Alex stood by the window, a cool breeze on her cheek and a warm fire at her back, rubbing her bandaged knuckles and looking down on the Holy City.

Way above it, rather’n crushed in its guts, it seemed a different place. A beautiful place, even. Gardens and pale palaces on the hilltops, with statues of angels on their gables. Grand streets and tall houses on the slopes, dozens of church spires and shrines capped with the Circle of the Faith. All dissolving into a haphazard maze of slum roofs in the valleys, shining wet from a chilly sleet that just stopped falling. You could see the ruins the city was built on, built around, built out of – towering blocks, shapeless blobs, tumbledown walls heavy with creeper, remnants of a fallen empire poking from the mass like the bones of a giant carcass. The Pale Sisters stuck up like fingers, two crumbling columns left over from a vast temple, on top of which some canny set of priests had built two rival bell towers, soaring high over the city and clanging away at each other at every prayer time like twin babies screaming for Mummy’s attention.

From up here, you’d never have guessed the strife and struggle going on in their long shadows, where you’d as much chance of feeling a fresh breeze as an elf of feeling heaven. The human rubbish crawling all over each other like ants in an anthill. The lying and hustle and hurt to get one step ahead. Snatches of hymns and hawkers’ cries drifted up, feeble on the cold wind, clamour of faith and fury dulled by distance, like none of it was much of her concern any more.

A set of nuns had bathed her, scrubbed her, wrapped her in a robe with the faces of saints stitched in silver, fur on the collar so warm against her cheek it made her want to cry. She hardly knew her own face in the mirror. Hardly knew her own hands with the dirt scraped from under the bitten-down nails. She doubted she’d ever been this clean before and wasn’t sure she liked it, kept being ambushed by the feel of her own hair, now they’d cut out the thousand tangles and combed it till it shone.

They’d left the comb behind. Silver, with amber in the handle. She kept wondering what Gal the Purse might’ve priced it at, and how much more it was really worth. Her hand kept creeping towards it, one finger tap, tap, tapping at the windowsill. Wouldn’t have been theft in her book, just picking up what was thrown away.

If you don’t want your comb stolen, you shouldn’t leave it alone with a thief—

Knock, knock at the door and she jerked her hand back, heart suddenly pounding, desperate to slither out the window and down a drainpipe, frantic voice in her head shrieking that she was the mark in some con and would soon enough be suffering for it.

But there was a colder, softer voice, too, whispering that she might squeeze more out of this than a nice comb. A lot more. All she had to do was sell a lie, and wasn’t she a liar? She’d played so many parts she hardly knew which one was her. She was an onion made of only skins with nothing at the centre.

So she dragged in a slow breath, and unclenched her fists, and tried to wriggle free of her usual cringe and look like she deserved to be there. She tried to coo, ‘Come in,’ the way a princess might, but she ended up hooting the come then going too far the other way for the in so she sounded like a pigeon turning into a hog and was wincing at her own blunder as the door opened.

It was her unlikely saviour, the self-styled Duke Michael. He had an awkward smile, like he didn’t quite trust her, which showed good judgement as she was a treacherous rat, ask anyone.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘isn’t that better?’

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear in a way that aimed at winsome, but she hardly knew what winsome meant, let alone what it looked like. ‘Got the fish out of my hair,’ she said.

‘They’re treating you well?’

‘Better’n those three bastards in the market. You should’ve killed ’em and kept the money.’ Or better yet, given it to her.

‘The Almighty tends against killing,’ said Duke Michael, ‘if I remember my scripture.’

‘Far as I can tell he makes all manner of exceptions.’

‘God has that luxury, he’s unlikely to get knifed in a fish market.’

‘You had a sword.’

‘If I’ve learned one thing in all my years of using one, it’s that men with swords die every bit as easily as other men, and usually much sooner. Besides, I couldn’t risk Eusebius. New dukes can be made with a word, but good servants are rare treasures. May I come in?’

Alex wasn’t sure she’d ever been asked that before. Never had a place of her own. That and the folk she dealt with didn’t tend to be the permission-asking sort. So she enjoyed the little pause before giving a haughty toss of the head and saying, ‘You may.’

‘I expect you have … some questions.’ Duke Michael eased himself into the room.

‘One or two.’ She fixed his eye, businesslike. ‘First off, is all this a sex thing?’

He burst out laughing. ‘No. God, no. By no means.’

‘All right. Good.’ She tried not to show her relief. No need to discuss the terms she’d been considering if it had been a sex thing.

‘I’m your uncle, Alex. I’ve been searching for you for a long time.’ He took a step closer. ‘You’re safe now.’

‘Safe,’ she muttered, having to stop herself taking a step away. She was even less sure what to do with safe than she was with may I come in. Her rich uncle, popped out of nowhere to tell her how special she was. Too good to be true hardly seemed to cover it. ‘Are you really a duke?’

‘I am, though … without a dukedom, for the time being.’

‘Bit careless. Losing a dukedom.’

‘It was stolen.’ He took another step towards her. ‘Do you know anything about the politics of the Empire of the East?’

She could’ve given him a solid rundown of the politics of the slums, but the Empire of the East had always seemed a long way off. ‘There may be a few gaps in my schooling …’

‘You’ve heard of the Empress Theodosia the Blessed?’

‘Obviously,’ lied Alex.

‘She had three children. Irene, Eudoxia, and … me.’

‘Your mother was an Empress?’

‘Your grandmother was an Empress. A great one. When she died, my elder sister Irene should have been crowned, but my younger sister Eudoxia …’ he turned his face away, his voice cracking, ‘… Eudoxia murdered her and usurped the throne. There was a civil war.’ He stared into the fire, shaking his head like it was heavy with regrets. ‘There was war, and famine, and schism between the Churches of East and West, and the great fortress city of Troy rotted from the inside. Irene’s servants spirited her infant daughter away to the Holy City, to the Pope’s protection. But she was lost on the way. Killed, I believed, for a long time.’ He looked up at Alex. ‘Her name was Alexia.’

‘And you think … that’s me?’

‘I know it. There is the birthmark on your neck, and the chain you wear …’ And he pointed to a few links showing inside that fine fur collar.

She pulled her gown tight over it. ‘It’s not worth anything.’

‘You’re wrong. Is there, by any chance, half a coin on it?’

Ever so slowly, she pulled it out. The bright half-disc of copper dangled on the end, polished smooth by years against her skin, its zigzag clipped edge glinting. ‘How did you know?’

He reached into his collar and pulled out a chain of his own, and she stared as she saw, dangling on the end, another half-coin. He came closer to hold his up to hers, and Alex felt all the hairs on her neck stand up as she saw the ragged edges were a perfect match. One coin.

‘You were given this the day you left Troy. So there could be no doubt who you were. But I knew the moment I saw you.’ He smiled, and the awkwardness had faded, and it was so warm and open he almost had her believing. ‘Even with fish in your hair and a fist around your throat. You look just like your mother.’

‘I …’ Alex swallowed. ‘I don’t remember her—’

‘She was the best of us. Always so brave. So certain.’ And he took her good hand and her bandaged one and held them in his. Big, strong hands he had, and warm, and once she’d smothered the instinct to wrench herself free, there was something weirdly reassuring about their touch.

‘Look,’ she grunted, ‘I don’t know anything … about being a princess—’

‘All I want,’ he said, ‘is for you … to be you.’

Alex very much doubted he’d have said that if he’d known her better. But Gal the Purse always said, Don’t interrupt the mark when they’re making a mistake, and he was frowning down at the floor now, so she let him keep talking.

‘I learned a few weeks ago that my sister Eudoxia is dead. To no one’s great sorrow. Some say poison. Some say an experiment gone awry … a last act of sorcerous hubris …’

‘Sorcerous?’ muttered Alex, doubtfully.

‘Whatever the cause, her throne is empty!’ Michael’s eyes flicked back up and met hers. ‘It’s time for you to return.’

Her brows had gone even higher. ‘To a throne?’

‘The Serpent Throne of Troy.’

At their first meeting he’d declared her a princess. At their second he was putting Empress on the table. At this rate she’d be an angel by teatime and a goddess by nightfall.

‘I can’t wait for you to see it, Alex!’ he said, eyes shining. ‘The Pillar – raised by the Witch Engineers of ancient Carthage – towers over the city, casting the whole harbour into its shadow! At its top, the famous Hanging Gardens, more beautiful than you can dream of, watered by mountain springs carried down the Grand Aqueduct.’

He took her by one shoulder, holding out the other hand as though the view was spread before them.

‘The Basilica of the Angelic Visitation rises over the greenery, crowded with pilgrims come to view the relics of the grand crusades! And the palace, too, the Pharos above all, the greatest lighthouse in Europe, at its top Saint Natalia’s Flame, shining like a star, guiding the sons and daughters of Troy home!’ He turned to her, catching her by the other shoulder, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Our home, Alex!’

She blinked up at him. Her every instinct – learned several different hard ways down the years – was to treat everything as a lie, and had there ever been a more laughable set of clangers than this?

And yet here she was. In the Celestial Palace. Warm for the first time in weeks. With a comb worth more than her hands. In a robe worth more than her head. And there was something so damn plausible about this bastard. She was starting to think he might be who he said he was. She was almost starting to think she might be who he said she was.

Duke Michael seemed to remember himself and pulled his hands away. ‘I know this must be … a lot to take in. I know it must be frightening. But I will be with you, every step along the path.’

‘I never had … any family …’ She hardly knew whether she was telling the truth or playing a part any more. Probably just as well. That’s where you find the best lies.

‘I’m so sorry, Alex. That it took me so long to find you. For many years … I gave up hope. Let me put it right. Let me help you now.’ He had some damp in his eyes, so she reckoned it’d suit her to do the same. She never had to search far for some sad memories.

‘I can try.’ She sniffed, and blinked back tears, and put on a shy little smile, and was quite pleased with her performance.

‘That’s all I can ask.’ He wiped his eyes on his wrist. ‘There’s so much to do. You must meet Cardinal Zizka! She can help us. Soon, Alex, we’ll be back where we belong!’

And he smiled, without a hint of awkwardness now, and stepped away, shutting the door behind him.

Alex had been told where she belonged a few times. In prison. In a sewer. In a shallow grave. In hell, depending who you asked. This much luck had to have a razor hidden in it somewhere, but what were her choices?

She owed Papa Collini twice what she was worth, if you were very generous about what she was worth, and that wasn’t even her only debt. She’d borrowed money from the Queen of Clubs at ruinous interest so she could cheat at cards against Little Suze, but Suze had turned out to be a better cheat than Alex, so she’d come out owing Suze, too, who’d cut her nose off for it, and the Queen of Clubs, who’d take her kneecaps off for it, and still owing Papa Collini, who’d take some teeth and fingers, and then – when he found out about the other two debts – likely her eyes into the bargain.

Many thanks, but fuck that.

Whatever her doubts about this whole princess business, it had come along at the perfect time. She’d play the part, and get what could be got, and when it started to look like trouble, she could ditch her so-called uncle somewhere on the crooked road to Troy and find some new name to wear and some new place to settle.

You have to treat people like oranges, Gal the Purse always said. Squeeze what you can from the bastards, then waste no regrets when you toss away their wrung-out skins. You have to treat people like stepping stones. Like rungs on your ladder. Or you’ll wake up one day with nothing but a set of bootprints on your own back.

Alex couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. Been a while since she’d tried one on and she liked how it felt. She was starting to think Duke Michael might be a stepping stone to somewhere very sweet. She wasn’t sure where, exactly. Been a while since she looked too far past the next meal. But she’d work it out as she went. She was a quick thinker, ask anyone.

She propped her elbows on the sill, cool breeze on her cheek and warm fire at her back, and grinned towards the slums. You could just see people down there, if you really squinted. But they were so far below. She couldn’t help rubbing that lovely fur against her face again, and giving a little giggle.

Then she slipped that comb up her sleeve.

Best to be on the safe side.