He says nothing in response.

Fin fills the silence. “So…how does one get into dealing in dark magic?”

“How does one get into royalty?” Solomon nods toward the far side of the room, where a portrait hangs, though its colors are worn with time. The portrait is of a male who must also be a relative, as he shares my and Fin’s nose and coloring. “The leeching business is the inherited sort. Always wanted to pass it down to my heirs, but unfortunately they were already occupied.”

He gives us the first hint of a smile I’ve witnessed yet, though he stares intently at his boots as he says it.

“Leeching?” I ask.

My father pulls a stone out of his pocket. It’s the color of the moon, smooth as a pebble lining a creek.

“You probably wouldn’t know, but magic is a coveted commodity around this place.”

Fin stirs. My brother was born magicless, and though he’s never shown any interest in it, I know he has to feel the lack of fairness somewhere underneath that carefree facade of his.

“Leeching is the process of, well, leeching the magic from a magic-carrying being into a calamite stone, or a leeching stone as we like to call it. It keeps the magic stable until it can be transferred elsewhere.”

“And I suppose that is also highly illegal in Avelea,” I say.

My father shrugs. “Is anything really illegal in this place? It’s why I moved here, after all.”

Fin takes the guest room, which is hardly big enough to sleep one person as it is, so I stay in the kitchen. I don’t plan to sleep tonight, anyway. For as much anger and hatred that my brother harbors in his heart, he’s considerably more trusting than I am.

This might be our father, but he’s still a criminal, and I don’t have any intention of falling asleep in his abode.

It seems he doesn’t intend on sleeping either, at least not through the night, for he pulls another glass bottle out of the pantry and snaps the top off of it, splintering it with his bare hands.

He takes a swig from the shattered end before handing the bottle to me.

It stinks of desperation and apathy, and I shake my head.

“Not a drinker?” my father asks, eyeing me with derision.

“I have a bit of a temper problem,” I explain.

“Hm,” he says. “Wonder who you get that from.”

Apparently no one, I think, as I watch my father down who-knows-which-number drink for the evening.

I look around the room, noting the cabinets stocked with liquor but suspiciously lacking in food, the floorboards that boast several holes, some of which seem to have attracted wasp nests that even the insects have abandoned.

“If you need anything…” I start, not sure why I’m even saying it. This male is a drunk and will probably spend any help I offer on more ale, but if I could just help him make some repairs…

“I haven’t needed anything in a long time,” says my father, his eyes far away from here. “You probably won’t believe me, but I do manage to make a sale here and there. Enough to get me by. I don’t need the help of a pampered prince who hasn’t graced this side of the sun for half as long as I have.”

My neck heats, but I say nothing. At least, not until I wrench up the nerve to ask, “What do you know about liquid moonlight?”

My father’s glazed eyes go sharp. “I hear you’re married to a human.”

I nod in confirmation, discomfort reeling in me, since he clearly sees through my intentions.

“You do that for breeding purposes?”

The room flares hot, and my father holds up his palms, sloshing ale all over himself in the process. “I didn’t mean offense. Clearly, you’re taken with the girl. Unless she’s…” He trails off, his eyes focusing in on me, sweat beading at his brow. “I should probably be careful how I speak about your queen. I see that now. That’s good in a way. It’s how I felt about your mother.”

My throat tightens. “In a way?”

My father narrows his eyes, like he’s fighting to focus, like he feels like whatever he has to say is of the utmost importance, worth cutting through the slog of intoxication to express. “She’s human. She’ll fill your world full of joy, then she’ll take it away in a blink of an eye.”

“I can trust Asha.”

“Perhaps. But she’ll die on you all the same.” He lifts his palms up again. “It’s not her fault, I know. But I don’t think the Fates built us males for that.”

“For what?”

“For outliving our females.”

I cock my head to the side, and he goes on.

“You see it best in humans. How the women outlive the men in most every case. I think that’s for a reason. I think it’s because they can handle it. Females. Women. They have a grit in them. One we males like to pretend we have by brandishing our swords and gritting our teeth through the gore and piling our money up by swindling others. Feeding off the high of the battle. The thrill of living on the run. It’s all the same. But in the end, it’s the quiet that gets us. It’s ourselves we can’t stand to face. To keep company with too long. Females are built to lose, then pick themselves up and carry on. We aren’t made for that.”

I stare at him a long time, not wishing to give credence to anything this drunk of a male says, but there’s something in my chest that tugs in fellowship, in understanding, even as he slurs the words.

Humans die.

Asha is human.

Therefore, Asha…

“Your mother was the one I’d rather not have outlived. Fates, I hadn’t seen her in years when I heard the news. I was in the middle of a sale when I found out she was dead. Killed the male who was supposed to be brokering the deal, just for mentioning her death so off-handed, like it was common gossip. He didn’t see it coming…no, he didn’t see it coming at all…Nothing’s been the same since.” His eyes snap into focus. “It’ll never be the same. You’ll never be the same.”

Disgust roils in my gut at the thought of my father murdering a male in cold blood just for the misfortune of bearing bad news to the wrong person. But even at the thought of Asha’s death, my hands heat.

Who will happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time on the day my wife draws her last breath? Who will find themselves in the path of the Flame? Will it be the healers serving her on her deathbed? Onlookers stopping to help after an accident?

“Tell you what,” says my father, tapping the bottom of his bottle against the table. “If I could have done anything to save her, I would have. Anything at all would be better than this.”

He rises, lighting a bottle of incense on the counter. It smells of myrrh and is somewhat overwhelming, but I say nothing.

Then he walks to his cabinet and pulls out a dusty bottle.

When he sets it on the table and slides it over to me, I can’t help but notice the shimmering milky material on the inside.

“Anything,” he says again, pressing the cold glass into my palm.

The liquid moonlight sloshes about in the bottle, tantalizing to look at. It’s strange, holding it in my hand. I expected it to be more difficult, convincing my father to hand this over. I at least thought he’d try to barter with me.

I could save her with this, and I feel the awe swell in my chest, that I hold the key to keeping Asha forever in the palm of my hand.