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“Why’re you out so late?”
Dalca hesitates, and I wonder if he was with Pa. “Lots to do.”
“I can help, you know.”
“I know.”
“If it’s about who we found, that day in the fifth—”
Dalca makes a hushing sound.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“I can’t tell you anything, Iz.”
Izamal rears back, and I can’t tell if his hurt is genuine or an act. “Sure. I’d better go—”
“It’s not that I don’t—I’ll bring you in as soon as I can. It’s just—there’s a lot of pressure right now. I just have to figure out how to fix things first.”
Izamal doesn’t respond.
“Cas is working on something—researching a particular ikon. That’s all I can say about our... guest.”
An ikon. It’s confirmation of what the knitting circle speculated. Dalca’s after Pa’s research, and it has something to do with the Regia’s mark.
“You don’t owe me, Dalca. I know where I stand.”
Dalca runs his hands through his hair. “I need to do better, don’t I?”
Izamal inhales. “I know you try.”
Dalca scowls at the ground, and Izamal watches for a long moment. I wonder if I’m going to be trapped here all night.
“Iz... what do you know about Vesper?”
Izamal starts. I nearly jump. “I didn’t realize she’d caught your eye.” There’s an edge in his tone that Dalca takes the wrong way.
“I’m sorry—are you two—never mind—”
“We’re not,” Iz says slowly, a glint in his eyes, “but she is very pretty.”
Dalca shrugs that notion off as if either my prettiness is beside the point or he disagrees with Iz about my Carver-given looks. “There’s something about her. It’s as though... she thinks I’m not good enough.”
There’s a moment of surprised silence. I guess I’m not much of an actor.
Izamal’s sudden, sharp laughter startles both Dalca and me.
“Oh, shut up,” says Dalca as Izamal smothers his laughs.
“It’s just—you’ve gone on and on about apprentices aiming for your bed instead of your squad—and now that there’s finally an apprentice that can’t be bothered with you—”
Dalca rolls his eyes. “Right. I’m either a hypocrite or the kind of simpleton who gets his head turned at the first sign of contrariness.”
Izamal quiets. “You’re the prince.” He shrugs, as if to say,What more is there?
“Yes.” Dalca’s voice is barely a breath, and there’s something strange and sardonic in his tone. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“You’re not bad-looking, if that’s what you mean. Some folks are into the gloomy thing.”
