.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

“We fought, and he knocked me out, so yes.” I gave him a look. “But other than that, I’m okay, and I got in a few good punches.”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” Ridley asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he didn’t. But … he’s tried to kill your dad, he killed Emma. He obviously doesn’t care if he gets blood on his hands, so why did he leave you alive?”

I lowered my eyes. “I think he does care if he gets blood on his hands. And I think Bent killed Emma, not Konstantin.”

“Are you…” Ridley’s expression hardened, and he narrowed his eyes. “Do you have feelings for him?”

I groaned, but my cheeks flushed. “Don’t be gross, Ridley.”

“There’s clearly something going on between the two of you—”

“Why?” I snapped. “Why is there ‘clearly something’?”

“Because he should’ve killed you, and he didn’t. And you should’ve killed him, and you didn’t. So something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.”