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Fighting against the crowding darkness, the rush of the sea, I wrench my hand from Hugo’s grasp. But he clutches me tighter, bares his teeth, and forces my palm down against the obsidian glass.

Hugo holds me in his arms, the mirror clasped between our hands. He looks truly, wholly sorry as he watches me disappear.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENNow

I am hung at the edge of nothingness. I am laid beside a glass-smooth sea with my arm outstretched while my reflection in the water reaches up. Then I rise to the surface, emerge with a gasp. The waves wash me forward and I’m draped against the slick-smooth rocks at the edge of a tide pool.

The sky is pastel, hazy and lilac. Past the shore, a row of trees is overlaid by a corridor hung with gilt-edged frames. This is the halfway place where Therion dragged us from our forest ritual.

I look around hurriedly, searching for Alastair and Camille—the three of us tumbled into this world together last time. But now I am alone. I think of them back in the mortal plane, beneath the marble sculpture. Hugo’s blue-veined fingers, trembling from withdrawal, as he offered the bottle of wine to us.They aren’t going to die. Forgive me. I was the only one who didn’t drink.

Hugo has subdued them and forced me here, using my connection to Therion as he attempts to complete the banishment.

Everything is still, too still. It feels like death. It’s nighttime and the air is warm, sticky with salt. Above the sea is a low-hung moon, impossibly purple, stark as a daub of oil paint. My swan boat lulls on the waves, tied to the iron ring of a pier post with a long silken rope.

I drag myself from the water and scramble past the rocks. I’m dizzy and clumsy, falling countless times as I hurry across the beach. When I reach the shoreline, my knees are scraped and my palms throb. I stumble past the line of sand and into the forest.

The woods are a fierce bouquet of springtime blossoms: trees all in bloom, petals filling the air. The path ahead is stippled by the teardrops of fallen flowers. It’s hollowly dark, with a whispering fog stranded through the trees. The mirrored corridor lies dark and empty. I cup my trembling hands around my mouth and call, “Therion?”

No answer comes. I call to Therion again but there is only my voice, echoing into the mist. Then, a few paces ahead, I see a crumpled, pale shape. Hurrying toward it, I find a swan: twice as large as any of the birds I’ve seen in the sky above Verse, all pallid feathers, a charcoal-dark line across closed eyes. Splayed on the earth, the creature is unnaturally still. Wings outspread as though in flight, neck arched at a ruinous angle.

Sobbing, I try to gather the swan up from the forest floor. I heave the unconscious creature into my arms, staggering as I use all my strength to bear his weight. I can feel the faint beat of a heart beneath the feathers, and through my tear-blurred vision, the creature shifts. For a moment, I am embracing Therion. He gazes at me with fear-bright eyes. Then he is a swan again, curved against my body, as cold as an ice floe in the frozen north.

What has Hugo done?

Helplessly, I pinch at my wrist, wanting to reassure myself that I am stillhere. If Therion has been destroyed, then surely I would be lost, too. But rather than grounding me, the sting of my nails against my skin only makes me feel more frantic. The nearest mirror reflects the troubled blur of my features. A wide-eyed, tear-streaked girl with the enormous, feathered weight of her bridegroom in her arms.

Hugo sought to use my connection to Therion to banish him entirely. We are still here—for now; caught, lost. But I can feel hisheartbeat weakening within the heavy weight of his swan form, feel him sunk and blurring, as though his connection to this world is little more than a fraying thread, about to snap.

Frantically, I imagine Hugo back in the gardens at Saltswan. Alastair crawling toward me. Camille sprawled on her side, her lips stained with wine.

We are in danger—all of us.

Carrying Therion, I run deeper into the forest. The gilded frames and ghostly trees slip past as I hurry down the corridor, struggling with Therion’s weight. Toward the enormous mirror at the end, which was, last time, the portal home. The frame is empty, the space beyond only shadows. A door leading into an unlit room filled with endless secrets. It’s the only way I can think of to go back.

Before I can change my mind, I step through.

A rush of salt water rises up to meet me. I manage to gasp in a single breath, tighten my hold on Therion, then we are dragged beneath the surface of the sea.

The ocean swallows us with a greedy, bubbling rush. Caught by the current, we’re dragged down, down, down. I kick my legs, open my eyes to stinging blackness, and let out a desperate cry. Brackish water fills my mouth and I thrash, wild and panicked.

Just before the dark closes in I am caught up in strong arms. I turn on instinct, clinging to my rescuer. I feel warm skin and a rapidly beating heart. Sodden feathers between us.

Once again, Alastair Felimath bears me away from the hungering sea.

He carries me—and then Therion—across the beach and to the far edge of the shore. Lays us both out, side by side, beneath the trees. We are still here: in this strange, other world. I bow forward, my whole body coiled tight, and cough out endless amounts of ocean. Alastair strokes back my hair, murmuring reassurance, though his hands are trembling. “You’re safe, Lark. I’ve got you.”

“Therion,” I rasp. “Is he—?”

Distantly I am aware of motion and warmth, Alastair with his hand laid on the space between Therion’s wings. I hear him speaking in Tharnish, the poetry of his words so incongruously beautiful in this horrible moment. I recognize the phrase as the same one that guided our forest ritual:“Tear away the veil at the heart of the woods.”

The light in Alastair’s eyes glows brighter, bloodied tears spilling over his cheeks. I watch as he begins to blur, as though he is allowing some of himself to pass into Therion, strengthening him, drawing him back. The ground is covered by billows of mist, gossamer as a bridal veil.

Piece by piece, the swan’s outstretched wings and the elegant, curved throat begin to change. Becoming a boy with tangled, feather-wreathed hair and sand-gritted skin. I reach for him as he rises to his knees. Therion catches hold of my hand. He touches my cheek, his fingers trembling, his claws skating over my skin.

His eyes are bright as bonfire embers, lit with fury as he gazes at me. “Who did this to you, Lacrimosa?”

“It was the boy—the boy from the Salt Priests—the one who tried to banish you.” My throat is corroded by salt. I cough, trying to clear the ache from my lungs. Alastair draws closer to me. His arm goes around my waist, fingers clutched protectively in the fabric of my skirts.