He wished there was something he might do to help the townspeople. Perhaps later—if there was a later—he could return and help rebuild. For now, his duty lay in tracking Arthur, and safeguarding Gemma. He could only imagine what kind of story she’d write, if she’d expose the existence of the Blades in her pursuit of the truth. He discovered he didn’t care. So long as she survived, she could write whatever she damn well pleased. The thought shook him. Always, always, his loyalty to the Blades came first. He’d learned that when still mucking about with scraps of wire from his mother’s workshop. “Blades before all, Catullus,” his mother often admonished him. “The Graves family has a great responsibility, and we cannot shirk it for our own selfish purposes.” In the whole of his twenty-three years of service to the Blades, he’d never chafed against this imperative, never had a reason to. Now his reason rode beside him, bent low over her horse’s neck, eyes bright with amazement at the wonders she’d seen.
