Alexander didn’t wait. He brushed past and flipped the book open himself. His eyes scanned the rows until they locked onto it.
Barge Eighty-Two. Trader HengYim. Origin: Lower Xûen. Destination: Niewberg.
He shut the ledger with a snap.
Tedric leaned in. “You think she’d be there?”
“No,” Alexander said tightly, fingers raking through his hair. “She wouldn’t stay in Niewberg. Too exposed. Too close.”
“Then why?—?”
“She’s using it to sail farther.”
JingYi wouldn’t go back to Xûen-Sarai, not after the way they’d discarded her. She wouldn’t stay in Tremore either, not when she believed he meant to cast her aside.
She’d go somewhere she could disappear and work quietly, heal without drawing notice. A place where a clever woman with tinctures and steady hands could survive, even if she belonged to anyone.
One place stood out.
“She’s heading to Bashkor,” he said aloud.
Tedric’s brow furrowed. “Bashkor?”
That city was too vast, too chaotic for her to be easily found. And if she reached it before he did, she might disappear for good into the alleys and apothecaries, into the pulse of a foreign city that didn’t care where she came from or who she used to be.
Tedric tilted his head. “Do you know Bashkor well, my lord?”
Alexander didn’t answer right away. “No. But I know someone who does.”
He strode toward Duskwane. Every second lost was a thread cut, and he couldn’t let her slip further from his grasp.
Back again at Parandor, Alexander grabbed a satchel from the wardrobe in his chamber, already half-packed from his last journey. He threw in everything he needed: clothes, gloves, a sealed pouch of coin. His motions were purposeful, but underneath it all, the edges of panic clawed through.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
He looked up just as Yrenna appeared in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the jamb. The expression on her face was unreadable, but the parchment in her other hand provided no ambiguity.
“Care to tell me what this is?” she asked, lifting the king’s message in front of her.
Alexander stilled. Shame rose in his throat, followed by the bitter scorch of regret.
“It is as you believe,” he said, the words like gravel grinding against stone. “On our wedding night, I was angry. I wrote to the king, requesting an annulment.”
For a moment, her face was a stunned void. Then, her voice cracked the silence. “Howcouldyou?”
She barged inside, the letter falling from her hand, landing soundlessly against the floor. She crossed the room in three quick strides, struck his chest with both palms, hard.
“You sent an annulment letterto the king? You waited until she trusted you, until she thought of this place as home,thencast her aside?”
Alexander caught her wrists, more to anchor himself than to stop her. “I never sent it,” he said urgently. “I wrote it, yes, but I never sent it.”
Yrenna yanked free. “Writing it was bad enough, Alexander.”
“Believe me, I know.”
He had no excuse, no defence. Something in his voice seemed to make her pause. Her eyes lowered to the bag he was packing.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
