Tristan closed the book.

Sunshine streamed through the stained-glass windows, colouring the table in crimson and buttery yellow. The worn leather cover — dusty, puckered like a child that had tasted something sour — was warm to the touch. Tristan traced his fingers over the golden words: What We Know About Faerie.

Which, as it turned out, was diddlysquat.

Tristan sighed, placing the book back on the shelf. The Stillwater Castle library contained only a small section on faerie; he'd been working his way from left to right, pulling out titles one-by-one: A Glimpse Below-The-Hill; A Faerie-ly Good Life; and An Intimate Guide to Faerie, which contained no relevant information, but included a juicy story about a faerie duke that had been caught with his boxers down at a Full Moon summoning.

Tristan picked up another book.

A door shut.

Tristan whirled. His arm gave a painful throb, and he winced. His shoulder was improving, but he was in no condition to fight anyone. If it was one of Lucia's men... Tristan shrunk back into the shadows, his heart hammering.

"Easy," a male voice called. "It's just me."

Ryne emerged from behind a bookshelf. He was still dressed in his black riding cloak, although he was barefoot now. His green eyes looked bright in the dim light.

Tristan exhaled. "Stars, Ryne."

"Sorry," Ryne said, not looking particularly sorry at all.

Tristan cradled the book to his chest. Ryne drifted closer to the table. The surface was littered with various objects — a half-eaten cucumber sandwich, a quill, two pots of ink — but it was the copper ball that Ryne reached for.

Ryne weighed it in his hand. "This feels like an outside toy."

Tristan sighed. "Did you need something?"

"Let me guess," Ryne mused, holding the object up to the light. "A copper-rigged nano bomb? This would take out the entire library. Probably the stables, too, which is a pity. I just bought a new pair of leather riding boots."

Exasperation filled him. "Ry. What do you want?"

Ryne set down the explosive. "What are you reading?"

His voice had taken on an edge of curiosity. Not the sort of feigned curiosity that Ryne employed with dignitaries and visiting royalty, Tristan thought, but real curiosity, the sort that Ryne reserved for chess matches and discussing war strategy.

Tristan hugged the book. "Nothing."

Ryne's eyebrow arched. "Fascinating. I've never seen a book with no words in it."

"I haven't started it yet," Tristan said, which was technically true.

Ryne held out a hand. "Go on. Give it here."

Tristan's throat felt dry. "No."

"Show me," Ryne said.

Tristan held his gaze. "Is that a royal order?"

They considered each other. Ryne's green eyes were unreadable, remote as the rolling hills of Salvatoria. Then — with no warning — Ryne lunged. Tristan swore, backpedalling; the cucumber sandwich clattered to the floor. He slipped on a bit of cheese, almost colliding with a bookshelf, and Ryne wrenched the book from his hand.

Tristan glared. "Damn you."

Ryne retreated to the other side of the table. "You've gotten slower."

"I'm wearing a sling," Tristan said, aggrieved. "It's very difficult to move in a sling."

"Oh, look," Ryne said, opening the book. "It does have words." To Tristan's horror, Ryne cleared his throat and began to read. "Faeries are sometimes called fashioners. They have the unique ability to create objects by bending celestial matter into metal and other—" He broke off, raising an eyebrow. "Since when are you interested in faerie?"

Tristan stiffened. "I'm allowed to have new interests."

"You're moping," Ryne announced.

He closed the book. And Tristan — who had knelt to pick up the soggy remains of the cucumber sandwich — paused. "Pardon?"

"Look around you," Ryne said. "You're moping."

Tristan prickled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Ryne asked.

They observed each other. Pale light streamed through the window; it seemed to solidify into a shape, a white cat slipping between bookshelves, but then Tristan turned, and it was gone. Ryne tipped the book in his direction.

"I have a proposal for you," Ryne said.

"I'm flattered," Tristan said wryly. "But no."

His mouth quirked. "A business proposal."

"Why," Tristan sighed, "do I have the sense that this is more of a demand?"

Ryne shrugged. "You don't have to do it."

This, Tristan thought, was akin to setting someone on fire and then telling them that they didn't have to jump into a lake. "Just tell me."

"I want you to go to Salvatoria," Ryne said.

His green eyes were the colour of dark woods. Tristan crossed his arms. He could feel dust collecting in his mouth, tickling the back of his throat. He wanted to cough or sneeze or cry. Possibly all three at once. "Why?"

"We need the support," Ryne said. "When Lucia returns — and she will return — then we need as many men fighting on our side as possible. Salvatoria has one of the most dangerous armies in the world. Their fighting techniques are unmatched."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "And you think I can convince them?"

"Yes."

"Because I look like them," Tristan said flatly.

The back of his neck prickled. This, Tristan thought, was typical bloody Wynterlynnish behaviour; he'd grown up in this kingdom, but all people saw was the dark hair. The delicate cheekbones. The Salvatorian nose. He hadn't expected it from Ryne, though. Maybe that was why it stung.

"Yes," Ryne allowed. "That's some of it. But it's also because you're cynical and suspicious and distrusting." Only Ryne, Tristan thought, could make it sound like a compliment. "Salvatoria is a land of trickery and mind games. I need someone with a clear head."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "And what if I don't want to go?"

"I'm not going to force you," Ryne said.

Tristan studied him. Ryne meant it, Tristan realized with some surprise; if he didn't want to go, then Ryne wouldn't order him to do so. But perhaps it didn't matter because they both knew what his answer would be. There were multiple ways to coerce someone into something. Unconditional love was by far the most effective.

"I'll go," Tristan said.

Ryne nodded. There was no surprise on his face. "Good. I'll arrange for a ship to leave tomorrow. Someone discreet."

He turned for the door. Tristan took an oil cloth from his pocket, carefully tucking the remainder of the cucumber sandwich inside. He wiped his hands on his trousers.

"Ry?" he asked.

Ryne paused.

Tristan held out a hand. "Can I have my book back now?"

Ryne looked down. He seemed startled to realize that he was still holding the book. He turned to the table, as if to put it down, and then seemed to think better of it. "Tris, do you remember...?"

Ryne paused.

Tristan fiddled awkwardly with his sling. He wasn't sure what alarmed him most: the fact that Ryne was hesitating, or the fact that he'd used his childhood nickname. Neither, Tristan felt, was a good sign.

"Do you remember," Ryne said, his eyes on the window, "when we were twelve and my father took us to that seaside village? Westbrook, I think it was called. We stayed in that tiny inn so that nobody would recognize us. It had some sort of famous ice cream parlour next to it. You wanted to try the brambleberry."

"I remember," Tristan said slowly. "You ordered the peppercorn."

Ryne met his gaze. "Do you remember who served us?"

Tristan looked away. "Of course I do."

He tried not to think of it, but the image came anyway: a young man in his twenties, a tiny white star above his eyebrow, wearing a striped apron and carrying an ice cream scoop. Funny, Tristan thought, that he couldn't remember the stranger's name. Only that tiny tattoo. Tristan had reached for the brambleberry ice cream, and the man spat on the cone.

"Go back to where you came from," he'd said.

Tristan's ears had burned. He'd been terrified to look at Ryne — Ryne, whom he'd loved at the time, Ryne, who had witnessed his humiliation — but he forced himself to turn. Ryne had been staring at the boy with an expression that Tristan had never seen before. Something that reminded him of a lit match right before it started a forest fire.

"You were so angry," Tristan said, staring at the soggy cucumber sandwich. "I thought you were going to hit him."

Ryne's face was unreadable. "I wanted to."

"You didn't say anything," Tristan said. "You just walked out of the parlor."

Ryne's throat bobbed. "I couldn't."

Tristan looked away. There had been so many people in the ice cream parlor that day: men playing cards at wooden tables, women rocking squalling babies, giggling girls throwing bits of their cones to stray ducks... Ryne had worn a cloak with a hood, but that never guaranteed his anonymity. And he was right, Tristan thought; starting a fight with an ice cream shop employee wasn't exactly a great look for the crown prince of Wynterlynn.

"I felt so..." Tristan's voice was hoarse. "I don't know. I couldn't sleep that night, so I went to the kitchens for a glass of water. Your father was there, too." He looked at Ryne. "He told me that you'd taken care of the situation."

Something flickered in Ryne's eyes. "I didn't realize that you'd spoken to him."

"What did you do?" Tristan asked.

Ryne set the book on the table. "I wrote to the owner of the shop and politely asked her to fire the boy. I told her that all employees should abide by a code of conduct in future. And I told her I'd send someone to check on her progress in a few months."

"Was that all?" Tristan asked.

His heart hammered. Over the years, he'd seen Ryne cajole and coerce people, engage in bribery, blackmail, and outright violence. Upon further reflection, Tristan thought, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer.

Ryne ran a finger down the dusty book cover. "I would have done anything for you, Tris. I still would. Nothing's changed."

"That's not true," Tristan said. "Everything's changed."

Silence fell. Ryne lifted his finger.

"I've never thanked you properly." His voice had taken on a brisk, businesslike tone. "For what you did for Cidarius."

Tristan shook his head. "I didn't do anything."

"She says that she wouldn't have survived that tower without you."

"Well," Tristan said, "Anna's always been a good liar."

He thought of Anna — singing silly songs, making shadow puppets on the wall, cutting brie with a mythical sword — and smiled. An odd expression crossed Ryne's face. Not envy, exactly, but something very near it. Ryne turned for the door.

"I'll leave you to it," Ryne said.

"Ry?" Tristan asked.

Ryne paused, his hand on the doorknob.

Tristan picked up the book. "If I don't see you before I leave tomorrow..."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Or maybe it was simply that he didn't have to, Tristan thought; maybe it was simply that the years of history between them would write it for him. Ryne's smile was tight.

"I know," Ryne said. "Me, too."

He shut the door behind him.

Tristan opened the book. A breeze drifted through the window, fluttering the pages. He glanced at the title — The Language of Faerie — and then skipped to the index, running his finger down the page. Allenburrows, Brackenbriars, Celestial Rulers... He paused at an entry halfway down, his heart lurching.

Moinesca.

Tristan swallowed. He knew that word. Owain had said it to him on the day of the battle; he could recall a sharp pain in his shoulder, gentle hands pushing at his back. And Owain's breath, warm in his ear. You can't sleep here, moinesca. Come on.

Tristan flipped to the page.

The sentences blurred together. It took Tristan a moment to locate the word — buried in a footnote — and when he did, his heart sped up. Someone had written an explanation beside it. A two-word English translation.

My heart.