TIA chews her lip, looking at CHEEKY, but the showgirl puts on a brave face.
CHEEKY: I’m looking forward to sending our bill to the treasury when this is all over.
TIA: Just tell me you’re not going to itemize it.
CHEEKY snorts a laugh, but CAMREON doesn’t smile as he reaches for the handle. A moment passes, then another. CHEEKY narrows her eyes, but her look is not unkind.
CHEEKY: Last chance to back out.
Now a smile touches CAMREON’s lips. He takes a deep breath, then opens the door.
Moonlight spills across the darkened room, illuminating the gilded furnishings: a chaise lounge, an imported dresser, a velvet-draped bed. Aquitan furnishings, strangely out of place in the Ruby Palace. But the drapes are drawn back, and the bed is empty.
TIA: Where is he?
CHEEKY: Shh.
She holds up a finger, cocking her head. In the soft dark silence, a distant sound comes: music. The notes are gentle . . . halting. A section of a song that fades, then starts over.
I used to dance to this song.
TIA: I remember.
CHEEKY: Of course you do. I’m unforgettable.
CHEEKY grins, but something about the music has thrown her off. She starts across the room, toward the sound of the piano, but she hesitates at the far door, the way an actor would when about to step onto the stage. As CAMREON and TIA watch, she straightens her shoulders and dons a little smile—hopeful, appealing. Then she opens the door, and the music flows through.
On the other side of the door, she finds a study. Dusty bookshelves line the wall, and a desk has been pushed aside to make room for new instruments: a harp shining soft gold in the corner, a fine violin on a silver stand, and a grand piano, all polished ebony and gold fittings. Imported Aquitan instruments. They have fallen out of tune in the local humidity, and there are no servants left to fix the pitch.
RAIK is sitting at the piano, a half-empty bottle of champagne on the lid. His fingers skip over the keys, and he seems not to hear the sour notes. But when CHEEKY steps into the room, his hands go still.
RAIK: You came back.
CHEEKY: How could I stay away?
RAIK’s face hardens.
RAIK: Is your soldier done with you?
CHEEKY: He was a mistake. We all make them.
She approaches, leaning in over the keys, and plays the next few notes.
RAIK: You think I don’t know that?
CHEEKY: Au contraire. I think you can relate.
She sits down beside him to play the next line. RAIK leans into her warmth, taking a deep breath of her perfume.
When we were in the jungle, all you talked about was coming back to Nokhor Khat. You painted it like a picture in my head. The city full of life and beauty. Servants at your beck and call in the palace. You could go out to a show, or play cards at the gambling house—
Her finger lands on a sour key, and she winces.
But that’s not what I saw when I came here.
RAIK: That’s not my fault.
CHEEKY: I know. It’s your brother’s. But you’re the one stuck here in an empty palace that still smells of corpses, with the country crumbling and the champagne harder and harder to get—
Slamming his hands down on the keys in a discordant clang, RAIK turns to her.
RAIK: And what do you expect me to do about any of that?
CHEEKY: Nothing.
Gently she takes his hands.
Let him clean up the mess.
RAIK: Who?
CHEEKY: Your brother. And why shouldn’t he? It’s his fault.
RAIK frowns as the wheels turn in his head.
RAIK: How do you know he would?
CHEEKY: It’s what you talked about, isn’t it? Before he persuaded you to leave the palace and join the rebellion. The only difference now is that you wouldn’t even have to be a figurehead. All of the fun, none of the work. He wants the throne, doesn’t he? Let him have it.
RAIK stares at her, still suspicious, but she returns his gaze with deep admiration in her own eyes.
RAIK: And what do you want?
CHEEKY: To stay by your side, as long as you’ll have me.
RAIK: Is that so?
RAIK searches her face, looking for the lie. Then, slowly, he nods. But as she leans closer for a kiss, his hand goes to his pocket.
Then you should have no trouble letting me mark you.
CHEEKY: Mark . . . me?
RAIK: So I know you can’t run off again.
He pulls out a slender length of brass—the fountain pen, full of Jetta’s blood—that he ripped from CAMREON’s hand on the steps of the palace. CHEEKY’s eyes widen, but she struggles for composure, hiding her alarm.
CHEEKY: You want to make me a fantouche?
RAIK: So you’ll stay with me. Don’t you want to stay with me, Cheeky?
CHEEKY: Of course I do! But . . . isn’t it better that I want to, than that you make me?
RAIK: It’s better to know you won’t betray me again.
He takes her hand, but she draws back, trying to laugh.
CHEEKY: It only works on the dead, Raik.
He grips her wrist harder, showing his teeth.
RAIK: You’re dead either way.
He raises the pen in his fist, as though to stab her with it, but she scrambles over the back of the bench, tripping over the train of her dress. He grabs her ankle and she lashes out with her foot, kicking free. Tearing the violin from the stand, she swings it at him—a lover and a fighter. RAIK wrenches the instrument out of her hand, bringing it down like a club. CHEEKY has just enough time to get her hands over her head before the violin splinters over her shoulders. The girl collapses, dazed, as RAIK raises the pen again. But hearing the commotion, TIA and CAMREON burst through the door.
TIA: Cheeky!
TIA rushes to her friend’s side, standing between RAIK and the girl.
RAIK: Tia? Get out, or you’re next. And who the hell are you—
When RAIK meets his brother’s eyes, his fury deepens.
You.
He turns to CAMREON, holding the pen like a dagger.
Of course you’re behind this.
CAMREON puts his hands
