“No aerial spotting,” Sam said sharply. “You’ll be on the other side of the city—far away from this.”
“You know how ridiculous that is, don’t you?”
“I’ve had just as much training as you, Celaena.”
She might have pushed it—might have kept arguing until he gave in—but she caught the flicker of bitterness in his eyes. She hadn’t seen that bitterness in months, not since Skull’s Bay, when they’d been all but enemies. Sam had always been forced to watch while glory was heaped upon her, and always taken whatever missions she didn’t deign to accept. Which was absurd, really, given how talented he was.
If death-dealing could be called a talent.
And while she loved strutting around, calling herself Adarlan’s Assassin, with Sam that sort of arrogance now sometimes felt like cruelty.
So though it killed a part of her to say it, and though it went against all her training to agree, Celaena nudged him with a shoulder and said, “Fine. You take down Farran by yourself. But I get to dispatch Jayne—and then we’ll do it my way.”
Celaena had her weekly dancing lesson with Madame Florine, who also trained all of the dancers at the Royal Theater, so she left Sam to finish his scouting as she headed to the old woman’s private studio.
Four hours later, sweaty and aching and utterly spent, Celaena made her way back home across the city. She’d known the stern Madame Florine since she was a child: she taught all of Arobynn’s assassins the latest popular dances. But Celaena liked to take extra lessons because of the flexibility and grace the classical dances instilled. She’d always suspected the terse instructor had barely tolerated her—but to her surprise, Madame Florine had refused to take any pay for lessons now that she’d left Arobynn.
She’d have to find another dance instructor once they moved. More than that, a studio with a decent pianoforte player.
And the city would have to have a library, too. A great, wonderful library. Or a bookshop with a knowledgeable owner who could make sure her thirst for books was always sated.
And a good clothier. And perfumer. And jeweler. And confectionary.
Her feet dragged as she walked up the wooden steps to her apartment above the warehouse. She blamed it on the lesson. Madame Florine was a brutal taskmistress—she didn’t accept limp wrists or sloppy posture or anything except Celaena’s very best. Though she did always turn a blind eye to the last twenty minutes of their lesson, when she allowed Celaena to tell the student on the pianoforte to play her favorite music and set herself loose, dancing with wild abandon. And now that Celaena had no pianoforte of her own in the apartment, Madame Florine even let her remain after the lesson to practice.
Celaena found herself atop the stair landing, staring at the silvery-green door.
She could leave Rifthold. If it meant being free from Arobynn, she could leave behind all these things she loved. Other cities on the continent had libraries and bookshops and fine outfitters. Perhaps not as wonderful as Rifthold’s, and perhaps the city’s heart wouldn’t beat with the familiar rhythm that she adored, but … for Sam, she could leave.
Sighing, Celaena unlocked the door and walked into the apartment.
Arobynn Hamel was sitting on the couch.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and smiled.
CHAPTER
4
Alone in the kitchen, Celaena poured herself a cup of tea, trying to keep her hands from shaking. He’d probably gotten the address from the servants who had helped bring over her things. To find him here, having broken into her home … How long had he been sitting inside? Had he gone through her things?
She poured another cup of tea for Arobynn. Cups and saucers in hand, she walked back into the living room. He had his legs crossed, one arm sprawled across the back of the sofa, and seemed to have made himself quite at home.
She said nothing as she gave him the cup and then took a seat in one of the armchairs. The hearth was dark, and the day had been warm enough that Sam had left one of the living room windows open. A briny breeze off the Avery flowed into the apartment, rustling the crimson velvet curtains and teasing through her hair. She’d miss that smell, too.
Arobynn took a sip, then peered into his teacup to look at the amber liquid inside. “Who can I thank for the impeccable taste in tea?”
“Me. But you already know that.”
“Hmm.” Arobynn took another sip. “You know, I did know that.” The afternoon light caught in his gray eyes, turning them to quicksilver. “What I don’t know is why you and Sam think it’s a good idea to dispatch Ioan Jayne and Rourke Farran.”
Of course he knew. “It’s none of your business. Our client wanted to operate outside of the Guild, and now that I’ve transferred it the money to your account, Sam and I are no longer a part of it.”
“Ioan Jayne,” Arobynn repeated, as if she somehow didn’t know who he was. “Ioan Jayne. Are you insane?”
She clenched her jaw. “I don’t see why I should trust your advice.”
“Even I wouldn’t take on Jayne.” Arobynn’s gaze burned. “And I’m saying that as someone who has spent years thinking of ways to put that man in a grave.”
“I’m not playing another one of your mind games.” She set down her tea and rose from her seat. “Get out of my house.”
Arobynn just stared up at her as if she were a sullen child. “Jayne is the undisputed Crime Lord in Rifthold for a reason. And Farran is his Second for a damn good reason, too. You might be excellent, Celaena, but you’re not invincible.”
She crossed her arms. “Maybe you’re trying to dissuade me because you’re worried that when I kill him, I will have truly surpassed you.”
Arobynn shot to his feet, towering over her. “The reason I’m trying to dissuade you, you stupid, ungrateful girl, is because Jayne and Farran are lethal. If a client offered me the glass castle itself, I wouldn’t touch an offer like that!”
She felt her nostrils flare. “After all that you’ve done, how can you expect me to believe a word that comes out of your mouth?” Her hand had started drifting toward the dagger at her waist. Arobynn’s eyes remained on her face, but he was aware—he knew every movement her hands made and didn’t have to look at her to track them. “Get out of my house,” she growled.
Arobynn gave her a half smile and looked around the apartment with deliberate care. “Tell me something, Celaena: do you trust Sam?”
“What sort of a question is that?”
Arobynn casually slid his hands into the pockets of his silver tunic. “Have you told him the truth about where you came from? I have a feeling that’s something he’d like to know. Perhaps before he dedicates his life to you.”
She focused on keeping her breathing even, and pointed at the door again. “Go.”
Arobynn shrugged, waving a hand as if to dismiss the questions he’d raised, and walked toward the front door. She watched his every move, took in every step and shift of his shoulders, noted what he looked at. He reached for the brass doorknob, but turned to her. His eyes—those silver eyes that would probably haunt her for the rest of her life—were bright.
“No matter what I have done, I really do love you, Celaena.”
The word hit her like a stone to the head. He’d never said that word to her before. Ever.
A long silence fell between them.