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Her knees trembled with the effort of keeping upright, her neck straining not to bow her head. To take her mind off the instinct to obey, to submit, she’d said, Why wouldn’t I want to help this court, the world?

Rhys’s snarl had faded—wary curiosity warming his face instead. He’d snapped his fingers and the water on them vanished. And had said before stalking out, Next time you want to go to the Prison to poke around, ask me. And if you want winnowing lessons . . . He shook his head, hand on the doorknob. For fuck’s sake, ask me for that, too.

Then he’d been gone, and she’d spent today practicing. Like hell would she take winnowing lessons from him.

She didn’t know where Cassian was tonight. He’d gone to Windhaven with Azriel yesterday, and while the latter had returned for dinner last night, Cassian had not. He’d opted to stay in the wilds, sleeping at Rhys’s mother’s old house.

It wasn’t unusual these days.

Nesta examined her left hand. The mating band glimmering in the muted light of the music hall. In her right hand, she cupped a small silvery ball. The Symphonia.

She’d been coming here often to let the enchanted ball absorb the music—with the orchestra’s permission, of course—so she could listen to it whenever she pleased, but tonight she’d barely heard a single note. Had only heard her own circling, dismal thoughts.

She wished she could talk to Cassian about it. About everything. Cauldron damn her, she truly did. But where to begin? He was still furious about the Mask. How would he react to news of her winnowing, of wanting to go to the Prison, of this other, enormous thing that writhed within her?

They hadn’t slept together for weeks. Since Ember and Randall had arrived. Cassian sometimes slept in the bed beside her, but he hadn’t reached for her. Had barely spoken with her. That conversation in the hall yesterday, as miserably fraught and ugly as it had been, was the most they’d communicated in days.

Was it possible for mates to . . . un-mate? For that bond to fracture deeply enough that there was no repairing it?

It’s one matter to hide things from Rhys, was all Cassian had said when she’d confronted him about his distance, his simmering anger. It’s another matter entirely to hide things from me.

But Nesta hadn’t been granted the chance to even consider hiding her plans from Cassian—or sharing them, for that matter. One moment, she’d been reading in the library at the House of Wind, and the next, Bryce had been there, begging for the Mask, offering her parents not only as collateral but as refugees from the Asteri’s wrath.

Nesta had read the desperation in Bryce’s amber eyes and had known what she had to do. She didn’t have the time to debate her choice—but she also hadn’t needed to.

It hadn’t mattered that Bryce had later won against the Asteri. That she’d then returned what she’d stolen and what she’d been given—and then some. That her parents had returned to their own world, here and gone like morning dew. It hadn’t mattered to anyone that Nesta had found something in Ember she hadn’t realized she’d wanted so badly.

You’ll find your way.

Nesta had tried to explain everything—everything—to Cassian afterward. He hadn’t wanted to hear it.

We were finally getting things on the right track, he’d said before walking away. I don’t know why you had to . . . He’d trailed off, and she hadn’t had the nerve to ask him to finish that sentence.

Ruin it. That was what he’d nearly said. She’d ruined it—the tentative peace and affection with Rhys and the others. All the good she’d done by saving Nyx and Feyre, and Rhys in the process, had been erased. Even Elain still regarded her with caution—had seemed shocked and disappointed when she’d heard about the Mask.

So Nesta had no one to even ask to join her at the music hall, not really. Feyre, maybe, but she knew how stretched thin her sister was, and coming here with her would have been a burden, wouldn’t it?

Nesta had taken a seat in the highest section of the theater, wanting to remain mostly unnoticed and unbothered, but tonight, it didn’t seem to be an issue. The hall was half full, and most of the patrons sat in the downstairs sections. A middle-of-the-week performance was rarely packed to the rafters, but she liked it this way. It felt as if the music was hers and hers alone.

She could afford a better seat—in fact, there was a gilded box several levels below that technically belonged to her. She’d been donating nearly all of her court paycheck to this orchestra and a few others in Velaris. What else was she going to do with the money? She had everything she needed, and though Rhys and Feyre allotted a healthy amount of their own fortune toward the arts in this city, Nesta had seen firsthand how many repairs were constantly needed, and how little these musicians made.

Their music had brought her such joy and tranquility and peace—how could she not offer them something in return?

Her donations had been anonymous, but it seemed someone had found out. She’d received a letter informing her that the box was to be given to her in thanks for her generosity.

Generosity. She’d laughed when she saw that word. She’d thought giving the Mask to Bryce Quinlan was generous, too.

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Focused on the music. Once, it had made her want to dance, to cut through the world with motion and speed. Now it just filled the endless quiet in her head.

She peered at the Symphonia again. She’d saved a world, and lost part of hers in doing so. She didn’t regret that choice; she never would. But if she had known what the fallout would be for giving Bryce Quinlan the Mask, would she still have done it?

Yes, a small voice whispered. She would have. To turn her back on an entire world in need, even one not her own? She couldn’t have lived with herself.

The symphony finished. She hadn’t registered its final, crashing notes. And barely noticed the applause ringing through the cavernous space as she rose, the Symphonia tucked in her cloak pocket.

She made her way out through one of the back exits, and only when she was in the crisp, misty night air, only when she was certain the narrow alley around her was empty, did she pull out the Symphonia from her cloak.

She didn’t need to check to know that the orb had captured the entirety of the symphony, filtering out any crowd noises, leaving only the pure music. It had never captured an errant cough or rustle of clothes or the murmur of a patron.