The Guilds drove me to stealing, I swear! Six out of six merchants I talked to—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, the jeweler, the tailor and even the stinky tanner—told me to run double-quick and pay the Guild's apprenticeship fees. Once I brought back the token, they would be happy to hire me. But that didn't work for me at all!

Guilds proved to be the same as the Gala's Temple—once they sank their teeth into me, once my name was on their roster, my fate would be sealed for eternity. I wasn't going to sell myself for eternity, only for a few weeks until the Deadhead Company returned.

My remaining option was to walk far out of the City of Palmyr, outside even the tanners' shops and find a farm. Maybe someone in the countryside needed a hand with rustic labors. Simple enough plan, but there was a hitch too. I imagined myself as I would become by the summer's end working on a farm.

I'd be stick-thin, barefooted and browned by the sun, my hair full of straw knocking at the city gates.

"Did the Deadhead company return yet?" I'd ask the Watch. My voice would be hoarse from dust and sleeping in some barn.

The City Watch I already hated from my vagrant nights, would scowl. They would chase me away instead of trying to apprehend me.

So, I resorted to thievery as one bad choice among the worse ones. Just once, I had decided, just this once, I'd lift a purse and have a meal and a safe bed to sleep in for the night.

Then, the next morning, I would go to the docks to see if the boat captains were as fastidious in their dealings with the Sea Guild as the merchants of the Old Market. A boat would be a bit like a farm, but inside the city at least.

I stole in the theater.

It proved as easy as plucking a lemon from a tree. I reached out, sliced, grabbed, pulled and stuffed the plump bounty into my belt. Then I made it between the revelers to the exit, flushed with my success.

A hand squeezed my elbow—and I had felt a more delicate touch of these fingers before.

"In here," Parneres whispered into my ear, stirring me to one of the many curtained alcoves. "Young Mistress, I don't know who you are or what quarrel you've had with your mother—"

My chin jerked up all by itself. "I'm my own mistress."

"Your dress lies then," he said. "You have a princess-in-disguise air about you."

My chest inflated. He thought I was a princess! And, my tunic and pants held out despite washing them daily. I needed to keep my clothes decent until the Deadhead Company returned, but I didn't share this aspiration with Parneres.

"If you don't have a powerful lady protecting you, it's even more important that you return the purse and scoot," he said. His throat pebble bobbed. His words came out quiet and urgent. He seemed genuinely worried about my trespassing, but I wasn't born yesterday. Accusing myself would only make matters worse.

"I stole nothing!" I exclaimed. "Unhand me!"

He winced. "We don't have the time for denials, Mistress. It's one thing to watch a play for free, however many times in a row. Come again if you want to. But don't steal from the patrons, I beg you."

I pulled in the air furiously, determined to argue the second charge too.

He rolled his eyes.

"I really love Naktymyana," I said instead.

He rolled his eyes again, far more demonstratively this time. Ah, what lovely eyes he had!

Anastasia could fill the scrolls with praise to orbs like polished gems, sapphire and emeralds, all she wanted. I loved Parneres' eyes because they were human eyes. His irises smelted into pupils, close in color, but not quite. It contrasted with the purest white and his long lashes. And the evasiveness of his gaze egged me on to fight for his sole attention. I wanted him to look at me for an hour. Two hours... three!

"I also like sass in men," I added.

"You have good taste and my Mistress wouldn't care two figs for your passionate admiration of Naktimyana. But a cutpurse is a different matter. She wouldn't tolerate the attention of the Watch, however trivial."

My heart plunged. He was spoken for... not that I didn't suspect it, but hearing the confirmation from his lips hurt anyway. However, I pushed my suffering down. Just like his Mistress, I desired to avoid the Watch's attention.

"I'm not a thief. Let me pass." I wanted to add man at the end, but my tongue just wouldn't do it. I couldn't insult him. I loved him too much for that!

With a resigned sigh, Parneres rolled up the wide sleeve of his cotton shift.

My mouth went dry at the sight of the lean, ropey muscle of his forearm. Above the elbow, the solid curve of the upper arm disappeared in the white cotton. The vigorous dancing at the end of the play gave his skin a sheen of sweat. It wafted over to me, and instead of wrinkling my nose, I swallowed a sigh. The efforts of washing it off would be worth my while... I swallowed again, trying to find moisture in the desert of my throat.

A small, impatient move—and I realized that Parneres had wanted me to look at the inside of his elbow, rather than his beautiful arms.

There, right under my nose, the mark curled in the hollow. My blood chilled, all frivolous thoughts evaporating in an instant.

Pale gold against the black skin, as elegant as all of his other tattoos, hidden by their intricate designs in plain sight. Hidden and poised to strike.

A scorpia.

No, not just some scorpia. It was the Scorpia, the mark of one Guild that made its own laws for a thousand years and didn't respect any Queens or borders. They manufactured one thing—the corpses. They were assassins.

I swallowed, thinking of the singers and dancers, fit and nimble, coming and going... a perfect profession to hide a dozen assassins in plain sight if needed.

Mutely, I dug into my belt and held it out to him. "I... I might have picked the purse up after the cord snapped and was about to return it to the door guards."

"Naturally."

I could go hungry. I could sleep in the streets. By the Bhutas, maybe I don't have to sleep... and I will go to the Docks tomorrow.

"Here." I dropped the pouch into the open palm of his hand.

He glanced right at me.

I should have been happy that our gazes met. There was no far-away look on his face. No burning passion I had noticed on the day he had said his lines for the first time. They were just dark eyes. Beautiful and dark. A bit sad maybe.

"I don't have a mother, or an aunt or an evil Bhuta in the world," I said hotly. "But I am Ismar, and that's enough. Once fortune and glory are mine, I'll take you away from your evil Mistress. No one should be chained to a destiny that is not of their own choosing!"

"What would you choose for me, I wonder?" he murmured, tossing the bag of coins in his hand, to make them jingle.

Taken aback by his amused tone, I rolled my shoulders back to look taller. I had explained things, but if he needed extra reassurance... I cupped his hands in mine.

"I'll ask you first, I promise. But... if I'm to take a wild guess, you want to be an actor." A bit on the nose, but definitely not an assassin's pawn.

One of Parneres' mystifying smiles started to curve his lips, consuming my attention, when something buzzed through the air, grazing my shoulder.

Instinctively, I skipped backwards. The hot drops trickled down my arm before the cut stung. A slim disk with a hole through the middle and three barbed hooks—a shuriken—struck the wall right behind me.

It didn't finish vibrating yet, and I had my knife out already.

A woman who attacked me laughed at my gleaming blade. "What are you, a chef?"

She stood behind Parneres. I was distracted, I knew it. I was gazing into his eyes, then his sweet lips, but I couldn't have missed her coming up behind him. I should have heard her approach. How, how is she there?

My mind reeled, searching for clues. Unlike Parneres in his white-black-and-red shift, her clothes blended into shadows, she was shorter than him, and as slender... but no, I had to be blinder than a bat to miss her at the distance of a few paces, even when I was besotted by a man.

The smell of bitter violets touched my nostrils. A tendril of smoke clung to her hair wrap... Oh, that's how she did it! She used magic.

"What are you, a High Scribe?" Before the words were out of my mouth, I knew she wasn't any Scribe. I also knew beyond all doubt what she was. A woman hidden in the shadows, poised to strike.

My assailant was a member of the assassin's Guild, a scorpia.

And Parneres had been wrong, dreadfully wrong, when he had said his Mistress wouldn't care if I mingled with the actors. The scorpia's eyes all but shot lightning at me. She cared and she didn't like my steadfast admiration of epic poetry at all.