"She's lying," Penny said.

Paper and quills littered the floor. Penny was lying on her stomach; a tray of chocolate biscuits sat next to her, in addition to a cup of half-drunk tea (not raspberry, thank gods; she had poured the remainder of the teapot into a plant when nobody was looking). Grayson was hunched over the desk, his blond hair rumpled.

"The empress?" Grayson asked.

Penny tapped her quill. "Yeah."

"Suspected as much," Grayson said. "I can't imagine anyone finds Drusden useful."

Exasperation filled her. "Grayson..."

He held up his hands. "Which part was she lying about?"

"All of it," Penny said. "She knows exactly where her husband is." She picked up the largest chocolate biscuit. "She just won't tell us."

Grayson frowned. "You think Halson's in Wynterlynn."

"Don't you?"

"Okay." Grayson blew out a breath. "Okay. Let me think." He rubbed at his tattoo, a quick, subconscious gesture. "Lucerna's out of the question — Lucia will take that in a matter of days, if she hasn't already — and I don't fancy our chances in Zarob, either. They hate your family. No offense."

Penny's voice was wry. "None taken."

"We could try for Salvatoria," Grayson said. "Their political allegiances are a well-guarded secret, but it could be worth the—"

"I'm not leaving," Penny said.

She polished off the chocolate biscuit, rubbing the crumbs on her skirt. She could feel Grayson staring. Not a nice stare, Penny thought; an "I-can't-believe-I'm-about-to-have-to-deal-with-this-bullshit" stare.

"Are you mad?" Grayson asked.

She pointed at the desk. "Could you pass me that water, please?"

"You're joking."

"I'm really not," Penny said mildly. "I'm very thirsty."

Grayson ignored this. Of course he did. "Where did Maribel go?"

Penny sucked her lip. She knew where Maribel was, of course; the other girl had ventured straight into the kitchens, apron tucked under her arm. She'd mentioned something about learning to make Loxian Bean Stew. Not, Penny thought, that she was about to volunteer Maribel's location; she knew why Grayson was asking.

Still.

More fun to make Grayson spell it out.

"Why?" Penny asked.

"Penny." Grayson gave her a look. "We can't stay here. Not if Halson is allying with Lucia. We'll find Maribel and make a run for it."

Penny rolled to a seated position. "I'm not suggesting that we stay here forever. Just long enough to find God-Slayer. Then we can go anywhere you like."

"It's too dangerous," Grayson said.

Penny shrugged. "So is everything, these days."

Grayson rubbed at his tattoo. "Even if we did stay..." His thumb flicked over the anchor. The waves. "It could take weeks to find God-Slayer. Months."

Penny propped her chin on her knees. "Show me what you have on the sword. Explain why you think it's in Lox somewhere. Then we'll decide."

Grayson's face was wary. Still, he must have decided that it wasn't worth arguing about because he waved her over. Penny hopped on the desk, her legs swinging. Grayson smoothed out a piece of rumpled yellowing parchment.

"Look at this," Grayson said.

Penny leaned closer. Small squares and a curving line cut across the paper, laid out in a complicated swirling pattern. A building? A city? A recipe for apple pie? It could have been any of them, Penny thought, and she wouldn't have been remotely surprised.

Penny glanced up. "What am I looking at?"

"It's a map of Bardan," Grayson said.

"Go on."

He leaned back in his seat, crossing an ankle over the leg. "I found this map in the oldest part of the Great Library. Buried in some obsolete archives. It once belonged to the faeries of the Somnus Woods."

"Grayson," Penny said, amused. "Did you really just use the word obsolete in casual conversation?" He gave her a look, and she mimed zipping her mouth shut. "Sorry. Shutting up, now."

Grayson tapped the parchment. "Do you see this C?" He gestured to a scrawled letter, floating aimlessly off the side of the map. "God-Slayer was once called by another name derived from faerie language. Celedonia, or "Celestial-Breaker." Historians would often use a c to represent it in drawings or diagrams. Are you with me?"

Penny nodded. "The C marks the sword. Got it."

"Great," Grayson said. "So if we can work out where the C is on this map, then we have a chance of finding the sword."

He looked at Penny expectantly. She glanced at the plate of chocolate biscuits. Wished she'd thought to bring them with her. A headache was starting in her lower skull, and she felt certain that chocolate could cure it.

"Wonderful," Penny said. "Smashing. Absolutely brilliant." She paused. "Just one tiny snag."

"And what's that?" Grayson asked.

She tapped the parchment. "The C isn't actually on the map."

"It can move."

Penny blinked. "What, like just... walk itself on to the map?"

"In a sense." Grayson looked amused. "Do you remember the map that Anna broke into Stillwater Castle to get? The Map of Nyxos?"

Penny sighed. "I try not to."

"It's the same principle," Grayson said. "The map is just a map until activated by a descendant of Nyxos; then it changes. Shows people where the nightweavers are."

Penny looked at the parchment. "So we need to... activate it?"

"Correct," Grayson said.

"How?"

"I'm not sure."

"Brilliant." Penny rubbed at her temples. "So we have a map that likely shows the location of the most powerful weapon in existence, but absolutely no idea how to decipher the map. Or find the weapon."

"Penny," Grayson said. "Did you just use the word decipher in casual conversation?"

Her lips twitched. Just a little. "Answer the question."

Grayson rested his elbows on the desk. "That's pretty much the sum of it, yeah."

"Any ideas on how to decipher the map?"

She put deliberate emphasis on the word decipher this time. Grayson smiled. It was one of her favourite smiles, Penny thought; the "you-surprised-me-into-smiling" smile. She was very aware of his elbow pressing into her thigh, of the warmth of his skin.

"I was hoping you'd tackle that part."

"I'll ask Ryne," Penny said. "He's always better with these sorts of—"

She cut off.

Crushing silence filled the room. Penny forced herself to breathe A terrible tightness began in her chest, as if someone was squeezing her lungs between two bookends. She waited for it to pass. But grief was like ash, Penny thought; sometimes it felt like the worst was over, and other times it stuck to your hands, coating them in filthy black grime.

"Sorry." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I just..."

"Forgot?" Grayson asked.

His voice was unbearably gentle. Penny stared at the parchment until all the miniature houses blurred. When she spoke, the words felt raw.

"I wake up every morning," Penny said, "and I remember all over again. The screaming. The blood. I had no idea that blood was so warm, you know. I can still feel it all over my hands. I've spent so long desperate to remember things, and now I'm desperate to forget them." She gave him a small smile. "How's that for irony?"

Grayson put a hand on her knee. "I'm sorry, Penny."

She looked down at his fingers. Strong fingers, calloused from years of knotting ropes and pushing boats and pulling bowstrings. It was amazing, she thought, that hands like that could be so gentle.

"I miss them," Penny said.

His hand tightened. "I know."

"I feel so alone."

"You're not alone." Grayson's voice was rough. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

The warmth of his hand seeped through her skirts. Penny half-closed her eyes; a pulse pounded in her chest. She thought of that kiss on the ship, the wild, reckless desperation in Grayson's eyes. The way he'd backed her against the wooden wall. His voice, low and rough in her ear. I would tear down the godsdamn sky for you.

She shivered.

Grayson's hand stilled. There was a war waging in his eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the frayed rope stretched tight between them. She wanted so badly to yank on that rope. To pull him closer. But it would change everything.

Was she prepared for that?

She leaned closer. Grayson's breath caught.

"Penny..."

A thought struck her, so swift and blinding that it knocked the breath out of her. Penny leapt to her feet. Grayson pulled back, his brows knitting together.

"Penny?" He looked slightly dazed.

"I've got it," Penny said.

"What?"

"The map." Her heart was pounding. "I've got it."

Grayson blinked. "You're going to have to be more specific, princess."

"Don't you see?" Penny snatched the parchment off the desk, waving it at him. "If Anna could activate the map of Nyxos, then this map can be activated by a descendant of Lestia. It makes sense."

"Right." Grayson dragged the word out.

Penny set down the map. "We have to find one."

"Halson isn't—"

"I know he's not," Penny said. "The Dolphenbergs overthrew the royal family and came to power seventy years ago."

Grayson whistled. "Impressive."

"I did pay some attention in history class, you know."

Mostly because Penny had found the young king Harrison Dolphenberg attractive. One artist had done a particularly fetching sketch of him shirtless astride a horse. But never mind. Grayson didn't need to know that part.

"Are you suggesting Isolde?" Grayson asked.

It was a fair question. Still, Penny shook her head. "She was chosen by the goddess. Not related to the goddess."

"Then who?"

Penny plucked another chocolate biscuit off the tray. "Someone in this city must have holy blood. Someone must be able to activate the map."

"So, what?" Grayson raised an eyebrow. "You want to go door-to-door, asking everyone in Bardan to touch a piece of paper? Don't you think that might strike our hosts as slightly suspicious?"

"No." Penny nibbled the biscuit. "I want to go to a poor house."

Grayson's eyebrows were practically at his hairline. "A poor house?"

"Yes."

He crossed his arms. "Dare I ask why?"

Penny shook the biscuit. "Where do you think Lestia's descendants ran after the Dolphenbergs took their home? To the streets. With nothing. Stands to reason that some of them might still be there, don't you think?"

"Right." Grayson rested his elbows on his knees. "That's not bad, actually."

"It's brilliant," Penny said, with complete confidence. "You know it is."

"There's just one problem," Grayson said.

She raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"Well," Grayson said. "We can't just stroll into a poor house. Not looking like this."

He gave her a pointed look. The silk nightgown. The freshly bathed skin. And Penny's crisp Wynterlynnish accent, refined through years of tutors and etiquette classes. She smiled. A rush of triumph and something else filled her. She was willing, Penny thought, to admit that it could have been smugness.

"Don't worry." She patted his shoulder. "I have a plan."