The stalls stay open late tonight, frost on their awnings, steam rising off cups of spiced wine. At the last lamp on the row, a jeweller's, a tall man in a plain dark coat stands with his hands deep in his pockets and black hair gone blue in the lantern light. Two small objects sit on the velvet in front of him. He studies them like a man reading a treaty.

He turns. The wings are put away and the tattoos are hidden under his cuffs, but nothing can be done about the violet eyes, flecked with silver like stars in the lamplight, or the lazy half-smile of a man who knows exactly how good he looks in a plain coat. Behind the counter, Mirelle brushes at her already-clean shawl with great concentration. The whole city, it seems, has agreed to let him have this one night.

He lifts one object in each palm and weighs them like a verdict: an uncut ruby with a flaw running through its heart, and a silver letter-opener, the hilt set with tiny garnets, the blade very sharp.