All this time, her guilt has been slowly eating away at her. Today, it feels like she’s been swallowed whole. She won’t let herself feel sorry for it—that she did what she needed to do to take care of herself. The third shot scrapes over the angel’s abdomen before falling to the grave beneath with a clatter that makes her see red.
“It’s not a direct hit,” says a voice from behind her. “But who knows? Maybe you nicked something vital.”
She spins, crossbow notched, and finds Lys hovering under the shade of a black locust.
“You’re getting faster,” he says.
“I’ve had five hundred miles to practice. How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough to be moderately impressed.” His eyes are black again, no trace of white. He’s gripping something tight in his fist. “There’s a great view up in the bell tower.”
She follows his gaze to the soaring wall of fieldstone. The belfry is dark, louvers shuttered. When she looks back down at him, he’s staring again. If being looked at by Asher feels like stepping out into the sun, then being looked at by Lys feels like staring in a mirror. Like whatever wild thing writhes inside her lives in him, too.
“Why do you want Paris Keeling dead so badly?” she asks.
Amusement glimmers in his eyes. “It’s a little early for all these questions, don’t you think?”
“It’s just one question.”
“Not by my count. You’ve been interrogating Thorley all morning.”
Heat crawls into her skin as she realizes he’d been listening. “That was a private conversation.”
“Relax, Hermia. It’s nothing I didn’t already know.” He tosses the object in his hand up into the air. It’s a tiny brass sprocket, plucked loose from a machine. It glimmers with a penny sheen and then drops,smack, into his palm. “Let’s talk about something else— Did you know church bells weren’t always used as a call to worship? The Celts used them to ward off evil.”
She wants to press him harder—to double down and ask him again about Paris. Instead, she plays along. She always does. “So, if I rang the bells, you’d go running?”
“Maybe.” He looks delighted. “Or maybeI’llring the bells, and you’ll come kneel at my feet.”
Her heart skips a beat. “Try it and find out.”
It’s familiar ground, this push and pull. This precipice. The smile slips off his face and he surrenders a step, hunger banding his throat. Beneath her skin, her blood fizzes through her veins. She always comes back to this in the end—cutting herself open on Lys when the rest of the world becomes too much to hold on to. This morning’s conversation with Asher felt like clutching a fistful of broken glass. There’s no way to put any of it back together.
And so, maybe she’ll let it all go.
“I don’t want to be an escape,” says Lys, the moment she reaches for her sleeve.
She draws up short, frowning over at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t—that’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” His stare is heavy. “You’re feeling guilty, and you want me to make it all better. Maybe I don’t appreciate being used.”
“But I’ll bet you appreciate being fed,” she snaps.
His mouth curls into a sneer. “And you say I’m the one making this feel cheap.”
Whatever else she might have said, she’s not given the chance. They’re interrupted by a whistle, sharp. Asher stands at the front of the church, two fingers in his mouth, a fresh bandage at his wrist.
“I’m starting to think he does this on purpose,” grumbles Lys.
“Let’s move!” Asher’s shout sends a nearby grackle into flight. “We’re on the road in five.”
•••
They make it to midmorning before they’re forced to stop for gas. They pull off the road to navigate, parking at a scenic overlook. Shea and Poppy curl in the dinette and peer out at the miles and miles of trees, peaks girdled in mist, while Asher and Lys disappear into the back bedroom to argue over the map.
