I’ve set up a folding table that fits into our large room without trouble, and as the sky turns a fiery orange, I take a seat at one of the two chairs. Meredy should be here any moment, but I can’t resist swiping a finger into a steaming bowl of buttery mashed turnips.The taste reminds me of the convent, of suppers where Simeon and I begged to be allowed to bring our toy soldiers to the table to eat with us. We won the argument about half the time, and the memory brings a smile. Master Cymbre taught me almost everything I know, but it’s the Sisters of Death who got me comfortable in the kitchen well before I ever learned the rules of necromancy.
The sun dips lower. I alternate between watching its progress out the window and keeping an eye on the door.
I wonder what’s keeping Meredy. She must have Lysander with her, since he’s not here, so I’m not too worried. I’m more annoyed that she didn’t keep her promise. And—though I’d never admit it, not even to her—a little hurt.
Eventually, as the sky turns from soft lavender to indigo, and the food has turned Deadlands-cold, Nipper hauls herself into the chair opposite mine. With her stocky legs, long tail, and a body that lacks the muscles for a proper sitting position, her effort is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Miserable as I am, I can’t help laughing.
“You look ridiculous,” I tell her fondly. “You know that, right?”
Nipper’s tail pokes through a space in the back of the chair as she stands awkwardly on the seat, gazing expectantly at the food. Her big, liquid eyes shimmer as they catch mine, and she makes a soft, pleading sound.
“Oh, go on, then,” I sigh. “Try everything.Someoneought to enjoy my cooking.”
Nipper flicks her tongue over the turnips, but they don’t seem to interest her much. Neither do the slices of roast boar, which is surprising given her love of fish jerky. But when she finds the spinach—something I’ll never understand why Meredy likes—the dragon plunges her whole head into the bowl.
After Nipper has devoured most of the dishes, minus the turnips,I make sure the door is unlocked for whenever Meredy deigns to arrive. Then I flop down on the bed I thought I’d be sharing with her tonight. “No point staying awake, is there?” I say to Nipper as she leaps onto the pillows beside me.
I put an arm around her, take a final look at the blackened sky, and close my eyes.
Nipper snuggles against my chest and burps in my ear.
“You’re a rude date, but I think I’ll keep you around,” I tease her without bothering to open my eyes. They’re suddenly heavy, and it takes no effort to fall into a deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.
That is, until a high, piercing wail fills my ears and startles me awake.
Breathing hard, I throw back the blankets and glance around the darkened room as the wailing continues, a haunting sound like wind forcing its way through narrow gaps in a stone wall. Nipper isn’t in my arms anymore, but I’m not worried. She’s developed a habit of kicking her cushion under the bed and sleeping there.
Trying my best to still my breath and quiet my heart, I focus on the wailing. It has a certain rhythm, I realize after a while. And though the pitch makes me shiver, it’s much more like some person or creature trying to sing than, say, anyone being tortured.
Still, even if there’s no danger, there’s no way I’m getting any more sleep until that racket stops. I wish Meredy were here to listen, too, even though I’m still mad at her. Just so I can be sure I’m not imaging things.
Slowly, hesitantly, the bedroom door creaks open. As Meredy enters, a candle in her hands to light her and Lysander’s way, the wailing doesn’t seem to get any softer or louder. There’s an unfamiliar shadow in Meredy’s eyes as she sets the candle down on the bedside table and pulls off her cloak, and it stops me from asking her aboutthe sound. Figuring out what’s wrong with her is far more important than some weird noise.
When her gaze roams over the remains of our supper, she winces and turns, finally seeming to notice me for the first time. “Dessa, I’m so sorry.” She pulls off her trousers and climbs onto the bed with me. “I was visiting Lyda, and I lost track of the time.”
“Yeah?” I mutter, feeling a sharp stab of resentment toward the baroness, which I’m sure has nothing to do with Meredy’s lateness and everything to do with how Lyda Crowther once blinded me and left me for dead. “Did your mother make all your favorite dishes for supper, too? Did she even make extra and wrap it up so you can have meals delivered to Elibeth tomorrow?”
Okay, so maybe I’m resenting Meredy right now, too. She’s been full of excuses for her absences lately, but she’s never let me down like this before—never promised to be somewhere and then completely forgotten. And of all the things that could make her forget a promise, I didn’t suspect the woman who helped Hadrien would be on the list.
“How much of your time have you been spending down there in the dark with that woman, anyway?” I ask in a much nastier voice than I intended. “All those times you said you were with Elibeth, were you really—?”
“Careful,” Meredy says softly. She knows me too well—how I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry. “I thought you cared when I told you about visiting Lyda. I thought youunderstood. But you only care about yourself and what you are or aren’t getting, no?”
I didn’t expect her to suddenly get angry, too. The shock of her bitter words instantly cools my temper.
“I’m so sorry, Mer.” I reach for her hands, and when she puts them into mine, I realize she’s shaking. But when I try to calm her by rubbing my thumb across her palm, she gasps and jerks her hands away.
Too late, though. I’ve already felt the burns—burns even worse than the ones the crystal gave me both times I used it. The crystal I thought Nipper had buried.
“Explain,” I say softly, trying to keep the heat from returning to my voice. “I thought I asked Nipper to bury that thing. And I thought we both agreed it’s just a trick. A bit of dangerous magic no one should have.” I swallow hard, feeling sick as a thought occurs. “You haven’t really been spending time with Elibeth, or even going to see Lyda, have you?”
She says nothing.
“Have you?” I ask again, almost shouting, my stomach twisting.
She flinches and holds up a hand as if in surrender.
“I did see Lyda, once,” Meredy says at last, in a small voice. “That first time I told you about visiting her. But, Dessa, real or not, talking to Evander again—talking to Firiel—I couldn’t just let you throw away the chance to be close to them again.”
