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I grabbed a pail of water and dumped it over her. Then I tackled her and rolled her over and over on the ground. The fire extinguished, but not before it had burned holes in the silk skirt of my dress. I winced at the hot pain in my thigh, but I didn’t assess it as I shot to my feet again.

“Get to the hill,” I said before I rounded into the northern sector—and froze.

Here was the worst of it.

Fire engulfed the houses and poured from windows, the flames so bright that they hurt my eyes. Here, there was not the shouting and bustling I’d witnessed in the outer sectors. There was shrieking—wild, gut-wrenching sounds.

Because they were shrieks of agony. Of loss.

I plunged farther forward, directing everyone I saw toward the hill, yelling so loudly that my voice frayed upon release. I was heading into the smoldering remnants of a communal area when I tripped on something soft yet solid.

I hit the ground with a huff, palms scraping. Then a sob choked up my throat.

Because the blistered figure beside me was Imogen, the Verenian woman who had baked a cake for a gallery opening in my town square. The woman who had been so nervous that her specter had rolled out, unbidden. The woman my father had recognized as a Wielder and had saved from discovery.

Now Imogen’s body resembled one giant pustule, red and patchy and oozing blood.

But her eyelids were still fluttering.

“Imogen.” I crawled to her, my voice wet and hoarse. “Imog—”

A loud crackle sounded from the house above, embers showering from an open window. I threw a wave of solid power upward, and whimpered as the sparks nipped through my specter, fizzling out before they met the ground.

Imogen’s chest rattled with a gasp.

“Imogen, I’m here. You’re not alone.” My tears made hot tracks through my sweat. I took her hand, and as her fingers twitched, I knew that she could hear me. That she could feel the last dregs of her life draining away.

Again, cinders spurted from above—and again, I shielded us both with my specter, biting the inside of my cheek to manage the agony.

“You’re not alone,” I kept saying, the heat pressing in from all sides. “You’re not alone.” Because this was all I could offer her—a final hand to hold. It was what I couldn’t do for Marge. What I wished I could have done for my father.

I stayed with Imogen as the borrowed time my father had bought her finally ran out, all the evidence of his goodness now burned away with her.

“She’s gone,” a flat, familiar voice said. I turned to see Zeke crouched beside me, his face soot-stained and his eyes shadowed. “We need to get out of here.”

I was too numb to question his presence as he took my elbow and squeezed.

“Trust me,” he said. “You don’t want to lose your life to these flames.”

He pulled me away from Imogen’s body, and I wiped my hand across my face. Later, I would allow myself to feel the grief of this. Not yet.

“What are you doing here?” I rasped as we dashed for the exit, pushing everyone we passed toward safety. We saw a teenage boy limping across the clearing and hooked his arms over our shoulders to support his weight between us before continuing onward.

“I took your bodyguard’s advice,” Zeke said over the boy’s head. “I came back and weaned myself off dullroot.”

“You can Wield now?” I asked, startled.

Zeke nodded grimly. “Turns out I’m quite the natural.”

I heard my name, followed by pounding footsteps. Then Keil was beside me, taking the boy’s weight from my shoulder. He threw Zeke a cutting glance—half-stern, half-bewildered—as we surged ahead.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

But as we rounded the next corner, I had my answer.

“Oh, gods,” I whispered. Because a house in the northern sector had caved in, and a crowd was trying to dig through the debris.

I didn’t need to ask why. As a keening wail rang out, I saw one of the Daradonian Wielders, sobbing on her knees. The woman who had given Zeke her meal ration to get dullroot for her young boys.