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The soul will cling to the ash until it is forged within the crucible cage, Papa’s book had said.

Now I needed a fire.

“Nedra!” Ernesta screamed as I moved past her, gathering armfuls of Papa’s books. “What are you doing?”

I dumped the books onto Mama and Papa’s bodies. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth, grateful that the pages shrouded their faces. More. I needed more. I ran back to the hallway, my movements frantic. Books spilled out of my arms. Fairy tales with happily ever afters. Children’s stories about rabbits and frogs, the margins filled with doodles drawn by my sister and me. The poetry my mother loved so much. Plays from the mainland, histories of the Empire, maps of the world.

Ernesta shrank away from me, her eyes wide and fearful.

You’ll see,I thought.This will save you.

Leather-bound books with gilt edging on the pages spilled over my mother’s legs. The spine of an ancient text broke as I tossed the book, the pages fluttering like butterflies.

And then a spark, a flame, a fire. I expected the smoke, the heat.

I didn’t expect the smell.

But I stood there and watched. I knew what had to be done.

Ernesta watched me watching it all burn.

Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the crackling of our world catching ablaze.

FORTY-SIX

Nedra

Timbers creaked.

“Nedra? Ned? We have to...” Ernesta’s fingers on my arm were as light as a butterfly’s touch, but I could feel the urgency within them.

My home is on fire,a part of me thought, the part of Nedra that wasn’t an alchemist or a necromancer.What have I done?

My heart leapt into my throat. “We have to get out of here,” I told Ernesta, clutching her shoulders.

She nodded, eyes wide. “Iknow,” she gasped. “Come on.”

She tugged at me with her remaining arm, but I jerked away, rushing to our bedroom. I could feel the heat through the walls; I choked on the air. Hastily, I grabbed my bag and the golden crucible, Master Ostrum’s book and Papa’s. Ernesta was already in the kitchen, her hand on the back door.

“What if—” she started, but I barreled past her, throwing open the door.

There were people in our yard—neighbors, villagers—the ones who were left, who hadn’t yet died of the spreading plague. No one threw rocks at us to go back inside, but no one moved to stop the fire either. Our house was by itself, no risk of the flames jumping to burn another home.

And it was too late anyway. All the houses were illuminated by the flickering orange of our fire—and all of their windows were covered in black cloth. Beyond, I was sure black bunting hid the carmellinascarved on the gates that led to our town. Almost everyone was gone. Anyone left alive now would leave, drift away like petals scattered by a cold wind.

Ernesta cried. Eventually she turned away from me, curling up amid the books in Papa’s wagon after feeding a hungry Jojo some musty oats from the bin.

I stayed. I watched it burn. And even before all of the embers died down, I sifted through the ashy remains of the only home I knew.

There, amid the blackened timbers and soot-stained stones of the hearth, were two red outlines where my parents’ bodies had been, the runes of Death and Life and Love and Hope glittering like rubies and glowing with an ethereal light.

I sifted through the ash, picking up every trace of my parents that remained, the tiny bits of blood iron ore imbued already with an alchemy I should never have attempted.

Ernesta was asleep as the sun rose over our village. No one else was around. I wondered how many dead were in each house, rotting as the survivors fled. I wondered if there were people trapped inside, like Nessie and I had been, waiting in a hollow building with the hollow shells of their now-deceased family members in rooms that stank of rot. Would they come out? Would they be driven mad? Would they hope to leave but feel the black stain of the plague creeping over their bodies?

I paused, turning to check on Ernesta. Her skin was clammy, paler now, the black streaks in her blood like ink beneath her skin.

“I’ll take care of you,” I promised.