No one moves. Not even in the fiery shadows. If Mena or anyone else remained in the cottages, they’ve been burned to nothing by now.
With agony gripping my heart, I force myself to stand and run into the night. The smoke is so thick that I can’t see the moon, much less the stone wall on the outskirts of the village.
But I could find my way to Finn’s shop blindfolded.
When I arrive, it’s burning, like everything else. The temple. The tannery. The orchards and vineyards. There are so many dead, and the whole world is on fire.
Coughing, I cover my mouth with my sleeve and scour the area for any sign of life. Any sign of Finn or his family or even sweet Tuck. I run toward Finn’s home, trying to whistle, praying he might hear my call, only to see three bodies lying near the door, burned and blackened. I stumble back, tears streaming down my cheeks, stomach sick.
Two of the bodies are so small. Betha and the twins.
After a terrible groan, the house crashes in on itself. A family, a history, people I loved—gone.
But then I remember.
Hel. Finn. The fallow fields.
I bolt in that direction, tears streaming, but when I reach the clearing, there’s nothing save for empty land and a blanket of smoke. I don’t know how long I stand there—staring, waiting—but eventually, I head back to the village, so very numb.
My chest aches, hollowed out, a cavern where my heart used to be. I can’t think around the pain of knowing that death by flame is how Finn and Hel likely met their end as well. Gods, I would’ve killed them myself to spare such torture. I would’ve done anything.
But I didn’t do enough, did I?
Exhausted and choking on smoke and tears, I return to Mother’s side. There’s no one left. Just me. This was probably the Prince of the East’s plan when he didn’t kill me, to punish me with the fate of emptiness and utter aloneness.
To takeeverythingfrom me but my breath.
Someone touches my shoulder. I jerk around, God Knife raised, prepared to be cut down like everyone else. The Witch Collector’s valley-green eyes meet mine. He’s on his knees, holding his bleeding side, his face pale. He opens his mouth to speak, but collapses before any utterance leaves his lips.
After a moment, I crawl near to him and press my blade to his throat, its edge ready to slice through flesh—exactly what Finn prepared it for. I’m so angry, so devoured by the pain in my heart. Gods, I want to blame this man for everything.
The Witch Collector lifts his chin, staring at me in a way that causes guilt to swirl in my gut. I can’t stop crying, and I loathe that he’s seeing me this way—consumed with grief. I’ve lived in terror of the Witch Collector my whole life, and now I have the chance to kill him. Yet under the glow of this terrible firelight, I see not a man to be feared or destroyed, but just…
A man.
Struggling to breathe, his every gasp gurgles in his throat. He looksto the black sky, but his gaze finds mine again, and he asks the unthinkable.
“Sing me alive.” He glances toward my mother. “I saw you. Heard you. I know you can. D-don’t…let me die here. We can’t…let them…win. Sing me alive.”
He watches me, a helpless plea hidden inside the fine lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. He’s the last person I should save, but he still carries the breath of life, and I’m surrounded by death. I just want someone else to be with me when the sun rises.
But this isn’t someone else.
He’s the Witch Collector.
And so, with a heart that feels hard as stone, I stand and turn to go.
For a heartbeat, I’m certain Raina Bloodgood might help me. It’s a false hope, because a moment later, she rises and turns to leave. She’s not only a seer, but I also think she’s a resurrectionist.
And she’s going to let me die.
At least the last thing I will ever lay my eyes upon in this long life is a powerful woman of both beauty and fury. A soul delicate yet wild and so deeply moving—even if she does wish me dead.
In the last few years, when I’ve visited Silver Hollow on Collecting Day, I’ve been incapable of preventing my gaze from lingering on her face, though she has never so much as lifted her chin to look me in the eye. I can’t blame her. In another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream.
This is not another life.
She turns back and casts a long look over her shoulder. I watch her, standing in her bloody, soot-stained dress, the wind tearing stardropsfrom her long hair, white petals drifting through the smoke like snowflakes.
