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I will always be his, no matter what. I am bound to him by the circumstances of my creation, and by the vows we swore. But it is an equal weight, our connection. I am his bride, I was born to be his, but I am also simply… Lark. My own self, an imperfect girl with an entire life, an entire world, lying ahead. Waiting for me to discover it.

I scoop the feathers from the water and lay them out on the edge of the bath to dry. Camille touches the newly bared skin. Her fingers circle my wrist; she raises it to her mouth and kisses the scar. Then, lowering my hand back to the water, she takes my other wrist and does the same.

When the water has turned completely cold, we climb from the bath and wrap ourselves in cotton towels. In my room, I sit at the end of my bed, my hair dripping. Camille peruses the contents of my dresser and picks out some clothes to borrow.

She chooses a pair of wool trousers and a plain, cream-colored shirt. Standing beside the window, she buttons the sleeves as she stares pensively outside. “You can see Saltswan from here. I never noticed before.” With a sigh, she looks out toward the clifftop path. “I have to go back. The sooner I break the news to Father, the better.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say, starting to get up. But Camille shakes her head.

“No. I—I need to do this on my own. Alastair bore so much from him, it’s my turn to face him now.”

I watch as she braids her damp hair and ties the end with one of my ribbons. She’s wan and drawn, her eyes dark with sorrow and fatigue. I don’t want to let her go; the temptation to cling to her, to guard her closely, is overwhelming. She’s all I have left.

But I remember Alastair, how he offered himself to Therion in my place, desperate for a chance to be brave. This is Camille’s version of that same moment. Her chance to claim redemption against the overbearing presence of Marcus Felimath.

“I understand,” I tell her.

“I’ll try to encourage him to have a quiet burial. Our family has a sea crypt below the house, so it will be private at least.”

I think of the sea crypts near the village, where most people who live in Verse go to memorialize their dead. Henry and Oberon had taken me there a handful of times when I was younger, shown me the markers that belonged to the people who I’d thought were my parents.

A sob rises in my throat; I swallow it back. Even though Alastair isn’t truly dead, it still feels awful to go through these motions. “Quietly would be best.”

Camille hesitates, fidgeting with the buttons on her shirt. “Will you be all right if I leave?”

I look down at my hands, my scarred arm, now bare of feathers. Turning the band of my wedding ring back and forth, I realize now that Therion is here, in my world, I am safe from the threat of being pulled away. I no longer need to be watched over, always with someone else close by that I can grasp like a lifeline.

Slowly, I nod. “Yes. I’ll be all right.”

Camille crosses to the bed with the towel in her hands and begins to dry my hair. “I keep thinking about Alastair, how it will be if he—when he—comes back. Are you going to tell your brothers what we did? Do you think we can trust them?”

“Yes, I do.” The answer comes easily, and I’m surprised by how certain I feel. But for all my brothers have done, all they have hidden from me, I know deep down that I can trust them with this secret. “I mean, I’ll probably give them the abridged version of what happened.”

I laugh, though I still feel hollowed. Camille sets aside the towel, and begins to braid my hair into two plaits.

“Lark, I have a hypothetical question.”

“Oh? What is it?”

She doesn’t answer as she ties off the first plait with a silken ribbon, but then as she moves on to the next, she says, “All I want is for Father to leave—to stay gone—so when Alastair returns, it will be safe for him. If I was able to forge Alastair’s signature and his handwriting, do you think I should use that to make Father leave us all alone, forever, if I can find a way?”

I cast her a curious glance, one brow raised. “Is thisactuallyhypothetical?”

“At the moment it is,” she replies with a subdued smile. “I’d like your opinion first, before I decide.”

“I think that if someone has been unscrupulous—cruel, or brutal, even—then it’s justified to be unscrupulous in return, to escape them.” I turn to her, take her face gently between my hands. “After all that’s happened, you and Alastair deserve a fresh start. A life where no one will make him feel small, or always be sending you into exile.”

“I’m glad to know I have your approval,” Camille laughs, tying off my second braid. She pulls me closer by the end of the ribbon, kisses my cheek. “I suppose I should get this over with. I’ll try to think of it like having a splinter pulled—it hurts, but it hurts much worse to leave it there.”

“Marcus Felimath is like a whole bramble full of thorns rather than a splinter. But you can do this, and I’ll be here waiting for you.”

“At least you’ll have Eline for company until I come back.” She plucks up my knitted bunny from beneath the quilts, laughing as I squirm with embarrassment. “Gods, you’re adorable.”

Camille tucks Eline into my arms, then kisses me again before getting up from the bed. Scouting around the room, she finds my bootsunder the dresser. I watch as she toes them on, hopping awkwardly on one foot as she ties the laces. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Camille.”

She leaves my room with a final smile. I find a nightdress on the floor nearby, pull it on, and curl up in my bed with Eline. I’m suddenly, achingly tired. The pillow is cool against my cheek, and I bury my face against it, closing my eyes. A few tears seep out from between my lashes. I let them spill slowly down.