“I don’t believe you,” I whisper.
“Don’t you?” His grin fades, replaced by something quieter, colder. “Then explain how I’m here. How you only see me when you kill. How I stood in the forest and watched you drive your blade through an innocent man’s chest. How you found the ornament I left for you—the one you used to bleed another man dry. Tell me, Evelyn…”
He leans close, breath grazing my ear, voice a low growl. “Explain how we both get off on inflicting pain to those who deserve it?”
A shiver runs through me, every nerve awakening.
Death god.
My mouth barely forms the words. “What do you want?”
He steps back, slow and deliberate, the fire seeming to reach for him as he moves.
“I want you, Evelyn.” He’s already fading, dissolving into smoke and flame. “I need you.” His voice softens, almost tender now. “You aremine.”
Then he’s gone—swallowed by the fire.
The world exhales and sound rushes back in: wind, crackling hay, my own uneven breathing. The square is empty. No crowds. No guards. Just me, standing on a half-burned stage, ash drifting like snow. Maude’s bones lie among the embers, nothing left but shape and memory.
The fire dwindles to a soft, glowing heartbeat.
I turn to leave—and freeze.
The King is still seated in his box. A guard stands beside him. No… not a guard. The constable. Richard.
Both are staring straight at me.
Their faces are pale, their expressions unreadable—curiosity, fear, suspicion all knotted together.
Oh, no.
How long have I been standing here?
Were they watching the whole time?
What did they see?
The questions hammer through me, one after another, no answers following. A hot thread of panic curls tight in my chest.
I need to go. I need to get home.
Now.
Chapter Twelve
My morning unravelslike a frayed rope and I jolt awake in a hush of dread, the echo of nightmare screams—“Witch! Murderer!”—still clawing at my heels as I flee through black woods that swallow light.
All morning, the world, as if tasting my bitterness, conspires against me. Cups slip from my fingers, my boots snag on nothing, and the barn becomes a gauntlet of small betrayals. Milking Milly turns into a comedy of spills and even Ada, my steady mare, flicks her ears and sidesteps as though I carry a storm in my skin. Only Benny, my cantankerous rooster, spares me his usual venom. He crows at the sun, then—impossibly—brushes a wing against my ankle.
Strange.
He hoards his softness for his hens alone; I’m merely the hand that fills the trough.
Breakfast is a minor miracle: nothing catches fire, though the skillet hisses like it wants to. I set my knife and fork down with deliberate care, lean back, and reach for Gray.
The air thickens, warm as breath against my neck, yet the comfort feels…conditional. Why does my ruin amuse him? Why offer no balm? The thought sours, and I scold myself like a petulant child before rising.
Outside, I linger with Ada. I stroke smooth her coat and, I hope, the morning’s static between us. I murmur nonsense about pastures and shade trees, slip her an apple core, and feel the knot in my chest loosen. Her earlier wariness has pricked deeper than I care to admit; if the scent of blood clings to menow, if it frightens the one creature I might love, then what am I becoming?
