“Do you need anything else?” Khelséa asked. “You look tired.” Her tone changed with that last-a friend’s concern instead of a detective’s.

Isyllt ran a hand over her face. “I haven’t had any sleep.” She’d been happier than was healthy when the inspector’s message had summoned her into the night-murder was better than being alone after midnight with a dark mood.

Khelséa’s raised eyebrow must have worked wonders with guilty criminals.

“It’s nothing.” When the eyebrow didn’t lower, she finally conceded: “The usual thing.”

The other woman’s lips compressed. “Kiril.”

Over the past fifteen years Kiril Orfion had been her mentor, her friend, and briefly her lover; Isyllt was still glad she wasn’t the one to say his name. “What else? He’s been withdrawn lately, secretive. More than usual,” she added to Khelséa’s wry snort. Every time she thought she was finished with grief over their broken relationship, something stirred the embers. “I worry.”

Sympathy shone in Khelséa’s long leonine eyes, but her voice was light. “You need a distraction. A vacation.”

Isyllt laughed. “My last vacation ended badly.” She flexed her left hand. Two and a half years ago she’d been sent to stir rebellion in the distant port city of Symir. The mission had ended in murder, chaos, and the near-destruction of the city-a success, as far as the Crown was concerned. “Work is distraction enough. I’ll go to the Garden next.”

“Do you want company? Or backup?”

“No. I’d rather tread lightly. More Vigils will only attract attention.”

Khelséa snorted and tugged her orange coat straight. At least her dark skin let her wear the Vigils’ distinctive shade well. “What’s one more death in Oldtown, after all?”