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“I don’t want your help.”

“But don’t you? Aren’t you tired of not remembering? How much easier would life be if you didn’t always forget?”

He’s the devil in my ear, offering me the one thing I’m supposed to want. The thing I used to have, before my magic Awoke.

My memory.

I shake my head. “What you’re saying is impossible.”

“It’s actually quite simple. Your power is bound up in a curse—the one you placed on us both when you locked me in that tomb.”

I frown at him, not liking where this conversation is going. Nero must not either because he slinks over to the window and leaps out onto the bough of the tree outside, then prowls out of sight.

Memnon continues. “The Romans called itdamnatio memoriae—to condemn from memory. To cast into oblivion. It was one of the worst fates you could inflict on a person of power.”

And this is where Memnon’s true purpose is coming into focus.

“If the curse is lifted, it’s not just my memory that returns, is it? You’ll be remembered too, won’t you?”

His eyes are alight with the first true stirrings of his power. “Yes,” he agrees. “My name and my kingdom will return to the historical record. I want the world to remember me. But”—and now he switches into Sarmatian—“my queen, more than even that, I wantyouto remember me. To remember us and our life. I cannot be the sole bearer of our past. That is…” He shakes his head slowly, his smoky eyes burning. “Unendurable.”

My heart aches at what he’s saying.

Assuming I am, by some strange magic and twist of fate, this Roxilana, then—

“Have you ever considered that I may better off not knowing the past?” I ask. “Perhaps some things are best left buried.”

Memnon holds my gaze, his own still glowing with his power. “I told you, Selene. Whatever made you curse me, we can work it out. Wewillwork it out.”

I shake my head. “You say that like I’ve agreed to any of this.”

“You are under a curse, mate. One made by your own hand. Of course we will remove it—for my sakeandyours. And then you will get your memories back, and we can resolve whatever came between us.”

I feel my ire stir, and for some reason, tears prick at my eyes. Why must everything come back to my memory loss? Why must others think fixing it is what I want most? Or that the loss of my memories is the sum of my identity? Why must they make me feel as though I am not enough as I am? Why can’t they see that my ambition, my heart, my fucking optimism—all the best parts of me—have been borne and shaped by my memory loss?

And I know Memnon doesn’t exactly hold those views—he’s made it clear he’s really only interested in the memories from our deep past—but he’s still willing to cleave away this part of me.

The truth is that I have never been more powerful than I am now. I am kinder, cleverer, and more authenticbecauseof my memory loss. Not despite it.

I stare at Memnon for a long time.

“No,” I finally say.

Goddess, but that felt good. Cathartic, even.

He raises an eyebrow, watching me carefully with those simmering eyes of his.

I don’t bend.

I am a witch, descended from a line of witches who were persecuted for things others couldn’t understand. I am their legacy, andI will make them proud.

“No,” I say again, louder this time. “I don’t want my memories—I don’t want any of it.”

Memnon narrows his eyes. “You misunderstand,est amage. I’m not here to bargain with you. I’m not even here to demand something of you. Not yet.”

Memnon sets my notebook atop the other one already on my desk; then he straightens. At his full height, he dwarfs me and the rest of the room.

He steps up to me and takes my chin, tilting it toward him. His eyes have stopped glowing, but they are no less intense when he leans forward and kisses me, the action unspeakably gentle.