Shadows Return

liked them well enough, but Seregil was still keeping his distance, and not just because of the food. Even with everything new right down to the pot hooks, neither of them could set foot in the place without expecting to hear Thryis snapping out orders to Cilla in the kitchen, or Diomis’s laughter as he bounced his grandson Luthas on his knee by the hearth. The child was the only survivor of that night, aside from Seregil’s cat, and was now safely fostered with the Cavishes at Watermead. Alec still caught a glimpse of Seregil’s guilt every time they saw the child; he’d never stopped blaming himself for the massacre.

    The stink of the fish gave way to the sweetly cloying smell of fresh wood and plaster as Alec followed Seregil upstairs. The Cockerel had been as settled as an old ship, steeped with years of cook smoke and soap boiling and lives lived. This place would smell new for years.
    The third-floor rooms they shared were well hidden, just as they had been at the Cockerel. Magyana had obscured the door that led to the secret stair, and warded those stairs just as they had been at the Cockerel. As with the old place, the wards on the stairs were keyed not to incinerate cats.
    Seregil whispered the passwords for the current wards as he reached each one. He still insisted on changing them frequently, though it was unlikely anyone would come hunting them now. Fortunately, Alec had a good memory. This month they were the Aurënfaie words for the phases of the moon.
    “Aurathra.”
    “Morinth.”
    “Selethrir.”
    “Tilentha.”
    Ruetha was sitting at the top of the stairs, busy cleaning her white ruff and paws. She ignored them until Seregil opened the door, then bounded through with her plumed tail held high.
    These new rooms were pleasant enough. The windows were clean enough to see through, the newly purchased furniture didn’t smell of must and smoke, and the new white marble fireplace certainly drew better. All the same, the whitewashed walls lacked the patina gained from years of smoke and candles, and they weren’t yet covered with trophies of past jobs and adventures. Those had all been lost. The only object that had survived the fire was the mermaid statue, now back in her place by the front door. Her marble skin was soot-stained and her upraised hand had broken off, but Alec had insisted on keeping her. Seregil pulled off his borrowed cloak and tossed it over her head.
    A door on the far side of the room led into the bedroom, where a broad, curtained bed and their clothes chests took up most of the floor space. Both rooms were still neat and orderly.
    At least for now,
Alec thought with a tinge of regret.
    Gone were Seregil’s carefully hoarded books and scrolls, and the dusty store of maps he’d collected over the years and stored under the couch. All lost. The new worktables were well stocked with tools and a small forge, but lacked the comforting clutter of old locks and odd bits of metal, string, weapons, and wood. Though he’d often counseled Alec against burdening himself down with possessions, Seregil was a raven at heart, unable to resist picking up anything useful or shiny.
    Despite all the changes, they were both glad to finally have a place to escape to again when playing the dissolute nobles at the Wheel Street villa became too much of a bother.
    They washed the night’s dirt from their bodies and faces with water from the rain barrel on the roof and drank their tea as they dressed in light summer surcoats, doeskin breeches, and tall polished boots. Seregil went to a small casket on the mantelpiece and took out a heavy gold ring. It was set with a ruby carved with Klia’s profile. She’d given it to him in Aurënen, ostensibly in gratitude for his help there. Seregil wore it often—out of pride, certainly, and as remembrance of his absent friend—but also, Alec suspected, to spite Phoria and her lapdogs.
    Ostracized and unwanted, they’d spent the past year alternating between the bright salons of the nobles who would still associate with them, and carrying out minor intrigues like tonight’s job—often for the same people. Seregil was growing increasingly restless with the situation and had taken to slipping out alone at night again, as he used to before they were lovers.
    So far, Alec had resisted the temptation to follow him. Seregil seldom stayed away long, and usually returned in a better mood and eager to make up for his absence. Reluctant as always to admit