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“I didn’t mean—” I gasp. But before I can finish, his arm rears back, then swings toward me.

An explosion of pain steals my breath. I keel over, blood splattering the floor.

When I look up, Nikola wields a sickle in his hand. Just like the one he used to harvest lavender on that fine summer’s day, when I gazed at him with longing from behind the tree.

“Nikola,” I whisper. “What did you—?” But the pain is too great. I fall to the floor, grasping my stomach. My vision blurs as blood, hot and slick, soaks my hands, my clothes.

The baby.

But there’s nothing I can do. The pain is so strong I can hardly move, let alone stand; I can only watch as more and more blood spills out of me. I know with the cold clarity of a healer it is too much. It is over. I am done.

Faintly, I hear the door closing. He has left me to die alone. How could he be so cruel? “Nikola!” I shout, but my voice is weak. “Nikola!”

Excruciating minutes tick by as I stare at the iron chain lying beside me, drenched in my own blood. I drift in and out of consciousness, waiting for death to come. Let it be quick, at least. To put me out of my misery.

But instead of death, a black paw steps into the crimson pool. The wolf stands there, panting. Hungry.

What do you want? it asks in a deep, chilling voice.

As I gaze up at its yellow eyes, my mother’s words float across my mind. Do not let the Devil in your heart. We are healers. We must always do good.

Rage boils within me. What did being good do for me, or my mother, or Nera? All our lives, we tried to help the people around us, and where did it lead us? Only to death.

The wolf’s hot pants beat against my skin. Now I know what it was waiting for, watching me in the woods. It was waiting for me to come to this conclusion. To fight back.

What do you want? it asks again.

In the depths of my despair, an idea ignites. Nikola called me mora—nightmare—so that is what I will become. He thought he could escape the consequence of his actions, snuff out life and love as if they never existed. Let me show him.

When the Devil asks a third time, I am ready.

With my dying breath, I answer: “Revenge.”

Twenty-Nine

Petra

July 2026

When I open my eyes, I’m lying on the ground.

Slowly, I raise myself. Squint at my surroundings. Crumbled stone with no roof, the night sky overhead. A pool of blood spreading on the ground. My blood.

Panic seizes me as I clamber upright, shooting for the door. But it won’t budge. Did Nikola lock it?

“Help!” I call out, slamming my fists against it. “Somebody help!” There were people out there, at the gala, and Dobrila, she was coming toward the workshop. Is she still there? Did she hear my calls? “Dobrila!” I call out again, banging harder on the door.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and I fall into someone’s arms. Someone tall, strong. My mind leaps to Nikola, and I stiffen.

“Let go of me!” I shriek, pushing him away.

“Petra, Petra, it’s me!” the person says. The timbre of his voice stirs something in my memory and I look up.

I blink, the man before me coming into focus. “Luka,” I gasp. “How . . . ?”

“I came to try to talk to you. But then I heard shouting.”

I stare, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. When I glance down, I’m no longer wearing a blouse and floral-patterned apron. Instead, I’m in a silk nightgown, white and clean, except for some dirt. What about all the blood? I frantically scan the ground, but it’s gone as well. I am not Magdalena anymore. Only Petra.