"Sun's down," muttered one of the guardsmen by the windows. "Then it's time." Grady made to push away from the table, and the rest began to follow. "No," said Kit. Grady paused with his palm pressed flat against the tabletop; all the other men froze. "What?" "No," Kit said once more, very polite. "Be seated. All of you." "Why are we wasting-" "Be ." Even his old nemesis knew to obey that tone. It sliced across the room slick as steel, resounding into silence. The guard at the window let fall the drapery, a soft stir of cloth that barely touched the air. He could almost feel his father's ghost, watching, waiting. Christoff remained silent until they were done, until the last of them had sunk into nervous attention, staring at him through the gloom. "I claim her," he said. "I will hunt her alone." Grady twitched. "But-" "I claim her," he repeated, silkier and more deadly than before. "She is mine. And if you have issue with that-any of you-I invite you to tell me now. We'll settle it here. I will not abide insubordination." Reckless, red-faced, Grady shot back to his feet. Kit was on his own in half a heartbeat, his arm slashing out, a streak of metal flashing across the table. The stiletto struck deep into the wall mere inches behind the other man's head, the hilt of carnelian and worked gold an ominous blur against the silk. Silently, weightlessly, the outermost curl of Parrish Grady's wig drifted down to the dining table, settling feather-light against the dark wood. No one else moved; no one spoke. "I beg your pardon," said Kit cordially into the hush. "Was there something you wished to say?" Grady looked down at the severed lock, then back up at Kit. His throat worked, though no sound came out. Slowly, in awkward motion, he resumed his seat. "Excellent." Christoff sent a cold smile around the room. "Anyone else?" -a guardsmen, Grady, & Kit"