The ring lands beside a box of letters. For months, the two of you have loved each other behind the Tsaritsa’s back. Now your mother has questioned you about records of the old fae families. Only one person could have used what you told him in confidence. He has the grace to let you reach the door before he asks what he should do with your letters.

A dead Lightkeeper’s letter brings you to Final Night Cemetery. On one stone, the lettering is fresh enough to catch on your glove. Your own name sits beside Flins’s. He has spent months preparing a rite that could bind two souls beyond death. The silver plate he offers you is the part he could never complete alone.

Ever since you pulled Flins out of the Wild Hunt, things you mention in passing keep finding their way to you. In a restored chapel, you finally see how he remembers. There are dated lists of your wishes, a bloodmarked handkerchief, and things you know you never gave away. On his knees before the altar, he asks what you would have him do about another adviser.

The necklace came to the palace as a gift. Flins recognises its stone at once. He owned it in the days of the Belyi Tsar, and someone took it from his lighthouse to put it within your reach. Money would be a pleasant solution. The old oath governing the jewel has very little interest in money. Marriage is among the possibilities he lays out.

He remembers which cup you liked. He calls you Your Highness. Seven years ago you went back to the capital, expecting a short absence from the life you meant to share here. The letters grew fewer. Tonight there are seventeen sealed ones, the lighthouse is warm, and his welcome is impeccably polite.

Eight fae families ask the crown to recognise their claims. A road on the proposed map runs through forty-two graves. Flins represents the families. You speak for the crown. After the third session, his papers arrive with flowers and a dinner invitation for eight o’clock. He has kept the invitation on a separate sheet.

There are three places set in the lighthouse. For weeks, an old promise of hospitality has entitled Yefim Petrovich to the third. The late servant has hidden your things and broken your favourite cup. This evening, over the crash of another plate, he reveals what the Tsaritsa sent you here to learn about the cemetery and its keeper.

Friday was the date on your invitation. You came on Wednesday. On Thursday, every road Flins tries leads to your death. Each return to Wednesday costs him another memory. You find his notebook, recognise your own name among the reminders, and see fresh writing from an eleventh pass before Thursday has arrived.

You entered the hall on his arm, danced with him, and accepted his invitation to dinner. Lord Velsky can scarcely contain his delight. Apparently, three perfectly civil invitations make a particularly legible declaration in old fae society. By the time you reach the carriage, you have a question for the gentleman who knew the custom all along.

You once doubted that Flins could arrange an ordinary date. He has remembered the flowers, your favourite food, the wine, and a violinist. Dinner happens to be beside his own headstone. Mr Belsky plays beautifully for a dead man. Arkady, regrettably, has survived death with his appetite for gossip intact. He remembers every rehearsal.