Rathe nodded, reaching for his lockbox. “All the licensed copies, and probably a tenth of the unlicensed ones.”

“So you really do think this was the Alphabet at work?” In spite of himself, Eslingen couldn’t quite keep the note of skepticism out of his voice as he set the first stack of books on the worktable.

“Yeah.” Rathe had the box open, took out a red‑bound octavo. “I know, I’m the one who said it wasn’t likely to be real, but this–I don’t have any other explanation.”

“So what exactly did happen?” Eslingen asked. There was a stool in the corner, and he pulled it over so that he could sit facing Rathe. Behind him, he could hear condensation hissing on the sides of the kettle, and the crackle of the rising fire.

Rathe made an embarrassed face. “I told you, Guis wanted to reestablish our relationship–which, I might add, has been over longer than it lasted. But that wouldn’t have mattered, except…” He shook his head. “It was the flowers, Philip, I’m sure of that. I could see the light gathering on them, I could hear it, it sounded like bees swarming, so I knew that was wrong, that I had to stop it. I knocked over the vase, and it shattered, and I felt, gods, I can’t explain. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever felt–it was like being hit by lightning, just the pure jolt of it, and the light, and that’s pretty much all I remember until you were holding me.”

Eslingen nodded, suppressing a shudder of his own. Magistical things, magistry itself, were not meant to be handled so roughly; it was a commonplace that a magist’s work disturbed was worse than a baited bull. He shook away the thought of what might have been, and said, his voice as level as he could manage, “That definitely sounds like the Alphabet.” He looked at the books scattered on the table. “But which one?”

“Yeah, that’s the question.” Rathe managed a tired grin. He was looking better, Eslingen thought, less pale and interesting, but still not his usual self. “I would swear I’d seen that arrangement, too, or at least one very like it, something in one of these books. Which was why I had to come back here.”

Eslingen nodded. The water was boiling now, and he rose to lift it off the heat, poured a cup for each of them before setting the kettle on the hob. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”

“It’s a version that’s come across my desk, probably in the last week or so,” Rathe said, and took the proffered cup with an abstracted smile. “And it’s one that Guis would also have been able to see–assuming of course it was Guis who made it.”

“Which you have to admit is the most likely option,” Eslingen said. The tea was stewed, thick and bitter, but warming, and he wrapped his hands around the heated pottery.

Rathe nodded. “Which should mean it’s one of the more popular ones. Guis is the kind who’d buy the most popular version.”

“And obviously bought in Dreams?”

“Probably,” Rathe answered, “but that won’t help us, at least not now. The booksellers all carry all the versions, or a good selection. We can try tracking down the stall where he bought a copy, maybe even trace the exact copy that way, but that’s going to take time.”

“Which you don’t have,” Eslingen said, and Rathe nodded again.

“Not with a working copy of the Alphabet loose in Astreiant.”

There was a knock at the door, but before Rathe could say anything, the door swung open. A well‑dressed woman–well‑dressed pointswoman, Eslingen amended, presumably Rathe’s Chief Point Trijn–stood there, scowling impartially at both of them.

“What the hell is happening at that theatre, Rathe? First I get a runner telling me my senior adjunct was attacked, next I find Falasca–Falasca, of all people–telling me you’re alive and well, and then a runner shows up with a message about a bunch of flowers. For you, of course.”

She tossed a strip of paper onto the desk in front of Rathe, who took it, and gave Eslingen an apologetic look. “Falasca wanted my job,” he said. “We’ve been–sorting things out between us.”

Eslingen nodded, understanding, and Trijn glared at him.

“And who in Sofia’s name is this?”

“My leman.” Rathe hesitated, as though he’d suddenly heard what he had said. “Philip Eslingen.”

Eslingen blinked–this was not how he’d expected to hear it, though on the whole he had no objections–and he saw Rathe blush.

Oh, yes, we’ll talk about this later, the soldier thought, trying not to grin, and met Trijn’s stare guilelessly.

“Oh.” Trijn’s frown faded, and she gave Eslingen a look of almost genuine interest. “The other one who found the children. I was wondering what had happened to you.”

Working for Hanselin Caiazzo, and now at the theatre. Eslingen opened his mouth to explain, and closed it again, not knowing where to begin. “I’m one of the Masters of Defense now,” he said.

“Working on the masque,” Trijn said. “All right. Fine.” She looked back at Rathe. “What is all this about a bunch of flowers?”

“We have a problem, Chief,” Rathe said. “There’s a working copy of the Alphabet out there.”

Trijn blinked, and closed her mouth firmly over anything else she might have said. She closed the door quietly behind her, and leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me.”

Something–embarrassment, probably, Eslingen thought–flickered over Rathe’s face, but he ran through the events concisely, not sparing his own blushes. “And so I figured the best thing was to come back here and start checking the various editions.”

Eslingen frowned. “He has, of course, left out the fact that the physician told him to go home to bed.”

Trijn’s eyes flicked toward him. “Of course she did. You needn’t try to impress me with his dedication, Eslingen, I’m quite familiar with it. And his stubbornness.” She shook her head, crossed the room to perch in the embrasure of the window. “So. There’s a working copy out there. Any idea which one?”

Rathe shook his head. “No. But at least we know who made the arrangement.” He held up the scrap of paper. “Sohier says Tarran Estranger, who shares the dressing room, says Guis brought it in with him this morning, and the doorkeeper saw him with it, too. So it’s Guis’s doing.”

“Are you planning to call a point on this Forveijl?” Trijn asked. “You’ve got bodily harm at the least. Whether he knew what the effects would be when the flowers were disarranged or not, he took responsibility when he created the arrangement.”

Call it, Eslingen thought, and sighed when Rathe shook his head.

“It’s not worth it. It’d be like calling a point on a child–if I know Guis, he’s too scared right now to even think of trying anything like that again.”

“Too scared right now,” Eslingen said, and Trijn nodded.

“I agree. He may be too scared right now, but he’ll feel cocky again soon enough. I know the type.”

Rathe shook his head again, and this time it was Trijn who sighed. “All right. If not for battery, what about assault?”

Rathe gave a faint smile. “I don’t think the point would stand. It was planned as seduction, and that’s what it would have been. And the law doesn’t recognize that.”

“I do,” Eslingen said, under his breath, and Rathe frowned at him.

“You’re being very noble about this, Rathe,” Trijn said.

“I’m not,” Rathe said. “Look, everyone at the theatre knows what happened now. He has to face them–they’re not going to replace him, and he’s not going to drop the part, so he’s going to have to go into the Tyrseia every day from now till the masque, with everyone knowing that even with the Alphabet to help him, he couldn’t seduce his once‑besotted ex‑lover. That’s got to be a blow to his self‑regard.”

I doubt you were ever besotted, Eslingen thought, but knew better than to say it aloud.

“Anyway,” Rathe went on, “the main thing is the practical copy.”

Trijn nodded. “Your mother was a gardener, right? So presumably you picked up some of her trade.”