The Winner's Crime(44)

“Quite an evening you’re having. Sneaking out. Taking coats off sailors. Why do I feel, though, that that’s not the whole of it?”

She shrugged. “I enjoy a good card game. Courtiers provide few.”

“What were the stakes of your late-night gamble?”

“I told you. The coat.”

“You said he gave it to you. You also said that you won. What did you win, then, at cards?”

“Nothing. It was merely for fun.”

“A game against you with nothing at stake? Never.”

“I don’t see why. I once played against you for matches.”

“Yes, you did.” He briefly closed his eyes. Kestrel saw the thin, almost vertical red line that marked his left lid. It scratched at her heart.

He looked at her. His gray eyes hunted her face. She fell prey to them as she always did. Arin smiled. It wasn’t a real smile, and it dragged at the left side of his face. “I challenge you to a game of Bite and Sting, Kestrel. Will you play?”

She turned back to the river. “You should leave the capital.”

“A stormy journey across the sea with no one to keep me company? How tempting.”

She said nothing.

“I don’t want to leave,” Arin said. “I want to play with you. One game.”

There was temptation, and there was the smart thing, but it was becoming increasingly hard for Kestrel to make the right choice. “When?” she managed.

“The next available opportunity.”

There was hardly a Bite and Sting set lying at their feet. Kestrel would have time to prepare … though she had no real notion of what such preparation could be.

Wasn’t it just a game? Just one? “Very well,” she heard herself say.

“Winner take all,” said Arin.

She looked at him. “The stakes?”

“The truth.”

Kestrel couldn’t agree to that. She couldn’t even say no, for that would admit that the truth was something she couldn’t afford to give.

“Not enticing?” said Arin. “I see. Maybe such stakes aren’t high enough. Not for you. That’s it, isn’t it? I’d give you my truth for the asking. You know that. You don’t want to win something that’s free.” His eyes measured her. “Kestrel. You’re hiding something. And I want it. Let’s say this. If you win, I’ll do whatever you ask. If you tell me to leave the capital, I’ll go. If you want me never to speak with you again, I won’t. You name your price.” Arin offered his hand. “Give me your word that you’ll pay properly. On your honor, as a Valorian.”

She tried not to look at Arin’s outstretched hand. She held the collar of her coat closed tight against the cold.

To lose was unthinkable. But if she won … she could send Arin home. It would be for the best. It had become too dangerous for him to stay. Too hard.

“Kestrel.” He touched her bare wrist. Slowly, he slid his fingers into the warmth of the coat’s large cuff. Her pulse shot beneath his thumb. “One last time?” he asked.

Her fingers loosened, almost like they didn’t belong to her. They opened, and they found his.

It suddenly seemed that Kestrel had been an empty room, and that all of her wishes came crowding in. They thronged: delicate, full-skirted, their silk brushing up against each other. “Yes,” she whispered.

Arin’s eyes were bright in the darkness. His hand was hot. “Swear.”

“A Valorian honors her word.”

“Come.” He drew her toward a descending alleyway.

“Now?”

“Would you rather play in the palace? I wonder where would be best, my rooms or yours?”

She dropped his hand. She rubbed her palm, trying to rub away the feel of him.

He watched her do it. His expression changed.

“We’ll play later,” she said, and that was when she knew for certain that she might have agreed for the simple pleasure of playing against him, or even for the poisoned prize of sending him from the capital, but some weak part of her had also agreed out of the sneaking hope that she might lose. “Later,” she said again.

“No. Now.”

“We can’t wander around the Narrows waiting to stumble upon a Bite and Sting set.”

“Don’t worry,” said Arin. “I know a place.”





20

Arin wondered if the fever from the wound had truly left him. He felt wild.

It was the confusion.

He led the way back down into the Narrows. His stride was longer than Kestrel’s. He shortened it … and moments later, was practically loping.

Arin didn’t know what was real anymore. What was real? Kestrel’s look of disgust when she’d first seen him? But then the wan lamplight had caught her face more fully. He’d seen shock and grief.

Or he thought he had. You’re seeing what you want to see, Tensen had told him.

When Arin had pulled that stolen—borrowed? won?—coat away from Kestrel’s throat, a sensation had sparked the air between them. Hadn’t it? But then she’d turned to stone. Like she had before on the balcony, that first night. Maybe those sparks had been in Arin’s head. Maybe they were the kind you get when someone punches you in the face.