Outside, she pulled her hood close, for the night air held a chill and the promise of rain. When she stepped into the graveyard, a shape moved in the shadows. She reached for her knives—then saw that it was Saf.
"Sparks," he said.
As he moved toward her, she understood something all at once, something that had to do with his gold, his recklessness, the mad sparkle of his face paint. His aliveness and roughness and realness that reminded her too much, suddenly, of Katsa, of Po, of everyone she loved and fought with and worried about.
"Sparks," he said breathlessly, stopping before her. "I've been waiting for you so I can apologize. I'm sorry for what I did in there."
She looked up at him, unable to answer.
"Sparks," he said. "Why are you crying?"
"I'm not."
"I made you cry," he said in distress, closing the space between them and gathering her into a hug. Then he began kissing her and she lost her hold on what had been making her cry.
It was different this time, because of the silence and because
they were alone. Standing in the graveyard, they were the only two people on earth. He shifted and began to be more gentle, too gentle, on purpose. He was making her crazy, on purpose, with want, teasing her, she knew it from his smile. Vaguely she was conscious that their clothing was in the way of the kind of touching she wanted.
"Sparks."
He'd murmured something she hadn't heard. "Huh?"
"Teddy's going to kill me," he said.
"Teddy?"
"The thing is, I like you. I know I'm a mess, but I like you."
"Mhm?"
"I know you don't trust me."
Thoughts came slowly. "No," she whispered, understanding, grinning. "You're a thief."
Now he was smiling too much to kiss properly. "I'll be the thief," he said, "and you can be the liar."
"Saf—"
"You're my liar," he whispered. "Will you tell me a lie, Sparks? Tell me your name."
"My name," she whispered, began to speak, then caught herself. Froze and stopped kissing him. She'd very nearly said her name aloud. "Saf," she said, jangling with the pain of abruptly, jaggedly becoming conscious. "Wait," she said, gasping. "Wait. Let me think."
"Sparks?"
She struggled against his hold; he tried to stop her, then he too came awake and understood. "Sparks?" he said again, releasing her, blinking, confused. "What is it?"
She stared at him, sober now to what she was doing in this graveyard with a boy who liked her and had no idea who she was. No idea of the magnitude of the lie he was begging her to tell.
"I have to go," she said, because she needed to be where he couldn't see her comprehension.
"Now?" he said. "What's wrong? I'll walk with you."
"No," she said. "I have to go, Saf." She turned and ran.
NEVER AGAIN. I must never even visit them again, no matter how much I want to.
Am I mad? Am I positively mad? Look at the kind of queen I am. Look what I would do to one of my own people.
My father would be pleased with my perfect lie.
SHE WAS BEYOND any care as she ran with her hood low, beyond taking notice of anything around her. And so she was woefully unprepared when a person reared out of a dark doorway just outside the castle and clamped a hand to her mouth.
19
TRAINING KICKED IN. Bitterblue did what Katsa had taught her and dropped like a stone, surprising her assailant with her sudden weight, then connecting her elbow to some soft part of a torso. The person lost his balance and she fell with him, scrabbling for her knives, cursing, shouting, gasping. And then a small cart parked across the street transformed into something with shrouded arms and legs that burst toward them, flapping, swinging, knife flashing, chasing her assailant away.
Bitterblue lay in the gutter where she'd been flung, stunned, slowly realizing that she was alone. What in the skies just happened?
Shoving herself to her feet, she assessed the damage. Aching head and shoulder and ankle. But nothing broken or unworking. When she touched her stinging forehead, blood came away on her fingers.
Paying much greater attention now, she ran the rest of the way to the castle and, once inside, set out to find Po.
HE WAS NOT in his rooms.
Katsa's rooms seemed particularly far away in the dead of night. By the time Bitterblue got there, her head was splitting with pain and consumed with a specific question: Had the person who attacked her known whom he