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“I’d heard that you were off to be married, though I see that wasn’t the case.” Marcus talks over me, as though he didn’t even hear my answer. “As a matter of fact, I’m surprised that neither of your brothers have announced a betrothal yet.”

My chest tightens as I think of Oberon’s hidden letters, the love he gave up to protect our family’s secrets. Beneath the table, I slip off my betrothal ring and place it into my pocket. I’m afraid that if Alastair’s father looks closely enough at me, he will see everything—he will see right down to my bones, and know all the secrets I’m hiding.

I pick up my spoon and stir it through the sauce on my plate. “Henry says that miners are like sea captains, only they’re married to the salt rather than the ocean.”

“Don’t play with your food, Lacrimosa.”

Startled, I lift my spoon to my mouth and swallow a too-large portion of stew. It hasn’t cooled enough, and I feel it burn all the way down my throat. On my scallop-edged plate, the bright red sauce looks like blood. I sip from my water glass, fighting desperately not to cough.

A large, arched mirror hangs on the wall opposite the window, reflecting the view of the clifftop fields—burnished grass, swaying flowers—and us, all at the table. It’s disconcerting, to see our movements doubled as our reflected selves unfold linen napkins and spread butter onto sourdough bread. I keep expecting to see the surface blur and change to the obsidian glass of the mirrors in Therion’s world.

Yet each time I look there is only my own face, my lips bitten raw and my eyes wide with worry. The landscape unfolding behind me as the night draws in.

“Camille,” Marcus says, “have you given more consideration to your future studies?”

She lays down her knife. It clinks loudly against the edge of her plate. “I thought that… perhaps I could remain at Saltswan, instead.”

Her father waves aside the suggestion impatiently. “That is not an option.”

“I’ve already graduated, Father. I don’t want to go back.”

“AndIdon’t want a child who avoids responsibility to her family. I’ll wire your school in the morning and enroll you in their postgraduate program. You can take a remedial course in mathematics first.”

“I want to stay here.” Camille is tense, fighting against the quaver in her voice. But Marcus turns away, ignoring her blanched expression, ignoring the way Alastair grips the edge of the table in quiet fury.

“We’ll discuss this later, in private. Now, tell me—Hugo, was it?—how, exactly, do you know my son?”

Hugo shoots Alastair a startled glance. “I—we—met at the same convalescent hospital.”

There’s an uncertain note in his voice, and Alastair flinches. Mouth drawn taut, he nods in agreement. “Yes. It was in Driftsea, wasn’t it?”

Alastair has named a place far from the Salt Priest compound, and I clench my hands in my lap, hoping his father doesn’t connect Hugo with Alastair’s ill-fated attempt to run away. It frightens me, the way that Marcus stares at both of his children with the promise of violence in every gesture.

He arches a brow as he looks at Hugo, whose hands have begun to tremble. “You don’t look well, even now. You’re not contagious, are you?”

Hugo looks truly awful, with violet bruises beneath his eyes and his nose all swollen. He’s clearly struggling against the pangs of withdrawal; sweat beads at his temples and he’s clumsy as he tries to butter a slice of bread. The stains he showed me on his hands have spread farther up his arms, marking his wrists in poisonous lines.

He shakes his head. “I’m just a little tired.”

The knife slips from his hand, clattering against the plate. I push myself to my feet and reach across the table to help him. I can feel Marcus’s eyes on me, the heat of his disapproval. Determinedly ignoring him, I finish spreading butter onto Hugo’s bread and slide the plate back. He takes it from me with a tentative smile.

I feel so restless that I want to climb outside my skin. I need to question Hugo about Therion. Before that, I need to talk with Alastair and Camille. We have to decide how much to say, if we should even trust him. But everything is overlaid by Marcus Felimath’s pointedquestions and watchful stare. All I can do is sit in helpless silence as the air grows heavy as a gathering storm.

He lifts his glass, drinking more of his wine. His mouth tilts into a sneer as he glances in my direction. “Your guests, Alastair, have dreadful conversation skills and even worse manners. I thought I made it clear that I didn’t wish you to keep such unfit company.”

Alastair refills Hugo’s glass from the pitcher of water that sits on the table. With studied calm, he says, “I see nothing unfit about either their conversation or their manners. I’m sorry you don’t feel the same.”

Marcus narrows his eyes, but then, as Hugo reaches for his glass, his hands give a tremor. Camille and I watch in horror as the glass falls to the floor, shattering into a burst of shards and spilled water. The sound of it splits through the quiet room, and we all jump.

Hugo pushes out of his chair and kneels beside the glass, trying to blot up the water with a napkin. Then, biting back a cry, he doubles over, eyes closed as he presses a hand to his mouth.

“Gods,” Marcus snaps, exasperated. He gets up from the table abruptly. “Alastair, I want to speak with you alone.”

Throwing down his napkin beside his untouched food, he sweeps out into the hall. The sound of his heavy tread against the stairs echoes through the silence that has sunk over us. Hugo sits back slowly on his heels, cheeks pallid, eyes glazed as he surveys the broken glass.

I go to Alastair and take his hands between my own. His skin is chilled, his palms slick with tense sweat. He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me. He buries his face in the crook of my shoulder and exhales a fractured breath.

“Don’t go to him,” I murmur. “I’ll lie for you, say I don’t know where you are. You can stay in my cottage until he leaves.”