“I wasn’t trying to take you to bed, El. You’re shaking, and I wanted to hold your hand.”

“The hand of a monster.”

“What?” He laughed, incredulous. “You’re no monster.”

“Were you there on the beach? Did you see what I did?” She flung an arm at the windows. “My storm left the bay in ruins. It destroyed dozens of ships, both Empire and Astavari. They’re still cleaning up the beach. It’s littered with the corpses of crawlers, adatrox, Astavari soldiers. People I killed, and I didn’t even know what I was doing as I killed them!”

“Simon told me many more would have died, were it not for you,” Harkan pointed out. “Astavar would have fallen.”

“Don’t you understand? Her blood is inside me. I didn’t ask for it, and yet here it is.” She gestured at herself and laughed bitterly. “I’ve been reading about her, you know. Simon retrieved books for me from the royal archives—not that there are many left from those days. She made sure of that, didn’t she, when she died and took so much with her? She had years of training before she had to perform magic in anything other than a temple classroom. She had a whole city’s worth of magisters helping her. She had the support of the crown. She lived in a world where magic actually existed, and people knew what it was about. And still she fell. She ruined everything. She destroyed everything.”

“She didn’t destroy everything,” Harkan pointed out.

“She destroyed enough.”

Harkan ducked down to meet her eyes. “You are not her. You are Eliana Ferracora, not Eliana Courverie. You are my friend. You are Remy’s sister.”

Eliana looked away. She had told Zahra she would practice using her power. In order to help Navi, she had resolved to do it, to swallow her revulsion.

But the memory of Zahra’s vision still swirled thick as bile in her head, and Harkan’s presence made her feel young again, and small. A child calling to her friend across the gap between their houses.

She shook her head, panic brimming sick and hot beneath her skin. “I won’t be like her. I won’t. I won’t do this—”

“You don’t have to.” Harkan cupped her face in his hands. “You’ve done enough for this war. This isn’t your fight. You are Eliana Ferracora.”

She closed her eyes, unable to speak.

“You are my friend,” Harkan continued, his voice soft and urgent. “You are Remy’s sister. You are the daughter of Ioseph and Rozen Ferracora. You are the Dread of Orline.”

“But don’t you see? It’s already begun.” When she looked back up at him, her eyes were dry, but her body was a clenched tangle of worries. “The day my power awakens, I kill the woman who raised me, the woman who was more my mother than any ghost from the Old World could ever be. What does that tell you?”

From beyond Harkan came a soft cry.

Eliana’s heart crashed against her ribs.

She turned to see Remy standing in the middle of the room, having just entered with a teetering stack of books in his hands.

The look on his face left Eliana feeling as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. She gaped at him, utterly frozen. The world was tumbling down around her, and she had no idea how to stop it.

Harkan took the books from him cheerfully, as though nothing had happened. “Hello there, Remy. Did Simon send some more books? How considerate of him. Can you ask him if, next time, he would be so kind as to jump up his own ass instead?”

But Remy ignored him. He allowed Harkan to take the books and then stood there, looking so small and frail in the shadows that the sight of him made Eliana’s chest hurt.

“Is it true?” he asked, both his expression and his voice eerily calm, though his eyes were bright. “You killed her?”

Eliana forced herself to meet his gaze. “She wasn’t herself anymore, Remy. They had turned her into a monster. She was attacking Simon.”

“No.” He shook his head, backing slowly away from her. “No. You’re the monster.”

Then he turned and hurried out of the room.

• • •

Two days later, in the early evening, Eliana sat hunched over a table in the royal archives, staring dully at the book lying open in front of her.

She had tried to talk to Remy several times, and each had been a disaster. He had screamed at her, declared his hatred, wept so viciously that he’d made himself sick, and now he wouldn’t speak to her. He saw her coming and ran the other way. She searched the castle for him and ended up chasing shadows. He was a small, sly thing, her brother. He had grown up in the twisting, narrow streets of Orline, and if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.

So, now, utterly heartsick, feeling ill down to her toes, Eliana had retreated to the archives, spending most hours of the day there and letting Remy have the space he obviously craved—and hoping that Harkan would somehow be able to reach her brother when she had not.

A soft movement from the shadows made her glance up to see Simon sliding into the chair across from her. She returned to the book and pretended to read for a few moments while he sat with his hands folded on the table.

When she could bear his silent presence no longer, she looked up once more. “Yes?”

“You sent for me,” he replied.

She flushed a little. “Oh, right. I’d forgotten.”

“If it’s so unimportant to you, perhaps my time can be better spent elsewhere.”

“You have something better to do than serve your queen?” she snapped.

Simon’s smile came slowly. He leaned back in his chair, considering her. “Royalty suits you.”

The sight of him looking so quietly delighted unnerved her, which made her want to push back from the table and kick her chair into the bookshelves, but she was afraid she might start crying again if she moved with too much violence.

Slowly, she began stacking her books. “How does it suit me?”

“You’re a snob,” Simon replied, “and you have a terrible temper, not to mention an unshakable belief in your own worth.”

An ugly laugh burst out of her. “My own worth.” She slammed the topmost book shut. “I look in the mirror, and do you know what I see? I see the daughter of a cruel woman who nearly destroyed the world. I see a girl who doesn’t understand one fucking thing about any of this nonsense.” She gestured impatiently at the books. “And I see Remy, staring up at me, calling me a monster because I killed his mother.”

She glared at the table for a long, fraught moment, and when she looked up, the sight of Simon watching her so quietly—his eyes piercing and unwaveringly focused—shook something loose inside her. He wasn’t trying to comfort her; he wasn’t showing her a scrap of sympathy, or moving to touch her, or hold her, as Harkan would have done. He knew very well what she was, she realized, and understood that she neither deserved comfort nor craved kindness.