SELAH

She could stay here on this doorstep forever, wrapped in Tair’s arms. Corded muscle and black tattoos, fierce anger and fiercer love, and Selah can’t help but think that if she really is up there, somewhere, Tair can’t help but be Terra’s favorite. She’d thought, once, that the two of them were the same. That there was no marker divide for where one ended and the other began. She knows better now. They’re better now. Not two halves of the same whole, but two wholes meant to find each other and bring storms to their feet.

“Selah.”

She could stay here forever, but they’re always on the move, she and Tair. If not one, then the other.

“Selah.”

“Mm-hm.”

She’s here, and she’s listening. She is, but she’s also taken by the heat of Tair’s chest flush against her own, the way she smells like sweat and dirt and star anise. Tair pulls away from her, looking clear above Selah’s head, eyes blown wide and spine gone ramrod straight.

And then, from somewhere behind her, a familiar voice—“Tair?”

Selah whips around.

Halfway down the winding cobblestone street, standing stock still, hand in hand with Theo Arlot and staring in shocked disbelief at the both of them—Arran.

His eyes are bulging, flicking back and forth in rapid succession from Tair to Selah, up to the makeshift bandage at her hairline, then back to Tair again. It would be funny, if she weren’t so acutely aware of the tension radiating from Tair. The pair of them set out to look for him, but he’s stumbled onto them instead, and with only scant yards looming between her brother and the woman she would do anything to keep safe, it’s only now that Selah realizes she has no idea what Arran is going to do next.

“What,” he says, “the fuck?”

“Arran,” Tair says, and warily stands.

They stare at each other a moment longer, the space between them hanging thick with anticipation. It’s been five years, and Arran never had anything resembling what existed between her and Tair—what almost existed, anyway. But that doesn’t mean that Selah hadn’t been prone to mild fits of jealousy now and again whenever the two of them ribbed each other over inside jokes born in Gil’s classroom, or that she’d ever fit in downstairs the way Arran and Tair did. They shared common ground in a way she never would.

But that was then. This is now.

Then, in barely four strides, Arran closes the length of cobblestone and pulls Tair into an enormous, all-encompassing hug. Tall as Tair is, she all but drowns in it.

At twenty-one, Arran had been lanky, and constantly looked like he was on the verge of apologizing for it. Maybe it’s something to do with seeing him through unexpected eyes or the way Tair goes stiff in his embrace, but for the first time Selah realizes that now, at twenty-six, he’s broadened out. And maybe it’s also partway to do with the cut lip and dark bruising around his jaw, or just the inevitable result of a year spent in the legions, but there’s a hardened ease with which he carries himself these days. Like if you don’t get out of his way, he might just make you.

Gradually, Selah watches the tension release through Tair’s body, and at last she lets herself give into it, awkwardly patting him on the back until he finally lets her go.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he says faintly. “You look good.”

“You have a split lip.”

“I’m aware of that, thanks. This is—”

“Theo. Yeah. I’m aware of that, thanks.”

“Are you?” Selah asks, surprised.

Tair shrugs. “We used to run in the same circles.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Theo asks, the ghost of a laugh at her lips. Arms folded across her chest, giving Tair a once-over that’s nothing short of appraising. But rather than shrink away, Tair glares right back, cold regard incongruous with the spark of mischief in Theo’s quirked brow.

“I didn’t see you if you didn’t see me,” she tells her, and it sounds like a dare.

At that, Theo actually does laugh, and Selah finds herself gratified to see that Arran is clearly just as lost as she is. The same circles—that has to mean the Sisters of the First, right? She doesn’t know why this surprises her as much as it does. Theo’s a pleb, sure, but somehow Selah has always been under the impression she wasn’t that type of pleb. More Seven Dials than Sinktown. Building a career in politics doesn’t leave much time for volunteer work or mutual aid, and anyway, no.

Back up.

That makes no sense. That makes no sense at all.

“I’m sorry, how exactly do you two know each other?” she asks, because so far as she’s aware, Theo has only even been in the city for three months. “You said you grew up in the Halcya province.”

Theo blinks at her. “Did I?”

“Yes. You did.”

A moment of hesitation then, the flicker of something strange passing between Theo and Tair both, and suddenly Selah understands. Of course. Of course that was a lie. Theodora Arlot, plebeian, can’t rely on sheer grit and playing by the rules any more than Tair once could. Whether it was forged credentials or something else, she’d had to write her own rules to make a life worth living. Whether she knows Tair through a history of working together or because Theo herself was the recipient of much-needed charity, it isn’t Selah’s place to ask. It isn’t Selah’s place to feel any sort of betrayal for having been lied to. Theo did what she had to to survive.

“It’s fine,” she tells her, grave nod cutting through the strange tension. “I won’t tell.”

“Selah—” Arran starts, but she shakes her head.

“I won’t. I swear.”

Then Arran frowns, as if really noticing her there for the first time. Eyes flicking down to the deep red spattering her duskra, the makeshift bandage wound around her head, the crusted blood just beginning to form in her braids, and his face goes dark with concern. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She flashes him a grin. He doesn’t return it, just pulls her to her feet and toward him, as though closer inspection could make the wound heal itself. “Arran, I’m fine,” she insists, pushing him away.

The distant roar of the riot at the center of Seven Dials is growing louder, evidently not so distant anymore.

“That does look pretty nasty,” says Theo. “Come on. My place isn’t far from here.”

• • •

Tair’s hands are surprisingly gentle, the sting of needle and thread barely a bite as she works in the last stitch above Selah’s hairline. She’d grabbed the medical equipment straight out of Theo’s hands the moment they—they, and that’s just one more private detail to stow away and out of sight from Mima or anyone else who decides to sniff around where Theo’s concerned—emerged from the entryway closet of their little studio apartment. Now, Selah sits cross-legged at the table by the window, and barely feels the tug of thread. Arran is more important, and the way he still won’t look at her even as she finishes speaking.

Clavaspher players and state-sanctioned murder and alchemical scientists and Quiet-damned gladiator games.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, as Tair ties off the last stitch. Theo watches them from the stove, a kettle of tazine brewing in wafts of mint and almond. “I didn’t know what he was asking, and by the time I put it together, it was too late. I didn’t know how to say no without blowing the whole thing out of the water.”

“Pleb fights go easy,” Tair puts in. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. And we figure this could turn out to be a good thing—if you can find Miro Ontiveros before the games start, maybe we can spring him out before you have to actually do anything. Pretend to change your mind, Selah acts all vexed off, we all get out of there before anyone’s the wiser.”

“I’m so sorry,” Selah says again. “I wasn’t trying to . . . I didn’t know. But if you don’t want to be part of this—”

“He can’t.”

The growing whistle of the kettle isn’t enough to drown out Theo’s voice, firm in a way that Selah’s never heard it before. They’re leaning against the green and white tile counter, arms crossed again, and it’s with no small prickle of annoyance that Selah snaps back, “He can decide for himself.”

She doesn’t get to decide for him, and Theo—never mind their own secrets, never mind whatever they and her brother are getting up to behind closed doors—certainly doesn’t, either.

But Theo just shakes their head. “There’s no such thing as an easy fight down in the pits,” they say, frustratingly calm, and takes the screaming kettle off the flame.

“And how would you know that?”

They don’t dignify her with an answer. Instead, they cross to where Arran is still standing by the unmade bed, one arm braced against the other window and frowning out at the clear blue sky, like the answer might be waiting up there somewhere instead. Theo places a gentle hand at his wrist, some silent conversation passing between them as he looks down at it, then up to meet their gaze.

“They’re right. I can’t,” he says at last, turning to face her, and Selah’s heart sinks. “We’ve got something else to do tonight. Something important.”

More important than her.

Of course.

It shouldn’t feel as momentous as it does.

There’s a breaking point that’s been coming for a while. Since before last night and the words she can’t take back, since before Dad died, maybe even since before Arran left for Fornia and the legions. She’s known in her gut it was there and done her best to ignore it, putting it off with education initiatives and schemes to bring him in to work with her at the Archives, anything that meant keeping him with her.

It was never going to work. Arran couldn’t live in limbo forever. Just because she’s been able to overlook that until now doesn’t make it any less true.

“All right,” she says, gathering herself against the rejection. “That’s all right.”

“Like hell it is,” snaps Tair, and Selah, having almost forgotten she was there, nearly falls off the chair.

Tair slams the needle and excess thread against the scrubbed wooden table, then snatches up her bag from where it lies crumpled at her feet. The three of them watch as she heaves the Iveroa Stone out and sticks it firmly under Selah’s nose.

“Show him.”

“Tair . . .”

“You didn’t tell him everything. Show. Him.”

Selah sighs, because Tair’s right—whatever Arran’s choice, she’ll respect it, but that doesn’t mean she gets to keep this from him. In spite of the growing schism between them, in spite of the harsh last words between him and Dad . . . this could change his mind. And even if it doesn’t, he still deserves to know everything he’s saying no to.

So she places the Iveroa Stone on the table between them as Arran and Theo gather round, then lifts the old, crumbling atlas out of her own bag and opens it up to the map of Luxana.

“Uh,” says Arran. “What exactly am I looking at?”

“These belonged to Dad,” says Selah. “He left them with Gil to pass on to me. Said they were classified. This is an atlas, and this . . . well, we’re not entirely sure what it is, but we’re pretty sure it’s a solaric light. It’s called the Iveroa Stone.”

There’s a strangled cough as Theo chokes on their tazine. Selah ignores that, and flips the leather cover open to reveal the irradium surface as Arran’s eyes widen in shock. He glances up, something unsaid and inscrutable passing between him and Theo as their honey face runs pale. And then Selah explains everything.

Everything she can, anyway. None of it connects, not really. But there are the corresponding languages, and the fact that both of these relics belonged to Dad. The fact that someone murdered him and they still don’t know why. The fact that someone is blackmailing Tair to get at the Stone, and they don’t know who or why that is, either. Selah explains it all, and traces her fingers along the flimsy, delicate pages of the atlas map, the one depicting a Luxana neither of them recognize. She tells him what they know, and watches as Arran’s brows climb higher and higher on his forehead, watches as some unfathomable look passes between Tair and Theo, and tries to ignore the way it makes the hairs at the back of her neck prickle with discomfort.

Tair has had a life in the past five years, the same as Selah. She’ll ask about it later. She isn’t going to dwell on it now.

“So what next?” Theo asks, excitement spilling over at the edge. “What does it do?”

“They don’t know.”

Her brother hasn’t said much yet, focused frown intent on the glyphs etched into the Stone’s thin edge. But when he looks up at Selah, twin pairs of green eyes meet in a frank gaze.

“No,” she admits. “We don’t. It doesn’t light up like Dad’s lamps. But it was Dad’s, and now someone’s after it. Maybe multiple someones. So it’s a guess, but I think he had to have known something. Something that other people are willing to commit murder and blackmail over. If we can figure out what the Stone is and how it works, then I think there’s a chance he might have left other clues for us to find.”

He raises a brow. “Like what, a letter?”

Selah rolls her eyes. “No, not a—I don’t know, Arran, it could be anything. Or nothing. Maybe Tair’s right, maybe I’m grasping at straws. But if there’s a chance, then—”

“Then it might lead us to who killed him,” Arran finishes for her.

She nods.

Because there it is. She hasn’t said as much to Tair, but Arran has known her from the moment she was born. The ravines and chasms in their family may be growing, but the rest of the landscape remains the same. On instinct he can understand what she’s barely admitted even to herself, because it’s where his mind goes, too.

“Why,” he asks, glancing from her to Tair, “do I have a feeling you two already have a plan? And why do I have a feeling I’m gonna hate it?”

“Because it’s the same plan as before,” says Tair. “Diana Ontiveros is the only authority on solaric tech. If anyone can get this thing going, or at least tell us what the frag it is, it’s her. And for the record, I don’t think Selah’s grasping at straws. I never did.”

A slight pause, and in the heavy silence that sweeps through the single-room apartment, Selah glances up at her and smiles. Tair remains stone-faced, but slips her hand into Selah’s, and that’s enough. They are going to save two innocent lives, and maybe put the pieces of Dad’s murder together in a way the Cohorts never could, and Tair has faith in her. That’s enough.

Then the frown Arran’s been wearing since they all but ran into each other twists itself into a rueful grin. “Pincer move,” he says, leaning back against the tall window frame, and it’s half a groan, half a laugh. “Well played.”

“What?”

“Attack on two fronts. The two of you are fragging lethal.”

“Is that a yes?” asks Tair.

He nods. “I’ll do it.”

A small shattering noise rings from the counter, where Theo has been pouring out more tazine. They’ve dropped one of the small earthenware mugs. They seem absolutely unconcerned, however, with the dripping pool of hot liquid or ceramic shards littering the floor where it fell. Instead, their eyes are blazing, fixed firmly on Arran.

“No,” they say, and it’s firm, but it’s also a little bit wild. “You can’t go down there.”

“Theo—”

“Go easy, my ass. I know you can fight, Arran, but even pleb matches are fucking brutal.”

“Theo.”

“Those people train for it. They actually want to be there.”

“Theo.”

It isn’t all that loud, really, but it’s final in a way Selah isn’t used to hearing from Arran, and even she finds herself sitting up a little more straight in her chair. Theo, meanwhile, seems to snap out of whatever flight instinct came over them, and is now frowning intently at her brother, knuckles gone white where they grip against the tile counter.

Arran goes to them, hands cupped around their jaw, and suddenly Selah feels very hot. Like she’s watching something she isn’t supposed to. Arran’s not a Vestal fragging Virgin, she does know that, but she’s also never exactly seen him with anyone. He’s never properly dated someone before, though she’s not really sure if this even qualifies as that. She drops her gaze all the same, down to where Tair’s hand is still clasped in hers, and keeps it there as Arran murmurs something in Theo’s ear.

It comes to her, suddenly, that they haven’t been exactly subtle. What’s shifted between them happened so fast and so soon before their unexpected collision with Arran and Theo that there was hardly time to dwell on it. But it occurs to her now that Arran must have seen them together, even if he didn’t immediately recognize who they were. So he’s seen them kiss, and he’s seen the way Tair took care of her, the way they stay in each other’s space, and their hands clasped like this. He’s seen these things, and he doesn’t seem at all surprised. Like maybe it wasn’t so fast or soon at all, just the natural destination to a road that they’ve been on for a very, very long time.

She rubs a thumb across Tair’s knuckles, and gets a quick squeeze back in return.

Across the apartment, Arran and Theo finish their quiet conversation. They certainly don’t look happy about it, but when Arran presses his forehead to theirs, Theo closes their eyes and finally nods.

“Okay,” they say, turning to Selah and Tair. “If you really insist on doing this . . . then you’re going to need to know the way out.”