He was pale, and there were drops of blood on his sleeve. Even knowing the blood for the trick it was, her heart still flinched. “You might have needed help.”

“Did I not also tell you never to worry about me?”

Stupid, stubborn boy. “If I hadn’t interfered earlier, you’d be a drooling imbecile by now. So shut up and let me make my own decisions.”

He almost smiled. “That does not sound right. I am the brains of the operation. You are only supposed to provide the muscle.”

She wanted to touch his cheek, but did no such thing. “When there is enough muscle, it develops a mind of its own.”

Birmingham, the house captain, bounded down the stairs. “What’s the matter, Titus? You look like you are about to give up the ghost.”

It still jarred Iolanthe to hear the prince called by his name. She almost snarled at Birmingham to not be so familiar. “Bad oysters at the diplomatic reception,” she said instead.

Birmingham sucked in a breath. “Those can be deadly. You’d better hope the danger is past.”

“I think I am going to puke again,” the prince mumbled.

“Hurry. I’ll secure you a chamber pot.” She’d found one in the hotel. The prince had to explain to her what the object was for. The very idea of it. “Toodles, Birmingham.”

Once they were in his room, she borrowed his wand and flicked it. There came the unmistakable sound of someone dry-heaving.

The prince winced, though he looked impressed at the same time. “What was that?”

“Learned it from a pupil in Little Grind. This was how she convinced her mother not to give her turnips at supper anymore.” She set a sound circle and gave the wand back to him. “Now you lie down.”

“I need to see what intelligence Dalbert might have sent.”

“Lie down. I’ll do it for you.”

“I—”

“If Dalbert sends intelligence, I need to know how to receive it. Remember, you won’t always be here.”

You can live forever for me. The wistfulness in those words, the calm acceptance of what could not be changed. There was no glory for him in chasing after the impossible, no reward beyond a promise kept.

“Must you remind me?” He stretched himself out on his bed. “Put a piece of paper under the machine in that cabinet by my desk.”

She had no trouble finding the somewhat porcupine-like device and successfully placed the paper on the domed tray beneath on her second try. The device clacked. When it stopped, she removed the paper and brought it to him.

“What news might Dalbert have? And what did Mrs. Hancock do with you? Did she ask that you produce Miss Buttercup?”

“No one asked about Miss Buttercup.” He took the report from her hand and scanned it. A little color returned to his face. “So it is true: the Inquisitor remains unconscious.”

“She is?”

“Has been since last night.”

“From what I did?”

“From what you did, except they thought I was responsible for it, so I gave them a fairy tale about the powers of my wand.”

He was still looking at the report, oblivious to what he’d just said. She suppressed an urge to giggle. “Did they believe you? All boys tell such tales about their wands.”

He glanced up, his eyes first blank, then lit with mischief. “Maybe they do, but I actually possess a superior wand—the finest of its kind, no less. The sort of fireworks my wand can produce will leave any girl breathless.”

They both burst out laughing. His entire aspect was transformed, like a desert come to life after a rainstorm. She had to turn away, her eyes filling with abrupt tears.

You can live forever for me.

She looked out the window, her back to him. It was a sunny afternoon. The small meadow behind the house hopped with junior boys at their various games, balls, sticks, and a kite three of the boys were trying to set aloft.

A life simple, peaceful, and bucolic all around him—and he would have only ever gazed upon it as if through a looking glass.

“Won’t the regent contradict your account?” she heard herself carrying on the discussion, as if their present danger were the only thing that mattered. “Your wand is a family heirloom. If it has special powers, he’d know about it too, wouldn’t he?”

“All Alectus can say is that he does not know. He will be the first to admit there is a store of knowledge that is only passed down the direct line of inheritance.”

“So we’re safe as long as the Inquisitor remains unconscious?”

“It would seem.”

“What happens when she wakes up?”

“Something will give.”

She turned around. “What will give?”

“Time will tell,” he said, with a calm that was not resignation, but a fierce will. “We assume the worst and prepare accordingly.”

The room was hung with crimson curtains and deep-blue tapestries. Vases of gilded ice roses bloomed almost to the painted ceiling. At the center of the far wall, under a triple archivolt, Princess Aglaia occupied her bejeweled throne.

Each classroom in the teaching cantos of the Crucible had been decorated in the taste of the ruling prince or princess who created it. Princess Aglaia, Titus’s great-grandmother, had liked dramatic uses of color and ostentation. Princess Aglaia had also been one of the most learned heirs of the House of Elberon.

Titus took a seat on a low stool before the throne. “I seek your knowledge, Your Highness.”

Princess Aglaia stroked the fat Persian cat in her lap. “How may I help?”

“I would like to know whether a mage can have a vision—as a seer—for the first time when he is sixteen years of age.”

The spectacle of the wyverns and the armored chariots weaving in the sky, menacing and purposeful, no longer burst upon his mind as vividly as it had at first. But it still came, faded and blurred around the edges.

Princess Aglaia set an index finger against her cheek. “It would be highly unusual, but not unheard of. When the first vision occurs after the onset of adolescence, however, it is usually followed by a quick succession of additional visions—every hour, if not more frequent. Has your mage experienced that?”

“No.” He had undergone nothing of the sort. “What if the first vision took place in a situation of great distress? Would that make additional visions less likely?”

“Describe the situation of great distress.”

“A no-holds-barred Inquisition in full progress.”

The cat purred. Princess Aglaia scratched it between the ears, looking thoughtful. “Curious. I am not certain a vision can happen when the mind is under such duress. And how did the mage in question emerge from a no-holds-barred Inquisition with enough lucidity to recall the vision?”

“The Inquisition was interrupted.”

“When?”

“Quite possibly at the time of the vision, if not soon afterward.”

“Ah,” said Princess Aglaia. “Now it makes sense.”

“How so?”

“I do not believe your mage had a vision at all. What he had was a rupture view. You see”—Princess Aglaia leaned forward, eager to share her erudition—“mind mages are a curious breed. You cannot simply pay mind mages to do your dirty work. They have to want to take part. The talents of mind mages are inborn, but the power they achieve is directly proportional to their dedication to a cause.”

The Inquisitor was certainly fanatically devoted to the Bane.

“Mind mages fear interruption during their work for two reasons. One, their fully extended mind is quite vulnerable to permanent damage. Two, the thoughts they use to whip themselves into a frenzy of power might become visible as a rupture view. Your mage did not have a glimpse of the future, but instead a picture of the inner workings of the mind mage.”

This was a most unexpected revelation. But Titus’s thrill lasted only a second. “Does the rupture view happen only one way, or is it mutual?”

“It is most assuredly mutual. There have been instances when a mind mage’s master chose to interrupt an Inquisition deliberately, when he believed the mind mage might not be strong enough to break the subject, in order to obtain a rupture view.”