Kaza stops abruptly in front of a pale grey door, motioning for me to stop as well.

            "There is no dining room here-" I begin, then stop when I realize what door I'm seeing. The gilded edging, the handle that curls forward and back on itself in elaborate filigree, the knocker embedded with a single jewel- this is the entrant to the Dizsa's private offices.  At least it was, before the dizsa was killed, before Shira fled and I was imprisoned.

            It feels like millennia ago that we snuck inside his mother's inner sanctum, suppressing anxious laughter and a heady tingle of fear. We wouldn't do anything, too frightened of disturbing Somitu to rifle through her desk or disturb the papers that lay atop it, but we would read what we could, and run our fingers along the spines of her books, and contort our bodies to fit underneath the desk like it was a secret cave.

            I would dare him to move things- a paperweight two inches to the left, a stack of papers from one chair to another, the clock further back on the mantle- just to test the boundaries of her perception. He would do it after I egged him on, with shaking hands, and for days after we'd smile secret smiles when she failed to notice the shifting of inconsequential objects.

            "This is his office now, isn't it?" I ask my escort, already knowing the answer.

            "Yes."

            "He's building the old right on top of the new, isn't he?" I mutter, disgust and anger rising within me like twin snakes, dancing their dance as I stare at the door, the glittering jewel of the knocker, and imagine the monster sitting inside. Touching her things, not caring how far they're moved. Running his bloodstained fingertips along the binding of her books. Sitting behind her desk, sitting in her chair like it's a throne and he's the conquering king. It's a subtle but violent appropriation, to set himself up here- to call me here- to make sure I see him sitting where she sat.

            I take the knocker in my hand suddenly. It feels cool and wet, slippery against my skin. I grit my teeth and grip it tighter, so the beveled edges of the jewel begin to make indentations in my palm. The desire to knock loudly and repetitively, to startle the forced calm into a loud pandemonium, is overwhelming.

            I am here, I want to scream, I am the girl you made a ghost, but would not bury, and you have called me, and I am here. Listen to me. Listen to how much I respect you and your new office, your little throne room. Listen to me knock until the wood of the door splinters into kindling. Listen to me light a fire out here to keep my ghost self warm-

            Kaza gives me a warning glance, seeing the raw intensity of my desire written across my face.

            "He's not her," I say huskily.

            "Now is not the time or place-"

            "He said he's different," I continue, ignoring his caution. "But he just wants to slip inside her body and use it as his own. Her skin won't fit him, you know. It will hang off of him like a badly tailored garment. It will snag on everything-"

            "Remember your girl and hold your tongue," Kaza mutters, glancing around us at passing guards and servants.

            I turn to snarl at him, to tell him he has no business advising me, but I catch myself.

            He's right. Even if I hate him, he's right.

             I can't break down the door and launch myself at the man inside with my nails and my teeth. It's not just my own life I'm responsible for now. Sholu has already threatened Halima, and I know those threats aren't empty. He has no regard for human life- what is she to him but another tool to be used and discarded?

            And I decided that day on the scaffold that I would protect her, that I owed her my life and would fight to secure hers against the invading evil of this city. And I will.

            I will, I remind myself, releasing the knocker. Pure rage is just noise. Noise will do nothing but endanger me and mine. So I must be something else.

            Music, I decide as Kaza gives a cursory knock on the door. I will be music. It can be cacophonic and disordered and violent but still have some underlying thread of restraint, a meter to follow, a beat. And it is memorable, and people listen to it. Better to be music than white noise. Better to be tempered steel than useless destruction.

            "Come in," a voice calls from the other side of the door. I stiffen.

            Kaza gives me a sympathetic look and opens the door, motioning me inside. I take a deep breath and start walking, like I did when I walked to the scaffold. This will be no different, I know. This is war, just a subtler variety.

            "Bend," the guard whispers as I pass him.

            Then the door shuts loudly behind me, and I am alone with one man and one hundred and ten ghosts.

* * *

            I look around. The office's large wooden desk has been hastily converted into a table. A blue linen covers it. On top sit two gilded plates, two teacups, a steaming kettle of what smells like Isoveri root tea, and a basket piled high with bread and pastries.

            Sholu Verlaina sits in the grand desk chair, the one carved with the Amarin family sigil and upholstered in Somitu's favorite sky blue, buttering a roll. He's relaxed, not slouched, but definitely comfortable, like he thinks he belongs there. He wears a soft grey tunic. His dusty hair is ruffled, like it's been pressed for too long against a pillow.

            Here is the devil of all devils, and he looks like a regular man. He looks domestic, with evidence of sleep, of eating, of life surrounding him. My mind can hardly make sense of it.

            I think I expected to find him seated on a throne made of bones. To see his body supported by death woven into a sculpture, to see him lay his bare wrists on skeletal armrests and drink blood from an empty scull-cup. I expected my nightmare, the nightmare I've had on and off for the last month- blackened rain- his pupils enlarging to swallow his irises- his skin peeling away to nothing but a mass of hungry teeth and flame.

            But here he is, lazily spreading butter across a piece of bread he holds almost tenderly between thumb and forefinger. Innocent, I realize suddenly, he looks innocent. Almost childlike, the way the sunlight plays on his face.

             It's too much for me, too much of a disconnect, and my brain registers it as comic. I start to laugh, overcome with the absurdity of him and his roll, and me in my stupid evening gown, and the world falling apart around us.

            He looks at me, then, finally acknowledging my presence, and as soon as his grey eyes meet mine I stop laughing.

            His gaze is piercing in a way no man's should be. Unnatural. I didn't feel violated naked and spreading myself so lewdly in front of Kaza, but I do now. His eyes peel the flesh from my bone to get at the marrow underneath.

"You kept me waiting," he says after a long moment.

"I had to change,"

"I suppose you did," he chuckles. "I'm glad for it, too. You look lovely. I was right- the silver does match your eyes."

I just stare at him. I think I forget to blink.

"Do you like the dress?"

"The dress is fine," I mutter, suppressing the urge to rip it to shreds, to pull the tablecloth from the desk and smash the pretty pottery, to destroy something, anything.

"Just fine?" He presses. "The fabric comes all the way from Kalihaul. Cost me a pretty penny to import. I'd say it's a good deal better than just fine."

I don't respond, curling my hands into fists behind my back to keep myself from reacting. The veneer of civility he's trying to weave between us is too provoking. 

"I thought a girl raised in the palace would love the chance to wear something so beautiful. Kalihaulaini silk, O'otani, doesn't it feel like nothing else against your skin? Surely it's better than just fine."

"Nothing is better than just fine when it's forced onto your body with threats," I hiss, my voice shaking with hate. "You could dress me in bloody pig skin and I would like it just as well, given the circumstances!"

He smiles slightly. "Bloody pig skin- now that's an idea. Would that please you? To have something dripping and wet covering your flesh, staining it red?" He shakes his head. "I thought having something lovely might please you, but next time I'll save the money and just have the chef save some skin from the roast."

I'm silent for a long moment, swallowing the curses building in my throat, swallowing rage and hate until it poisons me.

"Why am I here?"
             "Because I wanted you to be," he says simply, setting down the roll. "And because I have the power to compel what I want."

I glare at him, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Come and sit down, you're quaking like a leaf," he says, motioning to a chair on the other side of the desk. I hesitate. I don't want to be any closer to him than I am now. I'm not sure if I'm afraid of what he'll do to me, or of what I might do to him.

"Sit down," he repeats in a tone that allows for no argument. I do.

In front of me sits a plate piled high with pastries and rolls of bread. My mouth starts to water but I swallow, looking away from the best food I've seen in a month. The shine of silverware catches my attention. There's a knife, not a butter knife but a serrated one, sharp enough to do some damage. It's only us in this room; my first instinct is to grab it and ram it between Sholu's eyes. My hand unfurls, drawn to the weapon.

"Really, O'otani," he chides. "I bring you here for a nice meal and the first thing you think of is how best to stab me."

I want to reiterate all the ways I plan on stabbing him, but restraint.

Sholu waits for a response. When I just stare at him, he frowns. "I see how you look at the knife. No doubt if the knife was gone you'd go for the fork. What about the spoon? Would you try to dig my eyes out with that too?"
             "I might." I admit, looking at the muffins in front of me.

"Go ahead and eat," he encourages. "You look thin."
             "I thought I looked lovely," I mock.

He chuckles. "You do, Izsaiki. But you're hungry, aren't you?"
             I pick up a pastry and sniff it, then take a small bite. Sholu smirks at my hesitation. "If I wanted to kill you, don't you think I'd have done it by now?"
             I take a bigger bite, letting crumbs roll down my chin. A glob of raspberry filling drips onto the dress; I don't bother wiping it away.

He watches me, not bothering to eat himself. His posture is completely relaxed. I look to the knife again, contemplating driving it into his neck. There must be a guard right outside the door, but if I was quick-

"Look at me." Sholu commands. "If you're going to do it, do it now, okay? Take the knife, lunge across the table, and see if you're quick enough to stab me before I break your arm and the guard rushes in. It's what you want, isn't it?"

I look away, hating the condescension dripping from his words. I should. I might not get an opportunity like this again. I might be able to kill him-

"If you want to commit suicide, do it now." He says. "By all means. Because if you attack me and you fail, I will punish you in ways you cannot imagine. And if you succeed, my guards will do it in my stead." He leans over the small table, taking my chin in his hand and forcing me to meet his eyes.

"Choose right now if you want to be a martyr, O'otani, because I tire of your indecision."

I feel the demon inside of me rising, wanting to break the fingers gripping my chin hard enough to bruise, to hurt him worse than he's hurt me. Sholu smiles cruelly, expecting me to lash out, wanting it even.

No, I tell myself, forcing down the rage and the bloodlust. He's expecting it, you will fail, and they will hurt Halima. You cannot kill a man with rage.

"I won't attack you," I admit to both of us. "Not now, at least."

"Good." Sholu says. "See, I told my guards even a mad dog can be trained."

I glare at him but he just smiles back, our faces only inches apart. I bite my tongue until I taste iron, then wait. As soon as he releases my chin I spit, hitting him on the cheek with a spray of blood and saliva.

He slaps me, hard, but I can't help but smile. The anger in his eyes, the way the gloating expression on his face turned to shock makes it worth it. 

"But you aren't learning fast enough." He growls, sitting back in his chair and wetting a napkin to clean his face. "What good did that do, O'otani? I've treated you with more dignity than you deserve, and you repay me by acting like a spoiled child!"

"Dignity?" I hiss. "You think being ordered into a pretty dress and forced to dine with my family's murderer is dignified? You think being locked in a room with only my own rage and the voices of my dead ringing in my head is dignified?!"

"You're still stuck in your little bubble, just like the rest of the damned Dimaraste." Sholu sneers. "I killed your family, but I did not kill you, and beyond that I gave you a month alone to mourn. I did not punish you for killing my guard. Again, you have been treated with more dignity than you deserve."

"I am your prisoner." I mutter. "That is not dignity."

"Did you even once stop and think about how much worse off you could be?" He asks, taking a small drink of tea. "You live in a furnished room, but I could just as easily lock you in a dark closet. You're fed two meals a day when I could keep you alive on so much less. I've not availed myself of your body; I forbid my men to touch you. How would you like to be strung up naked in the great hall without my protection? Do you know how much they hate you, O'otani? What they would do to you?"

I look away, feeling a shard of fear pierce the white heat of my anger. I fold my arms over myself, trying not to think of the torture he's describing.

"If I treated you like a real prisoner, you wouldn't even have time to hate me." Sholu whispers. "You wouldn't have time for anything but pain and fear."

            I look away from his unnatural grey eyes. In them I see possibilities I don't want to begin to think of- to feel-

            "But I chose to treat you well," he continues. "I chose, O'otani. Just remember that I can just as easily change my mind."