Nona suddenly felt very drab and dull in her habit and wondered what this high lady would make of her. It felt like little more than a sack compared to the finery she’d seen in Verity’s streets. At the same time she had to admit that Ara somehow managed to look beautiful in hers, the simplicity of it contrasting the gold of her hair, the hard lines of her body evident as she moved.

The footman knocked on an imposing set of double doors, then entered. “The Lady Arabella Jotsis to see you ma’am, and her companion.”

Ara strode into the room, a sumptuously appointed chamber strewn with stuffed couches and deep chairs that looked so comfortable they might swallow a person whole. High above them the ceiling had been painted sky-blue and clouds scattered the plaster heavens.

“Terra! You’re looking wonderful! This is my friend Nona. She’s Shield to the Argatha and she’ll make the best Red Sister the empire’s seen!” Ara spoke with an animation Nona had never witnessed in her before and in the accent she’d brought with her to the convent more than five years earlier, each word clipped short and stressed in strange places.

There’s something wrong with your friend. Keot ran up her neck, spreading across her scalp beneath the black thicket of her hair.

She’s fitting in. Shut up and stay hidden.

“Arabella!” Terra stood from her chair, a tall girl in a sparkling green dress, her hair long and sandy, confined by a gold band, her face pleasant enough, though dominated by an unfortunate nose. “Nona, do sit down.” She glanced around. “I thought we were expecting”—she raised her hands palms forward and shook them in mock adulation—“the Chosen One! No?”

Ara fell dramatically onto the nearest couch. “No. We discovered her hidden weakness. She’s allergic to being adored.”

“No matter. In any case, I have a guest of my own to share!” Terra’s pout gave way to a mischievous smile, any disappointment forgotten. Nona found herself liking the young woman. “You brought your warrior—behold mine!” She leaned across to ring a silver bell on a small stand beside her chair and looked towards the main doors.

“Do they have to do battle?” Ara grinned, following Terra’s gaze.

Nona shifted in the comfort of her chair, wondering that Terra considered her a warrior. She didn’t seem to realize that Ara could probably defeat any man in her house guard without breaking a sweat.

It’s hard to see old friends with new eyes.

What would you know? You don’t have any friends. Nona tried to force Keot down onto her back but abandoned the effort as the doors began to open.

A tall, darkly handsome man walked in. The black sweep of his hair reached past a starched white collar. His jacket, deepest purple and embroidered with silver wire in the bold designs favoured by Verity’s gentry, must have cost a year’s salary for the average city worker.

“I know him!” Ara sat up, suddenly interested.

“You should, he’s one of the empire’s finest ring-fighters!” Terra clapped her hands, excited.

Nona stared at Ara and her friend. They were discussing the man as if he wasn’t there. She looked back, apologetic, seeing his face properly for the first time. “Regol?”

“Indeed.” Regol sketched a bow. “At your service, Nona the Nun.” She recognized the sardonic smile and the dark humour in his eyes even if she didn’t recognize the finery he wore now.

“You’ve met?” Terra clapped again. “Where? You must tell me!”

“The last time I saw little Nona she was on her back, surrendering to me,” Regol said.

Terra frowned. “Surely novices aren’t allowed to do that sort of thing?” She grinned again, all curiosity. “What have you been up to, Nona?”

“He’d kicked me in the chest then elbowed me in the head.” Nona remembered that it had hurt, a lot. “I reckoned I should let him win and save my strength for someone I really didn’t like.”

“A big ginger gerant.” Regol nodded. “And technically you did win that fight against Denam.”

“Denam?” Terra looked shocked. “That man’s a monster. Nona couldn’t have . . .”

“You were what? Twelve at the time?” Regol shook his head. “Denam never quite lived that down . . .”

“I don’t believe—” Terra started towards her feet.

Ara set a hand to her cousin’s leg. “It’s true. But Denam lost by disqualification. He tried to attack Nona outside the ring.”

Regol came and took the chair beside Nona, uninvited. “From what I hear you could have killed both of us that day if you’d wanted to.”

Terra stared at him. Regol nodded. “Magic.” He mouthed the word silently and nodded again.

Terra began to tell Ara about Regol’s victories in the Caltess. Nona leaned back, letting it wash over her. She found herself watching Regol, who in turn kept his gaze on Terra, smiling that smile of his. Nona shook her head. It seemed she and Ara weren’t the only ones with magic at their disposal: Regol appeared able to fascinate the other two just by sitting there, and she’d found herself being drawn into it too, letting her gaze wander the length of him. Perhaps he had a touch of the marjal empathy that Markus had once spoken of.

In time lunch was served and the four of them went through to a dining room that was even longer, wider, and taller than the Sweet Mercy refectory where fifty novices ate their meals. In the centre stood a long, polished table down which Nona had a sudden urge to slide, sending a dozen candlesticks flying. She suppressed the urge and took a seat opposite Regol at one end. Terra and Ara sat to either side of him. Watching them, Nona realized that Terra must be a good few years older than Ara and herself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, of an age with Regol. A spike of jealousy drove its way into her: Terra, living her grand life beneath her father’s golden roof, producing Regol as a novelty for the entertainment of her friend.

If you killed her you could take her house and claim the male.

Shut up, Keot.

Nona turned her attention to the bowl of soup that had been set before her. A delicious aroma rose from the orangey liquid. She had no idea what the ingredients might be. Several silver spoons were arranged around the place setting. She took the nearest, a fluted affair, and applied it gingerly to the liquid. The bowl itself was finest porcelain, eggshell-thin and delicately painted with lilacs. Nona took each spoonful in mortal fear that she might somehow damage the bowl.

“Nona? What do you think?”

“What?” Nona looked up, suddenly worried she had been slurping. “Yes?”

Regol, who had asked the question, gave her a puzzled look.

If you want to breed with him you should just tell him so.

“I don’t—” I don’t want to breed with him and if you don’t shut up I will force you into my little finger and CUT IT OFF! “Sorry . . .”

“Is the soup disagreeing with you?” Terra looked concerned.

“Something was,” Nona said. Then, seeing Terra’s distress, “No, not the soup, it’s lovely. What’s in it?”

Terra brightened. “Do you know, I’ve never thought to ask. I can summon the cook. It’s persimmon and something, I expect. Everyone is eating persimmons these days. I had one with codfish at Dora Reesis’s the other day! I’ll have Edris get the cook—”