Arathiel knocked at Lady Camilla’s exterior door, relieved he did not have to enter the Dathirii Tower through the main gates. Most quarters didn’t open directly onto Isandor’s network of bridges like these, but Camilla’s used to belong to an outsider. When her family had bought them, she’d claimed the rooms, arguing that she was the oldest and it would save her aging body the staircases. She’d resided there for two centuries—longer than Arathiel had been alive. Although most of their tea sessions together had been in public places, he’d visited before and knew how much the decor inside matched Lady Camilla’s temper: simple flower patterns, soft colours, and an enveloping warmth.

Soon enough, the glow of a candle escaped from the nearby window. He heard the old lady shuffle inside; the door’s lock clicked, and she opened it a crack. Her long greying hair framed a tired and worried expression, but her eyes widened as they settled on Arathiel. She let out a small ‘oh!’ and pulled the door farther before stepping back, giving him space to enter. A web of wrinkles appeared as she smiled, and the genuine joy his night visit procured eased Arathiel’s nervousness. He doubted it would last once she heard his requests, however.

“Lord Arathiel, what a pleasant surprise.” No sarcasm laced Camilla’s smooth voice. She put a hand on his forearm and guided him into the living room. “I trust you’ll forgive my nightgown. Would you like some tea? Biscuits?”

Arathiel allowed her to lead him and sat down, amazed at her unflinching hospitality. “Tea? At this hour?”

“You heard me.” She moved to the kitchen, separated from her living room by a wide and delicate arch through which he could easily see the counter. “In my opinion, ‘tea time’ is a myth. There is no precise hour for tea. It’s always delicious. Besides, you must be cold. Hot tea will set you straight.”

Cold? Arathiel glanced down at himself. How had he forgotten the winter cloak again? Lady Camilla wasn’t a fool. She must have noticed he wasn’t even shivering. “I’m fine,” he said in a low voice, “and I’m not sure we have time for tea.”

A frown marred Camilla’s expression. She set the kettle down, pulled her hair into a quick bun, then moved back to the living room to sit opposite of him. “You’re … even more concerned than usual. I’m sorry, I should have noticed. Please, forgive my overbearing hospitality and tell me why you came.”

Arathiel couldn’t imagine how anyone might resent her unflinching kindliness. He’d knocked at an ungodly hour and received nothing but smiles. In fact, Camilla’s constant sweetness had brought him here. Arathiel counted on her to extend her welcome even further, or at least consider it.

“You promised you’d help me if I ever needed it. I’m aware you meant help with possible attempts to reintegrate House Brasten, but—”

“I meant no such thing.” Camilla pulled her nightgown closer around her. “I do not specify my offers in such a way. When I say ‘help’, I imply any kind of support. Tell me what you need. If your requests transgress some personal moral law, I’m more than capable of refusing them. I hardly expect such things from you, however.”

Her voice softened at the end. Lady Camilla’s subsequent smile acted like a hot bath on tired muscles: warmth spread through Arathiel, easing his fears and removing the weight on his shoulders. Camilla had a tranquil strength that seeped into everything and everyone around her. Even knowing Hasryan’s case might be touchy, he managed to stop wringing his hands and smile back.

“I have two of them, and doubt the first will cause problems.” It was the second he worried about. One thing at a time, however. “We found a teenager in urgent need of professional healing. He fell off a bridge, and I know House Dathirii has dedicated healers on hand. Sending one down to Larryn’s Shelter would save his life.”

“Consider it done.” A soft laugh escaped her lips. “I doubt you were nervous about waking me up to save a man’s life.”

“No.” His sharp reply edge stopped her laughter. Camilla’s eyes shone in the candlelight, intrigued. She waited for him to go on. Arathiel shook his head. He didn’t want to speak about saving Hasryan until she’d sent someone to help Cal. “My second request will need more explanation, and perhaps a greater deal of convincing. It’s not without political consequences.”

“Mysterious.”

Her smile had returned, and if she was concerned about the nature of his request, she didn’t show. Camilla’s hand tightened on her chair’s arm as she pushed herself up. Arathiel rushed to help her, putting one hand on her elbow and the other on her back. The proximity made him wonder if Camilla had a particular scent—her, and the entire quarters. Something soothing, probably. His gaze found dried lavender in a pot on a small table. Yes, that fit. Lady Camilla was a lavender type of person.

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, and he thought he could feel the fragile bones in hers. Or was his mind completing what he knew he should perceive? Sometimes, Arathiel doubted he distinguished between reality and memories. “I shall go and wake young Vellien. You might remember them? They were little more than a shy child when you left the city. Now they’re quite a talented healer. Singer, too, but that’s not what your teenager needs.” As she spoke, she moved toward the second door to her quarters, this one connecting with the rest of the Dathirii Tower. “I’m rambling again. Milord, I entrust you with the tea while I send Vellien. Once that is done, we can discuss your second request with our minds at peace.”

Arathiel’s mouth quirked into an amused smile as she readied to leave. “I understand how crucial the preparation of tea is to you. On my honour, I won’t fail.”

Her light laughter filled the room for an instant, then Lady Camilla disappeared into the Dathirii Tower. Arathiel stared at the door, his mouth dry. Her good mood might not last through the night, let alone their friendship. Arathiel steadied his nerves with a deep breath and moved to the abandoned kettle. Unless Isandor’s customs had changed, criminals were executed at Carrington’s Square. The Sapphire Guard tied them to the arching bridge above the plaza and put an end to their lives with a quick shove. If memory served, several bridges passed above that area, close enough that he could leap down from them. Perfect for a surprise rescue.

Without Camilla’s help, however, his desperate plan might become pointless. Hasryan couldn’t return to the Shelter, and if his boss had sold him out, he might not have secure hideouts across the city. He and Arathiel would need somewhere to hide. A place above suspicions in which they could rest and figure out their next step.

Arathiel hoped Lady Camilla would agree. His own plan terrified him. Every noble of note would attend the execution, along with a thick crowd from the Lower and Middle City. The thought of so many staring at him as he exposed his resistance to pain paralyzed him. How would they perceive it? What would they say about him? Arathiel could barely hear the kettle’s whistle under his whirling thoughts. He gritted his teeth and removed it from the fire before forcing his mind elsewhere: to the subdued mood at the Shelter, Cal’s earlier panic, and the unwavering friendship between Larryn, Hasryan, and Cal. One they had started opening to him.

He might die rescuing Hasryan, as he should have in the Well. If the extra time given to him allowed him to save Hasryan, then he could take pride in his abilities and assign purpose to his failure. He hadn’t saved Lindi—could never have, really—but he would not let a friend die. He could rescue Hasryan, and he would.