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abandonment, to turn my mother whore. Aris knew my father threw me away like refuse and said nothing until I was needed. Kinship means nothing to me but pain and rejection.” He found himself panting, his breath hot as it rebounded from her bent head.
    “So you destroyed it? When a country depended on Aris? You allowed your pain to rule you? Set your paramour upon a good man?”
    “Enough, Psyke,” he snapped. “No one will listen to you.”
    “I will make them believe me.”
    “Make them believe the dead walk? This is the age of reason, my sweet.” Janus forced a contempt into his voice he didn't feel,
couldn't
feel. The age of reason, yes, but a reason under siege by sickness and starvation, beset by fears of war and an uncertain future.
    “And a man that didn't die? Is that reasonable enough for you, my lord?” Her lips curved into a smile, but she couldn't hold it. They trembled and her next words were whispers. “I am not blind, Janus. Nor am I a fool. And bodies can be had for the taking. Tell me, my lord, whose blood did you spill to spare his? Another innocent's? Another good man's?”
    She slumped, and he nearly believed her fatigue, but years of Maledicte's companionship had taught him caution. Still, when her nails slashed at his eyes, he was taken off guard. He ducked; her clawing hands caught in his hair, and he grabbed her wrists, grinding the bones tight. She thrashed against him, kicked and cursed in a way that he had no idea an aristocratic lady could.
    He dropped them both to the carpet, jarring her silent, pinning her beneath his weight, thankful that she was so slight. Maledictewould have left him bruised at best, and worse—he'd suffered from Maledicte's love of sharp objects before.
    “Tell me,” he gasped. “Tell me what you saw.”
    “Maledicte,” she spat. “Just that. All dark hair in the shadows.”
    Hardly conclusive
, he thought. Men of Maledicte's coloring were rare in Antyre, being both dark haired and pale skinned, but common enough in Itarus. The assassin could be any of Ivor's men.
    Sir Robert's words came back to him. An amateur with the blade. An inexperienced hand.
    His breath let out all at once. Of course it wasn't Maledicte. Hadn't he said it himself? Maledicte was an artist with his blade. The realization that it hadn't been,
couldn't
have been, Maledicte twisted into equal parts relief and pain. If Maledicte
had
done it, killed Aris, risked Janus—at least that meant Maledicte had returned.
    Psyke took a breath, twisted under him, mustering herself for another round, and he pressed her back more firmly, her skirt an ungainly tangle around his knees, flakes of drying blood sifting free about them. “Hush,” he said. “Hush, or you'll have that fool guard in here to defend you, and I'm in no mood for that. My reputation's been blacked enough for one night; do you think I won't hesitate to add wife beating to it? I assure you, I will not—”
    “Did you court Maledicte with such talk?” she spat. He rolled away as her words did what all her efforts hadn't—wounded him.
    She lay sprawled, a discarded doll, and after a moment her hands crept up to cover her face. Her shoulders spasmed. Janus watched her cry, the wetness slipping out between her fingers, her face and neck growing pink blotches, wondering from what source the tears came. Had she loved Aris as well as been loyal to him? Was it grief or anger that fueled her?
    Aris had expected too much of her—seen her intelligence and missed the gentle core.
    Her breath grew rough, catching as her sobs continued. It grated on his nerves. Maledicte would never have wept. Maledicte would have lashed out with words, with blades, with anything to hand until his point was made. Psyke merely sobbed.
    “You'll make yourself sick,” he said. “You should care for yourself first. Mourn
later
.”
    Her sobs turned into hiccups; her breath narrowed and strangled, then the weeping began anew.
    Enough
.
    Janus collected the