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said. She could let Sam take on Farran—she could become secondary for this mission. Hadn’t she just accepted that she could someday let go of being Adarlan’s Assassin? He could have the spotlight.
    “No aerial spotting,” Sam said sharply. “You’ll be on the other side of the city—far away from this.”
    “You know how ridiculous that is, don’t you?”
    “I’ve had just as much training as you, Celaena.”
    She might have pushed it—might have kept arguing until he gave in—but she caught the flicker of bitterness in his eyes. She hadn’t seen that bitterness in months, not since Skull’s Bay, when they’d been all but enemies. Sam had always been forced to watch while glory was heaped upon her, and always taken whatever missions she didn’t deign to accept. Which was absurd, really, given how talented he was.
    If death-dealing could be called a talent.
    And while she loved strutting around, calling herself Adarlan’s Assassin, with Sam that sort of arrogance now sometimes felt like cruelty.
    So though it killed a part of her to say it, and though it went against all her training to agree, Celaena nudged him with a shoulder and said, “Fine. You take down Farran by yourself. But I get to dispatch Jayne—and then we’ll do it
my way
.”
    Celaena had her weekly dancing lesson with Madame Florine, who also trained all of the dancers at the Royal Theater, so she left Sam to finish his scouting as she headed to the old woman’s private studio.
    Four hours later, sweaty and aching and utterly spent, Celaena made her way back home across the city. She’d known the stern Madame Florine since she was a child: she taught all of Arobynn’s assassins the latest popular dances. But Celaena liked to take extra lessons because of the flexibility and grace the classical dances instilled. She’d always suspected the terse instructor had barely tolerated her—but to her surprise, Madame Florine had refused to take any pay for lessons now that she’d left Arobynn.
    She’d have to find another dance instructor once they moved. More than that, a studio with a decent pianoforte player.
    And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated.
    And a good clothier. And perfumer. And jeweler. And confectionary.
    As she walked up the wooden steps to her apartment above the warehouse, her feet dragged. She blamed it on the lesson. Madame Florine was a brutal taskmistress—she didn’t accept limp wrists or sloppy posture or anything except Celaena’s very best. Though she
did
always turn a blind eye to the last twenty minutes of their lesson, when she allowed Celaena to tell the student on thepianoforte to play her favorite music and set herself loose, dancing with wild abandon. And now that Celaena had no pianoforte of her own in the apartment, Madame Florine even let her remain after the lesson to practice.
    Celaena found herself atop the stair landing, staring at the silvery-green door.
    She
could
leave Rifthold. If it meant being free from Arobynn, she could leave behind all these things she loved. Other cities on the continent had libraries and bookshops and fine outfitters. Perhaps not as wonderful as Rifthold’s, and perhaps the city’s heart wouldn’t beat with the familiar rhythm that she adored, but … for Sam, she could leave.
    Sighing, Celaena unlocked the door and walked into the apartment.
    Arobynn Hamel was sitting on the couch.
    “Hello, darling,” he said, and smiled.

Chapter Four
    Alone in the kitchen, Celaena poured herself a cup of tea, trying to keep her hands from shaking. How had he found her apartment? He’d probably gotten the information from the servants who had helped bring her things over here. To find him here, having broken into her home … How long had he been sitting inside? Had he gone through her things?
    She poured another cup of tea for Arobynn. Cups