Page 13 of Turncloak

And there Levan was, perched in the velvet banquette beneath the window, washed in jewel colors and sitting so still he might have been a statue.

For several moments, she saw him before he saw her.

She drank him in.

The kingpin wore a neatly pressed scarlet cloak, moon phases embroidered down the lapel in gold. Dark hair fell to his jaw in waves, a scar bisected his lower lip, and the ridge of his jaw could cut through glass. The only minor imperfection was a smudge of navy ink on his temple, as though he’d been thinking particularly hard while writing in his journal, but Saffron actually considered this the exact opposite of an imperfection.

Her emotions grew new layers, tucked away inside one another like a Tarsan nesting doll. There was the obvious outer shell—love, lust, desire. Inside that, guilt and shame over the cruel game she’d played with his affections. Inside that, dread over the coming reckoning. Inside that, a hot animal fear, a primordial instinct to run.

She would never forget the version of time she’d rewritten in the Havenwood—how effortlessly and completely he had overpowered her. She had been a puppet, a doll, a plaything. An object of his will and only his will, all her agency stripped away to nothing. He had commanded her, without words, and her body had obeyed.

She who was supposedly immune to magic.

She who prided herself on her strong-mindedness.

The enormity of his power had been borne from a childhood of torture, sen doloran, sen doloran, sen doloran, cast over and over again until his magic mutated beyond all recognition. Inside Saffron’s fear was also an aching sadness, the desire to protect him, to make everything alright.

As she stepped into the vast library, the movement finally registered in the periphery of Levan’s vision, and he startled. He stood abruptly, tall, proud, his spine a sword, his blue eyes searing as a fever, but did not make to close the gap between them. He simply drew his wand.

“I almost respect the audacity.”

His words echoed in the cathedral-like space.

Saffron gave him a wry smile. “That’s my sweet spot.”

She tossed the white cloak onto the dark floor, then reached into her pocket and casually chucked the pale severed hand on top of it.

“What—”

“I killed a Whitewing on Broad Row. There was a witness, who is silenced for now, but who would testify against me if you applied the slightest bit of pressure. The cloak and the hand represent two pieces of physical evidence tying me to the crime”—she dug once more into her inner pocket, pulling out the parchment she’d purchased earlier—“as well as a handwritten and signed confession, which states that I was not acting upon higher command but rather my own twisted desire for vengeance.”

Shock wiped Levan’s face blank. “I don’t understand.”

“If I ever betray you again, you can have me sentenced to life in Duncarzus. Where the food is terrible, by the way. They don’t even serve hot chocolate, can you imagine?”

Levan seemed to be taking great efforts to bridle his breathing. He stared down at the dismembered hand, haunted. “You got out. You were free. You could have gone anywhere, done anything.”

Saffron badly wanted to tell him the full truth: that for now, they both wanted the same thing. Together, if they accumulated enough ascenite, and if he was willing to relinquish his mother’s weaverwick wand, she could turn back the decades and save not just her parents but his too.

Yet there was every chance he’d slay her where she stood for all she represented.

“The only place I want to be is here,” she said carefully.

“Because by my side is where you have to be in order to secure evidence.” A small head shake, both soft and furious. “Do you think me a fool?”

“If I so much as tried, you could destroy me for the murder I just committed.”

Levan started to pace, as though physical movement would jostle loose his critical thinking. The stained glass cast strange shapes and colors over his face and cloak. “The Silvercloaks would pardon you. If you brought down the Bloodmoons, they’d forgive every crime performed while in scarlet.”

Saffron leaned against the nearest mahogany bookshelf. “My handler is dead. There is nobody left to pardon me, nobody who knows about my assignment.” A slight untruth—there was Nissa, who was in a coma, and who Saffron would not endanger by naming. “And even if the thread of my case was somehow picked up by the new mage-in-command…A lot of the old-timers in the Order are sticklers for the law. They sentenced me to six months in prison for lying about my mage classification. You really think they’d let me off the hook for a cold-blooded murder that was not sanctioned by the kingpin, that wasn’t necessary to keep cover? That actively compromised the investigation by leaving a trail of witnesses?”

Levan’s jaw clenched hard enough to grind his teeth to dust. “This is a play. I know it is.”

“True,” Saffron admitted. “But the only end goal is getting you to trust me again.”

“So you’d go dark from the Order?”

“I have little choice without a handler.”