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No, take away the clothes and he would still look like an artist had set out to sculpt perfection and created its living embodiment instead. His skin was a shade darker than her own, a rich warm brown she wondered how he’d ever passed off as a lighter color in that last disguise she’d seen him in. Arched cheekbones led up to those almost-black eyes he’d tried to hide under glamour as Taius, and his slightly-too-long black hair was tousled, as if he ran his hands through it often.
But his allure wasn’t in any of those things. It was simply him—the way he stood, the way he smiled, the way he looked at the world. Like existence was a joke and he was waiting for the punchline.
And he was staring at her with the self-assuredness of a man who knew she had no idea who he was. Her lips curved into a smile, because it was always more fun knowing something when a person thought they had it hidden. “Forgive me if I say your clothes don’t look particularly dangerous.”
“Maybe they’re like this one.” He stepped past her and tapped a tented piece of paper that rested on a small table before the dress. “Battle armor.”
Chalen had kept the name, then. “Armor, hmm? Are you a man in need of defense?”
He laughed again, and she liked the sound. “You have no idea.”
“And is that what brings you in here today? Your need of defense?”
“Perhaps.” He leaned back against the wall, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Or perhaps I heard you sing last night.”
That was where she’d heard his voice. He’d spoken differently in his Taius persona, an altered accent then, a shaper edge to his consonants. But this voice was him, and she’d heard it last night, from the man who had walked his chair across the room to her. The one whose face she hadn’t been able to see through the brilliance of the stage lighting. The one who had stopped Estrella from approaching Clare and told the other singer not to further embarrass herself.
And there was that feeling in Clare’s chest again, the part of her that had wanted him to be there and was glad to discover he had been, but still didn’t understand why. It was more effort than it should have been to keep her voice light and unconcerned. “Did you? I don’t recall meeting you after the performance.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t stay.”
“Not worth it?”
He grinned. “Worth it, and more. Is it true you apprenticed to Verol?”
She didn’t miss his failure to put a title before Verol’s name. “Yes.”
A minuscule tightening of his lips, but she caught it. “How did that happen?”
“In the usual way,” she said evasively. Because it had just occurred to her that here was a man who knew the truth about her performance at the theater—that it hadn’t been her apprenticeship to Verol and his acquisition of a dispensation from the Mages Guild that allowed her to play there. That those things had come after, not before.
That knowledge was a danger she hadn’t understood before she’d learned that what she’d done at the Rival Theater was illegal without that dispensation. And he might not even have to give up his disguises to use it, since she suspected she was looking at the “patron of the arts” who had secured her ability to sing in the first place.
Who in Ferrian’s hells was this man? “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” she said sweetly.
“I didn’t give it.” He pushed off the wall. “Are you buying the dress?”
He didn’t look like he was taunting her, though he had to know she couldn’t afford it. Except, of course, that Verol probably could. “No.”
“That’s a shame.” He moved past her, swiping the paper for Battle Armor as he went, so smoothly she almost missed it. “It was…interesting talking to you.”
“If you don’t tell me your name,” she called after him, “I’ll have to find it out on my own.”
He turned, walking backward long enough to say, “I look forward to your efforts,” before slipping out the shop’s front door.
Cynthia chose that moment to return with Clare’s shoes, staring out the glass front of the shop with a flustered look on her face. “Was that…” She trailed off, staring out the window at the retreating form before shaking her head, as if she’d made a silly mistake.
No amount of teasing or prompting could convince Cynthia to give up the name of the person she’d thought the man might be.
Chapter Nineteen
Battle Armor
Two hours after her encounter in the dress shop, Clare walked back through the doors of the Arrendons’ manor, unable to stop fidgeting with the black diamond that now hung from her left earlobe. As Faelhorn law would have it, she was required to wear the irksome thing, which had necessitated having her ear pierced. Apparently, if you were apprenticed to mages possessed of considerable means, voluntarily punching a hole in your body was preceded by a healer numbing the area, and followed by them speeding the typical healing process.
She’d never witnessed so much fuss expended over so small a hurt. She kept tugging at the earring, expecting to feel something, some small pain or swelling, but there was nothing. The matter was done with, and she would grow accustomed to the dangling weight soon enough.
She’d barely taken a step toward her room when the sound of clattering hooves caught her attention, some innate sense urging her to wait with Marquin and Verol in the living area. A knock sounded and a few moments later Fitz led a short brunette woman inside, a paper-wrapped bundle cradled carefully in her arms.
