I had not expected to find Viorica. Finding her confirmed that I wasn't alone. A strange euphoria overtook me to know it.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  “Yours?” Zgavra asked over his shoulder.

  “Not exactly, "Dragos murmured as he watched Viorica’s hands. Of course, she would find a place as a courtesan, though he hadn’t recalled her being quite that… beautiful. "She’s of the Cohort of the Stag, raised and taught by the Solomonar Stefan. Of elegance and grace…”

  The virtues of her cohort spilled from his lips while he watched her play. Something about her beyond the glass turned her from the awkward brunette in the cohort behind his into a work of living art.

  “From your school, then,” the zmeu stated with some confidence. Dragos nodded, still enthralled, despite the cold.

  “Our cohorts didn’t spend much time together. We learned different things,” Dragos whispered, as if his voice could interrupt the performance.

  “You can’t go in like this,” Zgavra said, looking him over.

  Dragos finally faced him, his expression slack. He wasn’t sure he had thawed enough to make a real expression, anyway. Annoyance froze as soon as it spilled.

  “I have to get in there. Talk to her.”

  She had to know more than he did of what happened. Who else would be dumb enough to squeeze through a chink in the mountain to escape besides him? He’d seen nothing.

  “I’ll find her room,” Zgavra said, and faded into a smog that crept upwards along the wall. The ribboning smoke bled along the stone surface until it found a window and slithered out of sight.

  When Zgavra returned, Dragos shivered again. The morning light’s edge had not quite reached him in the shade beside the window. He was glad to move again, as entrancing as it was to watch Viorica play.

  The monster led him up a squirrely path, from wall to rooftop ledge, and then along it to an upper-story window. Dragos gritted his teeth against the noise of his kit; the rattle and clank of things tucked away in secured drawers was a counterpoint racket to the twitter of chickadees in the eaves. The zmeu threw open the window.

  Dragos slid into a wall of perfume. A musky, woody, floral scent lingered, though no incense was lit. The floors were so polished they gleamed. The room was divided between a sitting area and the bed. A parchment divider sat between spaces, with a painting that was both elegant and lewd. Rich fabrics and pillows adorned everything.

  The low crackle of a fire in one of the two hearths drew Dragos. Not close. He’d gotten used to the bitter chill, and without a cold wind, the warmth was thick, weighing in his bones. He shrugged his box and cloak off immediately.

  The long settee lured him with its plush upholstery. He’d slept on rocks, on bowers of pine boughs, on ground that chilled him to his core, and yet…

  A downward glance made him hesitate. He was filth incarnate. As he warmed, he felt his cheek, and the snot crusted on it. His personal aura of stench unthawed, slithering upwards from the collar of his shirt. He looked at his hands, the paleness mostly hidden by mud, every crease and nail dark with it.

  The woman downstairs… would she even remember him in this state? Was she Viorica? There was a terrifying thought. She barely looked like the girl he’d known, and yet, he was sure. It was her.

  He glanced around, feeling the groan of his empty belly before he heard it. No food, sadly. That, he would have pillaged without any shame, though he resisted flopping onto the fine couches and ruining them.

  Zgavra, meanwhile, had pulled the shutters closed again with a gentle click. The dimness of the room deepened, painting the enclosed space in flickering shadow. Trapped in warmth, Dragos tried to resolve his doubts.

  “Shall I go now, or wait to see if she ejects you?” It asked, the faint smirk on its face begging to watch.

  “I’ll be fine, though I doubt you’re worried.” Dragos turned to face the startling figure. Princely, the Unspoken beast lounged with a shoulder to the windowsill, arms crossed.

  “I’m bound to care,” Zgavra replied, normal brown eyes flashing orange. “At least a bit. You named me, you rotten trickster.”

  A thin smile curved Dragos's lips. “I did. But I do not keep you as I could.”

  The zmeu’s head bowed briefly, half-hiding a strange grin. “I’m aware. I’ll go join the morning performance, if it isn’t over yet. Her playing is a tribute to the instrument.”

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  Dragos nodded, and, with whispered steps, the young nobleman slipped through the doorway.

  The heat got to him. After a bit of time resisting, he went to the window and opened it again, letting the cold rush over him. He leaned on the shutter and out over the garden, gulping in the bracing air.

  He almost fell out when the door opened behind him. A gasp made him lurch and twist where he was. Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of her, hand covering her mouth, eyes widened with shock.

  “Viorica,” he said quickly, as the waif behind her stepped past and gaped at him.

  “Dragos?” The woman turned to the girl and snapped, “Shut the door!”

  The servant complied right away but stayed inside, back to the wood, glittering blue eyes huge in a puckish face. Dragos's gaze slid to Viorica, who floated more than rushed across the distance. Her hands paused before touching him.

  “I’m glad you’re here. You’ve no idea…” Viorica lips closed. She turned her head slightly with a fingertip beneath her nose, her every movement smooth, graceful, entrancingly refined.

  Dragos realized he hadn’t blinked since he laid eyes on her.

  “But first, a bath and different clothes. Prin harul lumini, those are the same—Katya, prepare him a bath, find him some clothes and some food, and don’t gossip.”

  She spun to face him again, her skirts flaring. “You’ll stay. Of course you’ll stay! You found me! I’m so happy, Dragos, you cannot know!”

  Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes were enough for him. He hadn’t meant to agree but found himself nodding like a fool. He needed a place to winter. Needed to talk to her about what happened in ?oloman??. Not agreeing would have been stupid. Still, he felt the draw of her, a quality she hadn’t had before. Like the moon to the world, he felt caught in her will’s pull.

  She made a shooing gesture. “Go with Katya.”

  To Katya, she said, “Be sure he is well washed and then take him to Fane.”

  The servant nodded once and looked at Dragos expectantly. Glancing at Viorica, he went to where his box and cloak had been left. Viorica smiled warmly and fanned herself, repeating, “I’m so happy. We have so much to talk about. Soon, Dragos.”

  He nodded mutely, caught up in the whirlwind of her decisions. None of them were arguable. He stank and hadn’t eaten anything since the morning before. He hoped this Fane had food.

  Katya opened the door and peeked out, then waved at him to follow. She led him down a lavishly decorated hallway to a door tucked into an alcove. Behind it, a narrow staircase descended into dimness.

  They went down and down again until they came out another recessed door and an open room where laundry hung on lines strung between the stone walls. A few of the basins were clearly not for laundry. Katya pointed at a bench and kept well away from him as she threw kindling beneath the basin and lit it with a strike and the stench of sulphur.

  Dragos sat and rested his things beside him. Uncomfortable, he began a half-thought question. “How lo—”

  “Don’t,” Katya said. She sounded older than she looked. Wary of him.

  He weighed things. “Don’t what?”

  “Talk to me,” Katya said. “I’ll wash Nerostit? if she wishes, but I won’t talk to one.”

  Dragos felt the sting of being called that again, and then it was gone. Ignorant little wretch. He snorted.

  “I can wash myself. You’re not touching me.”

  He smirked when her expression wavered. She finished her task and disappeared without another word spoken. It didn’t take long for the water’s temperature to become tolerable, since he’d washed in icy streams when he dared wash at all.

  Katya returned when he was soaped up, the water a sickly sludge, the bubbles floating with a brownish sheen. She hung some clothes over one of the lines nearby, pointed to the garments, and slunk off again, to whatever hole she hunkered in when she wasn’t being judgmental.

  The only other interruption, if he could call it that, was a pair of eyes that caught his attention. A tabby cat had padded near enough to see him, nose huffing the air. It stopped when it noticed Dragos looking at it.

  Mid-scrub, Dragos paused, lowering the sponge. “Are you here to judge me as well?”

  One eye winked. The cat sat there a moment more before getting up, stretching, and sashaying away. Dragos frowned at its question mark tail. Cats in a house to keep the rodent population down was a given, and the cat was unimpressed with him. It was a cat, after all.

  He found a bucket of clean water to rinse with. Water spilled and pooled near a drain in the floor. He left his clothes where they lay and gathered the robe he’d been given. It wasn’t Calruthian in cut or style, nor fabric. The garment had travelled far and was worth more than his life. Arguably.

  It took some time to figure out how to put his new garments together, but he’d done a reasonable job. The front gaped, exposing the prominent owl tattoo on his chest. He tugged at it and sighed. The fabric lay slick against his skin, and he felt naked despite being covered. Within the dim, lye-drenched basement, he couldn’t tell the color other than dark, patterned with a leafy motif dyed into the silk.

  Barefoot, he padded to his box and slung a strap over his shoulder. That would not be left behind. It went where he did.

  Katya appeared just as he shrugged into the other strap. She crooked a finger at him and walked toward one of the heavy doors. The floor was chill against his feet, but being free of his boots was too glorious to contemplate slipping his feet back into woolen socks that had hardened into the shape of them.

  He’d no idea where she intended to lead him. The bath’s warmth had sunk into his bones, transforming him from something withered to something alive and ravenous. That hunger vied with the ache of sleepless nights, and that exhaustion had a winning hand.

  Viorica had said to bring him to Fane.

  Whatever fate awaited was in this Fane’s hands. He was almost too weary to care if it was bread or a knife.

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  Zmeu - a form of dragon. A shapeshifter that travels between the world of the living and other realms. They are known to steal fair maids to be their wives. Suffers great hubris. Very powerful monster given to chaos, born of the Umbregrin. Solomonari wizards ride them when controlling weather patterns.

  Nerostit? - Calruthian word for all things unnatural or strange, synonymous with Unspoken. Places, events, and situations can be referred to as this, as well as beings.

  Prin harul lumini - By the grace of the light