Aaron went back to his room, and there he called his Death.

It was not as dramatic as the phrase implied.

“Death,” he called out, softly; then again, turning as he said it: “Death?”

He still lived in the royal wing, though for how much longer the rooms would be his, he didn’t know. The furnishings here made the Lady’s sitting room look like a poacher’s den in Fifth Down by comparison. Yet he hadn’t thought about their richness in weeks. The ornate carvings on every piece of wood, the gold gilding, the pieces of art that decorated the walls—he’d barely even glanced at them, much less tallied up how much they’d be to sell. Now he caught sight of his own reflection in a wall mirror, and froze. The boy he saw there was a sleek thing, like a young stag. His red coat spoke of royal favor, or royal blood. The gloss to his combed hair, the healthy flush to his cheeks—

Aaron saw a boy surrounded by a king’s riches. A boy who looked like he had every right to stand in such a place.

“Death,” he called out, a little more urgently. “I need to speak with you.”

Between one turn and the next the man appeared, sitting calmly in a chair.

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think, even by your exceptionally high standards? Calling your Death for a chat.”

Aaron tried not to jump where he stood. He thought he did a fair job of it. He hadn’t even reached for his knife.

It was not his Death that had come. It was Markus’.

“Such things rarely end well,” the man continued. “An invitation is an invitation, and some guests take more than others when they leave.”

The phrase reminded him of something the duke had said. Aaron repeated it, without stopping to wonder why it felt so familiar. “An unguarded door is an invitation to unwelcome guests.”

“You did more than leave your door unguarded. You threw it open and built a fire within. ‘Death, Death, do come for tea,’ ” the man parodied. “Unless you’ve a thing’s name, you may wish to refrain from calling on it.”

“He’s not my Death?” Aaron asked, lamely. He found himself scooting closer to the wall. He knew the man couldn’t actually hurt him. Thought the man couldn’t. His own Death might take some offense if he did, at the least.

Markus’ Death watched him with a raised eyebrow and curled lips. “That’s hardly his name. Or did you think we all just sat around, waiting for you lot to finish your mortal tenure?”

The back of Aaron’s legs hit against an end table. He sat.

“My apologies,” he said.

“Yes, well. No harm done. And I’m here now: I’m sure that makes it all better. You and I haven’t chatted in such a long while.” The man smiled. A smile with very many teeth, a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“You look younger than before,” Aaron blurted.

The smile faded. “Very astute,” the Death said, clasping his hands together under his chin. “But you hardly called me here for flattery.”

I didn’t call you here at all.

The Death seemed to read the thought in his eyes, or in his hesitation. Again, he smiled. “We told you, did we not? You are Markus. If it was Aaron’s Death you sought audience with, I’m afraid you’re quite out of luck. Now. You wished to ask a few piercing questions pertaining to your lineage, was it? Do allow me to enlighten you.”

“Enough.” The new voice came from behind him. It was soft, and plain, and hearing it made something in Aaron’s shoulders relax. He did not need to turn to know that his own Death had arrived, but he did anyway. The man stood facing the window. His hair was fully gray now, and he wore a coat of ducal white that had never seen the inside of Aaron’s scanty wardrobe. When he turned, his face was still as youthful as Aaron remembered; only a few years older than he himself.

“You speak too much,” his Death said.

“You do not speak enough,” Markus’ countered. “Well. I can see where I am not wanted. Only remember this, Markus: I came to answer your questions, and he sent me away.”

The man disappeared, with the suddenness that all Deaths seemed to share. Aaron was left alone with his own warden.

“What’s your name?” Aaron asked.

His Death shook his head, the motion so small as to be nearly imperceptible. “That’s not what you wanted to ask.”

Aaron let out a breath, took in a new one; tried again. “Who am I?”

“Markus Yin Sung,” his Death replied levelly.

“All right, then. So who is Aaron?”

The man tilted his head, as if considering. It wasn’t just the white coat that Aaron didn’t recognize: it was the shirt, the pants, the boots. The broad ring on his finger. He saw Aaron looking at it, and unsubtly tucked his hand into a pocket.

“Was that a signet ring?” He received no answer, except gray eyes waiting patiently. “Do you look like me? The me who will die? When I was poisoned—you were wearing my green sweater. And Rose’s Death looked exactly like she did that night. The king’s looks like him, but in different clothes.”

His Death leaned back against the windowsill. The sunlight put a halo around him, until his gray hair was the stark white of an old man’s around a perfectly youthful face. Aaron would have felt better about his guess if the man had been much, much older.

“He looks like me, too,” Aaron said. “Markus’ father. My father should look like that. I… Am I his son?”

His Death’s gaze drifted to the window, and outside. “You said you wanted to go.”

Aaron’s mind raced to keep up with the man’s. He finally found the thought, from long ago; from the last time they’d spoken, atop a seawall that might or might not really exist.

“It was a dream,” he said. “A fever dream. Men can’t actually live outside of Lastrign. It would be stupid to try.”

“I see,” his Death said, and the hand with the signet ring slipped out of his pocket, and rested on the window sill. Aaron couldn’t see what was carved in it. The sun glinted off of it, blinding him if he tried to look too closely.

He felt the need to defend himself. There was nothing to defend, only the facts of the situation, but he tried anyway. “Rose has asked me to stay. The king has ordered me to stay.”

“The king will die. You don’t listen to dead men.”

The truth in those words was like a punch to his stomach; he felt winded for a moment, and speechless. Those words. How could the man have known those words? There had only been the two of them—

I don’t listen to dead men.

For a moment, Aaron had forgotten who—what—he was speaking with. Of course his Death knew. Of course.

“That’s not fair,” he said, quietly.

“One day, she will command you to go,” his Death said. “We’ll speak again.”

“Wait!” Aaron called. “Please. He looks like me. He moves like me. Am I his son?”

But it was too late; his Death had already gone. Only the light through the window was left. Aaron walked over to it and looked out on the city. The day was bright, and clear. He imagined that he could see not just to the foothills that surrounded them, but all the way to the sea. Imagined the mountains rising up on the next isle across the strait. He remembered being able to see past them, in his fever, but what he’d seen there had slipped beyond the memories of dream.

* * *

Hours passed. The sun set. His Death didn’t come back, and Aaron didn’t try calling the man again.

A light knock sounded on his door. When he opened it, the Lady awaited. Her hair was tied back in a braid. She had changed her clothes. Instead of the white and blue dress of the council chamber, she wore soft pants, and a simple blouse with a leather vest on top. The mismatched keys and the heavy gold ring she always wore about her neck were visible again, and he finally recognized the dragon rampant upon the ring for what it was: a signet ring. His Majesty’s signet ring. She tucked a stray strand of gold behind her ear.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He did not question it. Tonight, he needed something else to take the place of his thoughts.

“Yes,” he replied, with no hesitation.

“With me, then.”

He did not ask where they were going, and she did not say. Markus probably would have known. The Lady led; Aaron followed.