The room was surprisingly warm, the air heavy with the smell of the flowers that filled a vase the size of a man’s head. Silverthorn, winterspice, and the purple‑splashed bells of yet another corm: someone had gotten an expensive gift, Rathe thought, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window to reflect from the tall mirror, and wondered if it was Forveijl’s. A part of him hoped it was, and another, smaller part felt a touch of jealousy. But their affair was long over, Forveijl had chosen Aconin and he himself had been lucky enough to find Eslingen, and he put it aside, frowning. The light from the mirror bounced across the far wall as Forveijl knocked against the frame, and Rathe stepped away, wincing.

“All right,” he said, and closed the door behind him. “What did you have to tell me?”

“I needed to talk to you, Nico,” Forveijl answered, and there was something in his voice that made Rathe shake his head in warning.

“About Aconin, so talk.”

“Yes. And I will, I promise. But, Nicolas, I’ve missed you, and this is the first chance I’ve had to say so. It’s a shock to have you back in my life, probably the most pleasant shock of my life, but still–”

“I’m not back in your life,” Rathe said. “I’m trying to find out who killed two people just in this theatre. I’m sorry if it seems to you as though I’m doing it to torment you.” He broke off, not wanting to say the words that had risen to his lips– I wasn’t even thinking you might be here–and Forveijl took a step closer.

“You’re not tormenting me, Nicolas. But, Oriane, if you wanted to, you could. You always did.”

Rathe stared at him for a moment, caught by the gleam of sunlight in the other man’s hair. Forveijl was gilt, warm honey skin and golden hair, where Eslingen was jet and ivory, and the actor was still very beautiful. A part of him had never forgotten that, Rathe knew, would probably never forget even after he’d lost the memory of all the petty quarrels. He took a breath, newly aware of the plants almost at his side, and shook himself, hard. “You’ve nothing to the purpose to say, have you?”

“Very much so, I promise.” Forveijl smiled.

“About Aconin,” Rathe said.

“That, too.”

Rathe shook his head, stifling desire he hadn’t know he still carried. Forveijl was beautiful, yes, handsome, virile, and utterly untrustworthy. He’d proved that more than once. “I’m going,” he said, and realized Forveijl stood between him and the door.

“Are you sure you want to?”

No. Rathe took a careful breath, trying not to remember how Forveijl’s skin had felt under his hands, how his hair had smelled of spice and the paint he wore onstage. “Get out of my way,” he said, and knew he sounded less than convincing.

“I don’t want to,” Forveijl said softly. There was less than an arm’s length between them, in the tiny room, and even as Rathe thought that, Forveijl reached out to lay first one hand and then the other on Rathe’s shoulders. Rathe shivered at the touch, at the memory of other touches, and Forveijl touched his face. “I want you. I want you back in my life, shock or no shock.”

And I’m still not back in your life, I have a lover… Rathe couldn’t bring himself to step away, refused to give in to the caress. “What would Aconin say to that?”

Forveijl laughed. “Chresta dropped me long ago, as I daresay you knew he would. We’re friends now, nothing more.”

“I’m sure he got the performance he wanted out of you,” Rathe said, and winced at his own bitterness.

“You have to admit it worked,” Forveijl said, and Rathe shook his head.

“I never saw the play.”

“I know. I looked for you.”

“The theatre’s dark,” Rathe said, clinging to solid fact. “You never could have noticed.”

“I noticed.” Forveijl leaned forward then, brought his mouth down hard on Rathe’s. Not like Philip’s, Rathe thought, dazed, his hands tangling in Forveijl’s hair. This is worse than folly, it’s madness. I don’t want to be doing this.

Forveijl cupped his face between his hands. “You have missed me.”

“Not once,” Rathe answered. It was the truth, too, or had been until this hour, and he tried to pull back, but Forveijl’s gentle touch held him prisoner.

“Until now,” Forveijl said, and the words echoed Rathe’s own thoughts so closely that he flinched away.

“Maybe,” he answered, and knew the word sounded as weak as he felt.

Forveijl laughed softly, and bowed his head to kiss Rathe’s throat. It was the sunlight in the mirror that was blinding, Rathe thought, not the touch, but he shut his eyes anyway. This wasn’t like Forveijl, he was always too proper–a dressing room seduction was too common for him, not fine enough, elegant enough… He opened his eyes to see the sunlight shattered into rainbow shards, flecks of light dancing like dust motes in the relative shadow of the rest of the room, turning and swirling to gather above the vase of flowers, as though they were drawn like bees to the heavy blooms. The Alphabet, Rathe thought, and felt a surge of relief–not folly, not desire, but something from without, the flowers deluding them both. Aconin had drawn them out one by one, he remembered hazily, but he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, where to start. And Forveijl’s mouth was hot on him, it was past time to end it. He reached out blindly, fingers tingling as they touched the hovering light, shoved the flowers to the ground. The vase tumbled, spilling water and greenery, and Rathe cried out as the light seemed to turn on him, pain worse than the sting of a hundred bees lancing into his hand. It pooled there, a single heartbeat of agony, struck upward like lightning, and he dropped to his knees among the scattered flowers.

“Nico?” Forveijl’s voice was distant, drowned in the angry hum of bees, of swarming sunlight. “Nico!”

Rathe looked up at him, vaguely aware of other pains, cuts on hand and knee where he’d landed hard on shards of the broken vase, but the buzzing, the pain, drove over anything he might have said. Too much, he thought, too much to bear, and at last the light slipped away, fading as he fell forward onto the splashed and scarred floor.

Eslingen glanced toward the staircase that led to the dressing rooms, frowning as he saw Forveijl slip quietly down the last few steps and disappear into the wings. At least that meant Rathe should be on his way, he thought, and automatically shook his head at a landame who had started to move half a beat too soon. She froze, not graceful but at least not out of time, and stepped off properly with the rest of them, Eslingen counting the steps aloud. The chorus finished with a flourish, and young de Besselin stepped forward, bowing, to proclaim his speech. Today he wore a lieutenant’s sash slung from shoulder to hip, the massive rosette decorated with the palatine’s crest picked out in gilt and dark blue paint, and Eslingen hoped it would help him remember his lines. Not that the speech was easy, a long and to Eslingen’s ears earnestly dull recitation of the various claimants’ connection to the palatine’s line, and he wondered idly why Aconin had ever bothered with it. But of course there were parallels to the queen’s situation, he thought, and wondered then if Rathe had noticed. If not, he’d definitely want to bring it to the pointsman’s attention as soon as he came back down. Eslingen smiled then, recognizing his own jealousy. Not that he was jealous of Rathe, he added instantly, it was just Forveijl he didn’t trust–though come to that, he doubted even Forveijl was enough of a fool to think he could win Rathe back to his side. Not from what Rathe had told him, though he had to admit that in his experience it was the people who told you loudly and in detail why they would never go back to a former lover who usually found themselves in bed with them yet again. That was not a pleasant thought at all, and he glanced over his shoulder again. There was still no sign of Rathe, and he wondered unhappily just how long it would take him to get dressed. And that was ridiculous, he told himself sharply. More likely the pointsman had slipped out while Eslingen wasn’t looking, was already on his way back to Point of Dreams.