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He squeezes my shoulder with a touch that feels like a warning. Close to my ear, he orders, “Don’t cry.”

Suddenly, I remember that we’re not alone—there is a stranger in the house. I swallow down my sob until it lodges in my throat, a rough-edged stone, and wriggle free of Henry’s arms. He guides me inside while Oberon picks up my suitcase.

The disorientation I felt before, when I first saw the outside of the cottage all worn and overgrown, washes over me anew. Inside is just as changed. The floor is bare of carpets and most of the furniture is gone. The long velvet sofa where we sat together on firelit evenings has been replaced by the threadbare chaise from our father’s old office.

On the wall above the mantel, a square of darker paper marks the place where a tapestry of a white swan—the Arriscane family sigil—once dominated the room.

Henry urges me forward, his hand pressed to the small of my back. Everything ripples, like a glass-flat sea when the tide is changing. The gentle glow from the candles on the windowsill now seems dazzlingly bright. I blink and blink. And then, from the corner, someone steps forward.

He’s briefly shadowed as he moves toward me, still only a stranger. Then my eyes adjust, and I freeze in place, jolted by the shock of realization. Standing before me, like an apparition dragged from thedeepest circle of the Canticle hells, is Alastair Felimath. The oldest—and only—son of the Felimath family.

“Well,” he says, looking me over, his mouth cut into a bored smile. “You haven’t changed at all.”

It’s not a compliment: His tone makes that clear. I fold my arms, conscious of the clanking bracelets, the thick swathe of the bandage visible beneath my sleeve. “And I toldyouthat I never wanted to see you again.”

Alastair Felimath and I grew up as neighbors, our houses the only ones on this isolated stretch of cliffs. His family owns all the land beyond our bordered acres; from the clifftops past our cottage all the way to the northern coast where the seas become ice.

We were friends once. But that time has long since passed.

And as he stands before me, tall and angular, with his dark, wavy hair stranded gold in the candlelight, he’s as ruinously beautiful as a Caedmonish satyr. I hate him for it.

Alastair laughs, a mirthless sound. “Don’t worry. As I was just explaining to your brothers, I’ll be leaving soon. My father has sailed north, to Gruoch, and I’m to join him there once I’ve settled some… overdue matters.”

At this, he casts a pointed look toward Henry, whose hand flexes against my spine. My brother draws me closer to his side. Through clenched teeth, he tells Alastair, “We’ll have to continue our discussion later. My sister has had a long journey.”

Alastair shrugs carelessly, and picks up his black woolen overcoat from where it lay draped over the back of the chaise. “Tomorrow, then. Though to be quite honest, our discussion is much more important than your sister coming home in disgrace.”

He watches me, haughty as a prince, a gleam in his eyes as he notes the flush in my cheeks, the way I flinch at his words. I’ve said nothing of my reasons for being here, yet as his gaze casts coolly over me, Ifeel laid bare. It’s as though he can see right to the center of my soiled heart—that he knows the very worst of me.

I shake myself free of Henry’s touch, stride across the room, and open the door. The last of the sun has slipped from the sky and the early dark has crept across the fields. I glare pointedly to where the path away from our cottage is marked by a scattering of fallen flowers.

“You were asked to leave, Alastair Felimath.”

He pulls on his overcoat unhurriedly, then winds a knitted muffler around his neck. Sleekly, he crosses the threshold, going out into the dusk. Then he pauses, turning back to regard me. His eyes, gray as a storm-washed sea, flash with a poisonous light. His mouth tilts into a cool grin and he dips his head in a mocking, deferential bow.

“By the way… happy birthday, Lacrimosa.”

CHAPTER TWONow

Once Alastair is gone, Henry pulls a crumpled package of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one and exhales a plume of smoke. A frown pinches between his brows as he looks at me expectantly. “Are you going to explain why you’re here?”

“Areyougoing to tell me why Alastair Felimath was in our house?” I can’t believe that cold-eyed, mocking boy was once my closest friend. It’s been years since things between us ended and he revealed his true self—stark, arrogant, and cruel. I’ve done all I could to push it aside, erase all thoughts of him from my memories. But his presence here tonight has brought everything back, as indelible as a stain of spilled ink.

“Lark,” Henry says impatiently. “I’m not playing around.”

I fold my arms, matching his frown with my own. Part of me wants to tell him about Marchmain. To confess. Instead, I clench my teeth, biting down on the truth. As though by keeping it trapped and silent, I can prevent what I did from being real.

Henry and Oberon are both watching me now; beneath their stares I feel hot and restless. I push the strap of my satchel from my shoulder and let the bag fall to the floor with a thump. “I want to go to the altar before it gets too dark.”

In the sea caves below our cottage, our family keeps an altar for Therion, the chthonic god worshipped in this part of Verse. It’s been our tradition to go there after an extended time away from home, to tell Therion we have returned and thank him for his favor.

I don’t feel very thankful right now, but I’d rather be anywhere else than in this room, pinned by the scrutiny of my brothers and the memory of Alastair’s snide and bitter-tasting farewell.

Henry releases a taut sigh and crosses the room to take one of the candles from the windowsill. “Come on, then.”

He moves toward the open doorway that leads to the back of our house. Oberon hesitates for a moment, then follows him with a sigh. I trail after them, a thread of smoke lingering in the air from Henry’s cigarette.

As we go down the hall and through the kitchen, I see how much is missing from the other rooms. The walls have all been stripped bare, with darkened squares and empty picture hooks marking the places where artwork was hung.