The third week.

There was a small courtyard tucked away at the northeastern corner of the castle, where the wall of the hawkery backed up against the edge of a guard tower, creating a quiet space about fifteen feet by twenty. Though the guards could look down at any time, they rarely did. It was sheltered from the weather; the hawkery acted as a windbreak. There was only a dusting of white snow on the paving stones and on the disused crates stacked along one wall. His were the first footprints to break it.

Aaron began practicing with his dagger again.

* * *

The fourth week.

The princess froze, a knife tip pressed to her back.

“It’s going to keep blocking your view,” Aaron said. “Keep it on if you’d like, but you’ll die every time. Now. Again.”

He slid back a step, falling into a loose stance, the wooden practice blade held easily in his palm. The princess spun to face him. Stubbornly, she readjusted her hood. Sweaty frizzes of red hair escaped out its sides, while milky green eyes dared him to say anything. Aaron simply waited, as Rose painstakingly adjusted her footing, her stance, her grip. He could hear footsteps behind him, coming closer, but put them out of his mind: this wouldn’t take long.

“Ready?” he asked.

She checked her footing one more time, then nodded. “Ready.”

In the space of a heartbeat, two of the wooden blades were pressed against her side. One of them was her own. It was to this scene that Second Lieutenant Varghese entered the courtyard.

Rose pushed back the edge of her hood just enough to glare at him. “How can I block if you keep changing the way you attack?”

“How can you block if you can’t see where I am?” Aaron countered. “Trust me, Your Highness, an assassin won’t stop to admire your face. Back me up here, Lieutenant.”

It was the first time Aaron had seen the man since the night in the princess’ room, and he offered a smile in greeting. It was not returned. It was not returned to such a degree that Aaron’s own smile froze on his face, and quietly slipped away. The lieutenant moved stiffly. He had a limp that Aaron didn’t remember, and colder eyes.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing low. “Your father requests that you return to the royal apartments.”

The princess straightened herself up, and regarded the redcoat haughtily.

“Those were his exact words, Second Lieutenant?” she inquired.

To which the ill-humored lieutenant was forced to reply: “No, Your Highness. His Majesty was concerned by your disappearance from your quarters, and wished for you to be found.”

“It was my father who said this?” the girl pressed.

“Prince Orin ordered a search for you, on His Majesty’s behalf. The king is resting.”

“Well then, congratulations. You’ve found me.” Her voice was as dry as the winter air.

Aaron said nothing. He simply stood where he had been when the lieutenant first joined them, and noted, for his private records, that the princess seemed in the habit of not telling her family where she was going.

The lieutenant stood awkwardly for a moment, unable to order the daughter of his king to return to her rooms like the child she was, and clearly unwilling to leave her here.

Aaron tried slowly, inconspicuously to lower the practice knives away from her royal person; that was what gave the man something to focus on.

“Are you sparring?” he asked. The answer was clearly yes. Aaron simply stood where he was, like an elk destined for Cook’s menu. “Let me join you.”

“We were just finishing,” Aaron replied.

“I insist. One match.”

“No thank you. I’m very tired.” This was true. Also true was how little he liked the redcoat’s eyes. The last thing he remembered of Lochlann was the man catching him as he fell unconscious, not letting him hit the ground; before even that, he remembered the lieutenant trusting him to stand by the princess with his real blade out, and no need for words between them with the assassin’s body at their feet.

There was nothing of that trust in the man’s eyes now. He watched Aaron like a farmer watches a wolf, when the winter nights had grown long and it was no longer livestock the wolf was after.

“I think I’d like to go back and rest,” Aaron addressed his comment to the princess. “Did you want to come in as well, or were you planning to stay out for a while yet?”

Rose took her time in answering. She adjusted her coat, gloves, hood; she let her eyes pass over the lieutenant before meeting Aaron’s gaze. “I suppose I could return with you. Don’t worry about accompanying us, Second Lieutenant. We know the way.”

He really wished the princess would not antagonize the man. He had a feeling that she was not the one who would pay for it in the end. As they walked back into the castle, it was his own back that the good lieutenant glared daggers at.

In his room, Aaron did not have to pretend to be tired: as the princess sat next to him, her finger tracing out the words he should read, he let his eyes slip closed naturally, only to startle awake a split second later. After one such time, he found the book closed and set on the nightstand near his bed, and the princess in the act of slipping out the door.

“Sleep well,” she said.

He closed his eyes until she shut the door. Then he threw back the covers, and stood.

Whatever was between Lochlann and him, he wanted it resolved. Now. The man wasn’t the Captain of the Guard, but he had his ear. He had the Iron Captain’s, as well—being the grandson of the militia leader carried weight Aaron would rather not see come to bear. More than that, the lieutenant was trusted by the royal family. When their daughter gave her guards the slip, Lochlann was who they called on to bring her back safely and discreetly. The way the princess took his loyalty utterly for granted, even condescended upon it, spoke of a long history between the two. Aaron had four more weeks here. He did not want to spend the next month with the man wishing him ill.

He didn’t need to go far to find the lieutenant. Lochlann was in the hall when he opened his door, hand poised to knock. The two young men stared at each other.

“Let’s talk,” Aaron said.

“Let’s.”

They stepped into his room. Aaron shut the door softly behind them, and leaned against a table. He kept his arms to his side and away from where his dagger was tucked under his sweater, trying to look his least threatening.

The lieutenant went to a chair, but stayed on his feet. “You’re not sitting down,” he commented.

Neither are you. “Staying on my feet keeps me awake,” Aaron explained, mildly. “You may recall that I’m not well. Please, though, have a seat.”

Lochlann leaned against the arm of the chair, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Aaron couldn’t tell whether the gesture was intentional or not; whether the man even knew he was doing it, or whether he was just that tense.

“You seemed fine in the courtyard.”

“Lochlann,” he asked, “how did you get injured?”

The man’s sudden, quiet laugh answered the question altogether too well. The elder prince had told Aaron a guard had been injured trying to restrain him. Orin hadn’t said which guard. Now Aaron knew.

“I don’t remember it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The lieutenant looked at him, his grip tightening around his sword. He didn’t say anything. On Aaron’s end, there was nothing more to say: he didn’t remember it. He was sorry. That was really it.

“You’re dangerous,” Lochlann said.

Aaron hesitated; then gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod. Lochlann waited as if for more, but what else was there to say on that subject, either?

“Extremely dangerous. You slid a blade between an assassin’s ribs like you were splitting a peach. You took down a member of the royal guard while you were barely conscious. And yet, even with these things, His Majesty has expressed no interest in your origins; has given no orders to find where you came from, or what it was that you did before you came here. Why is that?”

Aaron’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say that you’ll be gone by morning.”

“Not morning,” he countered. “Four weeks.”

“Four weeks,” Lochlann repeated the number with a certain incredulity. “And why is that?”

“I need the passes to open. I need to get out of this city.” He took in a breath, and let it out slowly. “And I need to get well enough that I can survive.”

“Four weeks.”

“Four weeks. Please. Just until the snow melts.”

The lieutenant nodded stiffly, his knuckles white around his sword hilt.

Aaron was glad of it. He liked the lieutenant of the guard, and Lochlann seemed good at his job. He wouldn’t want anything unfortunate happening to the man.