Winter's icy kiss lay upon me. I'd barely gained footing in this new life before I felt the rotting board creak beneath my heel. As much as I hated Viorica's arrogant visitors, I feared there would be more to detest about this life I was leading under her roof.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  The nights had grown ever longer since he’d left the forest for the city. The stormclouds concealed the thin winter sun for as long as waning fire in the sky even bothered to appear. The winter solstice approached, the darkest night a mere week away.

  Folk lit the street, burned pyres in squares, and prayed to the light to return. They would until days after the solstice. The superstitious ones, anyway.

  The Lady’s Stag was full of wealthy scholars who had learned of the celestial tides and laughed openly about the rituals in Viorica’s parlor. They mocked the unwashed peasants; a minor pastime of theirs. Boyers didn’t often think about the workers in their breadbasket at all, unless it was time for tithe and tax.

  Dragos willingly joined in the pre-festival frivolities, since he’d taken to keeping tabs on Viorica. A corner alcove became his nest, with a glass of absinthe in glittering in crystal, so green it startled the eyes. The opulence observed fascinated him, a subject of study more than a thing desired.

  His white mane rested on the startling black of his clothes, pale hand up, swirling the bitter drink he considered better for medicine than for pleasure. Veins traced lines of purple and green under his translucent skin.

  He’d grown accustomed to letting people see him. Somewhat. Viorica’s prized pet albstrig? physic, gawked at by boyers.

  It was tiresome at best.

  Viorica sat at her table with Prince Grosav, who was visiting again. The man surrounded himself with sly-eyed, simpering twats. His advisor was the only exception. He was a wolf of a man, lean and wary.

  “Your envy rivals the color of your drink,” Zgavra said, sauntering over to lounge beside him in the alcove booth.

  Dragos flicked a glance at him and sipped the bitter herbal concoction. “I envy nothing up there.”

  “They have her attention,” Zgavra said, leaning a shoulder into Dragos like a drunk boyar with no sense of boundary. His brown eyes fluttered at Dragos, teasing.

  “What would I do with her attention? Discuss the financial ledgers?” Dragos hissed, scowling at the zmeu’s weight. His index finger poked the monster’s human arm, pushing his weight away.

  “Already done with talking about the old school days?” The zmeu asked, leaning away and resting his elbow on the table, the better to prop his chin.

  “There’s nothing else to say about it.”

  Their talk that first night, and the theories that it was something summoned by Necaz, from the Cohort of Wolves, had been all there was. Viorica seemed eager to push the past into an oubliette and be done with it forever.

  Her one concession to that past was him.

  Another figure slipped into the booth on the other side of Dragos. Fane leaned into the other side of him, looking between the two men, and asked, “What are we talking about? Gossip? Yes, please!”

  “Jealousy.” Zgavra smiled.

  Fane mock-gasped, “Jealous? Of the prince? Who isn’t?”

  “The thing we discussed the other day has me—concerned,” Dragos admitted, scowling at his glass as if it were to blame.

  “The thing?” Fane asked innocently, but his dark eyes snapped from Dragos to the man on the other side of him.

  The Unspoken in a man’s appearance, startlingly handsome, well-dressed, was not the typical confidant of a house doctor.

  “Call me Zgavra,” the zmeu said, adding, “Dragos and I have known each other for a while. I know quite a lot about him.”

  Fane’s brows raised, a sly smile crossing his face.

  If eyes could murder monsters, Dragos's stare would have.

  He exhaled a weary breath and returned his attention to Fane. “Zgavra understands my concerns. An innocent life is likely in danger.”

  “What do we do?” Fane murmured, leaning back, attention spreading to the greater crowd of upper city erudites.

  “The solstice is the most likely time. I can guess at what she’s going to do, but I have to calculate when.

  “Fane,” Dragos twisted then, facing him directly. “If you go against her, you may be in danger. You should distance yourself. I’ve become used to ruining things, anyway. No need to go down with me.”

  “Innocence is fleeting, but life need not be,” Fane whispered, giving Dragos a clap on the shoulder. “You’ll find a way to change her mind, or at least stop her.”

  Change her mind? Dragos gave him a doubtful smirk. Zgavra was drawn to her blood magic, and she bore no signs of using her own blood to concoct her allure. Dragos knew how she stole her power. How she used it to charm the wealthiest clients.

  “Say nothing to her,” Dragos murmured over the rim of his glass, eyes on the laughing royal, Viorica, and the sycophants around him. “She need not know we see her moves.”

  There would be no changing her mind, though he would try, for everyone’s sake.

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  In a way, he felt free. No reason to hold back, no reason to play the meek doctor anymore. Not for her. Not for the house.

  Dragos had enjoyed it, in a sense. Company, warm arms at night, a familiar face. He’d learned a great deal from doing the work he did. He gleaned more about humanity and sexuality than he could have from anywhere else.

  He’d learned what a person would give up for a bit of warmth, some decent food, and a fragile sense of security.

  And what they would sacrifice.

  The pale physician couldn’t pull his gaze from the table where the prince, his advisor, and Viorica sat. A hollowness settled in, and he sipped his bitter absinthe. A lantern guttered, the light threatening to go out as the winter’s wolfish gale howled, rattling the windows.

  Later that night, Dragos perused the contents of his office, the chest of things he’d gathered in his short time, along with the left-behinds from the last physician. He couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  Wind roared, pushing at the shutters, squeezing through gaps, making the air brittle. Candle flames swirled and bent, battling against the drafts. Dragos growled but resisted attempting weather magic.

  A few days left in which to read the stars and do the math required to ascertain when Viorica might do her spell.

  He sat, dizzy from absinthe and deflated by the course of life.

  Hope still lingered. Stupid, foolish hope that her magic would be fed by something other than what he feared.

  The drink spoke to him, burning him a mirage of his old teacher in the chilly air. Tall, stately, her shocking red hair flowing down over her plain hemp robes, her hands clasped within the cuffs.

  “You must always keep a hand on the rudder of your mind, Owl. Let no vanity or ambition betray you, or your soul will be lost too soon,” she spoke as if through rooms of space, far away.

  Dragos leaned toward her, beseeching the apparition.

  “Didn’t the Stags teach that, too? Why didn’t she listen? Why!”

  A small scratching at the door startled him upright. The room snapped back into place, as if it hadn’t warped to let the dead speak. Dragos clutched his jacket, fist closing over his heart. He closed his eyes, and the void spun.

  The soft little scratching came again.

  He opened the door to see Pacha standing there, large eyes catching light and casting a brief, greenish sheen over them. The cat turned, paced away a few steps, then looked back.

  “Oh,” Dragos murmured. “A moment.”

  He turned back for a lantern and quickly lit it. The cat waited, licking a paw until he caught up. It scampered off, little paws thumped down stair treads, led him around corners. He knew the way to the laundry. What he didn’t understand was why, but assumed Pacha would find a way to clarify.

  Things had shifted.

  A few of the wash tubs had been moved further from the drain. A table rested nearby it, the slate surface flat and dark until the kiss of Dragos's lantern touched it. He stepped closer, but he didn’t need to. The surface ached with spiritual energy.

  Streaks of soft-hued starlace whispered deep within, like tiny rivulets running in the stone. It was the right size to support Katya.

  He had no great love for the girl, but she was mostly good-hearted. Other than her rudeness when he met her, there’d been no issues. The table was meant for her.

  Pacha stopped before it leapt up on the table, though Dragos could read its body. The urge was there, but the cat resisted. The feline stared at the table, eyes shifting along it, likely watching what Dragos did. The spirit energy within.

  He nodded to the cat. “Thank you, Pacha.”

  “No thanks for me?” Zgavra murmured as it flowed through the door, incorporeal as foggy breath.

  Pacha hissed, ears laid back, fur bristling. The cat sidled away, back arched. When he was clear of the zmeu, he dashed out the door. Dragos watched it go with a faint sigh, then faced the voice’s direction.

  “You didn’t lead me to where it would be. Now I just need to know exactly when.”

  “Eleven minutes past eleven, as the bell tower strikes it,” Zgavra said, orange eyes flashing in the mist.

  Begrudgingly, Dragos muttered, “Thanks.”

  “Sleep while the prince keeps her occupied, and you don’t have to be her stud,” the zmeu teased.

  Dragos glared at it but said nothing. As if he’d ever minded that.

  Solstice night came, and Dragos met Viorica after dusk, as usual. An edgy eminence coursed through his veins, a threat and a vow. She sat in her dressing gown.

  Dragos sat beside her. He took up her ivory comb and let down her tresses, then drew the comb through, watching her face in the mirror. Her lashes dipped low with pleasure, cheeks flushed with wine from dinner.

  Her face captivated him. Ever since he saw her through the window and recognized her, he’d been tethered. As he went through newly familiar motions, he watched her face in the reflection as he said, “You don’t have to do this.”

  Her eyes flashed open, meeting his gaze through the glass. He saw himself, straddling the bench, her hip nestled into his thigh, her shoulder to his chest, suddenly rigid. His face was fair, a little too fine-boned for his preference. Skin too pale, and his gaze—he could not meet his own eyes. Didn’t want to.

  His attention could not waver from her. Not until he laid the foolish hope in his heart to rest.

  “I do,” she said primly, verging on sharp. Her stiffness against him told enough of a tale.

  “Your wealth could buy land…”

  “I am not and never will be a simple farmer. Farmers don’t mingle with princes,” Viorica said coldly. “Don’t try to stop me, Dragos.”

  “I can’t let you sacrifice Katya,” he murmured, arm slipping around her waist to hold her. As if he could be a prison. For a few hours, he could contain her. She was strong in will, not in body. Time could pass. She could repent.

  “I do it for the good of the house, the children I support. It’s worth more than one life.” Viorica said, her hand caressing his arm where it held her. A soft, lover’s touch meant to soothe. She kept his gaze through the mirror, her expression smoothing, eyes glittering with something that could not be tears.

  It only stirred his anger and frustration.

  “You do it for yourself,” Dragos said, his tone rivaling the wind beyond the walls. Bitter and cold.

  Her hard glare stung, even through the glass. “I do it because I must.”

  Dragos didn’t speak. He only shook his head, chin brushing her freshly combed hair. A long sigh escaped him. Viorica smiled seductively.

  “Let me go,” she cooed.

  His expression hardened.

  She threatened in a teasing sing-song chirp, “I’ll call my watchmen.”

  What was she playing at?

  Dragos scowled. “And you’ll explain why you’re planning to murder Katya when they come to free you. As you wish.”

  “Let me at least turn to look at you.”

  He loosened his arm. Arguing through a mirror felt fake. Contrived.

  She pressed a hand to her dressing table to shift, body rolling in his grip, the soft smile on her face luring his eyes.

  He never saw what came next. Only felt the needle prick and the surprise, followed by a dread like clawing at the edge of a precipice as his consciousness slipped.

  The last words he heard were hers, sweet as poisoned honey.

  “Oh, Dragos. I wish you didn’t make this harder than it already is.”

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  Albstrig? (ALV-streeguh): White witch. Barn owl. A pale ghost or evil spirit.

  Boyar (bow-yaar): Nobleman.

  Starlace: pure eminence from the Zioruluc.