by her dark, formfitting shirt and breeches. She looked up, her face framed by midnight-black hair that caught the torchlight.
Kemeiran. A whisper rustled through the crowd as they pointed at the girl.
She was about to tell Ramson that they should leave, when something else caught Ana’s attention. A figure, standing at the edge of the stage just in front of the velvet curtains. The pale blue of his eyes scanned the crowd, the white-blond of his hair glowing bloodred in the firelight.
The broker. The one who had snatched May from Ana’s fingertips back in Kyrov.
Without thinking, Ana sprang forward, knocking hard into a group of people in front of her. A glass tumbled from someone’s hands and shattered.
The man she’d bumped into turned around. He wore a gold mask with a farcical crying face, the mouth overly large and turned mockingly downward. “What—” he began.
“Get out of my way,” Ana snapped. The blue-eyed broker would disappear at any moment; she had no time. Ana reached for her Affinity—
“Excuse me, kind mesyr.” A hand looped around her waist and Ramson neatly stepped between her and the man, obscuring her view of the stage. Ana twisted, but he kept his fingers locked around her waist. “Meya dama here has had a little too much to drink! A testament to the great entertainment tonight.”
The nobleman’s eyes flashed, but he gave an indignant snort and turned back to the stage.
“Let me go,” Ana snarled, yet Ramson gripped her tighter.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
She shoved him back, but he held firm. “The broker,” she growled, already reaching for Ramson’s blood with her Affinity. “The one who took May—I saw him. Now, get off!” She shoved him aside with her Affinity, her anger white-hot.
Ramson stumbled back but caught himself, ignoring the strange looks of several people nearby as they moved away. His jaw was clenched; a strand of his hair fell over his mask. “And?” he challenged, his voice low. “What were you going to do?”
Something, she thought furiously. Anything.
Ana barreled forward but Ramson caught her, his arms wrapping around her in a viselike grip. Her head buzzed with anger and she considered ripping him from her with her Affinity, no matter the consequences.
“Think,” Ramson whispered, his lips next to her ear. To any outsider, they might have been locked in a passionate embrace—but Ana was one step short of blasting him across the room. “You’re here to save May. How is attacking that broker and exposing yourself going to help? At all?”
Ramson’s words fell like cold water on the molten metal of her anger. Ana stopped fighting, her breathing ragged, as she stared up at the Kemeiran girl. She stood alone on the stage beneath the shadow of the Steelshooter. Behind her, the curtains where the broker had been standing rustled, as though stirred by a phantom wind. He was no longer there.
Ramson was right. Using her Affinity against that broker, or doing anything reckless, would only expose them and foil their plan.
Ramson’s grip on her loosened, and for a moment she simply stood with his arms around her, her cheek against his shoulder, watching the stage and breathing in the clean, calming fragrance of his kologne.
The Steelshooter had retrieved four sharp throwing knives. He rolled his head, cracking the joints in his thick neck and corded shoulders.
Ramson drew back. His eyes darted across Ana’s face, and she imagined he was taking in every minuscule movement of her features, drawing up what to say next to assuage her.
“It’s not like this everywhere, remember,” he said, his voice gentler. His hands were still around her shoulders. “In Kemeira, for example, Affinites are appointed as the Temple Masters, the protectors of each village. In Nandji, Affinites are well-respected. And in Bregon—”
Ana flung his hands from her. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. Onstage, the Steelshooter gave a battle-roar and charged toward the tiny wind Affinite.
Ana turned away. May was not here tonight—she might not even be anywhere close—and Ana felt sick at the thought of watching Affinites kill each other for fun.
A hot, helpless tear rolled down her cheek. As she raised a hand to swipe it away, something peculiar happened. A collective gasp rustled over the crowd.
Ana turned. The Steelshooter bellowed as he staggered to face the Windwraith, who was now on the other side of the stage, pressed against the glass. Yet her stance was a fighter’s stance. Her palms were raised, one before the other, and her feet were