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When she finished dressing, she found him waiting near the stairwell. His eye caught hers, and neither spoke.

“You clean up well, witchling.”

She folded her arms. “Don’t say that again.”

He half-smiled and led her to the dining room.

At the table, she ate with her hands, letting pork grease coat her fingers. Alcaeus didn’t chastise her. Lysander only raised an eyebrow.

“Have you ridden a horse before?” Alcaeus asked.

She only glared, saying nothing.

He sighed. “You’ll learn fast enough.”

Alcaeus would regret his decision. A week was enough, and she’d not be returning to him. Lysander was only one man.

Unfortunately, he looked like the sort of man capable of becoming a serious problem.

Chapter 9

“Do you need a hand?” Alcaeus asked.

He stood at the edge of the stable yard, the morning sun haloing the high capital walls behind him.

Idonea’s foot slipped again, her boot jammed awkwardly in the stirrup for the fifth time. She turned a sharp glare on him, her jaw clenched so hard it ached, every part of her wanted to say no.

She’d saddled her own horse, a skewbald mare with a strong back and restless energy. The mare had been patient so far, even as Idonea flailed against the height and weight of the saddle, but the creature fidgeted now, flicking her tail and tossing her head.

"Idonea."

"I heard you."

"Lysander will help you."

"I don't need—"

“Lysander,” Alcaeus said, not to her. “Help her up. Time is wasting.”

Steam hissed faintly from the rail line beyond the stables. Horses shifted restlessly around her. Too many eyes, too much room to embarrass herself even if these were the private Templar stables, nestled outside the capital’s gate and close to the broad vein of the river. A mingled scent of leather, hay, dust, sweat, and manure hung in the air. Idonea took a deep breath, grateful to no longer have to wear the mask or goggles.

Lysander dismounted from his dun gelding. His coat billowed back in the breeze, the weight of silver chains glinting under the folds. He no longer wore the pentocular, but his gaze was no less piercing.

“I said I don’t need help,” Idonea muttered at his approach.

He flexed his left hand once, gloved fingers curling and loosening. “Grab the saddle horn,” he said. “I’ll give you a leg up. Your muscles aren’t strong enough to manage the height.”

Her eyes snapped to his, a flash of indignant heat. “Now you insult me?”

His mouth twitched. “Only because you’re making it easy.”

Idonea’s glare lingered on Lysander, but he was already moving.

He stopped beside her mare and set a hand to the saddle horn, palm firm. “Left foot,” he said.

“I know how to mount a horse.”

The mare tossed her head again, stamping one foot. Lysander moved closer, his shadow brushing hers. “You’ll spook her,” he said. “Hold still.”