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Henry and Oberon are on either side of me. As we move into the smaller cave where the sea crypts wait, Oberon puts his hand gently on my shoulder. His thumb strokes against my arm, gentle over thesilk fabric of my blouse. I’ve tied a bow at my collar using one of Camille’s velvet ribbons. The skirt I chose this morning is the same one I wore home from Marchmain. There’s an awful symmetry to it. I could almost laugh, if I weren’t so certain the moment I open my mouth I will begin to sob.

Camille leads us to Alastair’s crypt. It’s a small, carved hollow, the closing stone set aside. She’s pale and tired, her eyes smudged dark, her lower lip bitten raw.

We’ve barely spoken since the morning she left my cottage, aside from brief, stolen moments in the clifftop fields. Camille has been busy navigating the situation with her father, while I have worked alongside Henry and Oberon to prepare the crew for the start of harvest.

She lays a wreath of laurel leaves inside the empty crypt. Marcus Felimath doesn’t step forward to offer a token for his son. I hate the way he looks at Camille while she leads the service. Not with grief, but disappointment. She told me the first thing he said to her when he learned about Alastair wasI wish it had been you, instead.

All I want is to take her hand and run away from here. For us to be together on a desolate stretch of beach, where we can sit near the tide pools with our bare legs dangling into the sea. Where I can kiss her tearstained cheeks and we can grieve together.

When she lifts the stone to cover the crypt, I step away from my brothers and go to help her. We raise the sea-smoothed stone and set it into place. Camille offers me a wan smile, and her fingers brush over mine.

Far in the distance, the sea whispers secrets we cannot understand. At the edge of the shore, a lone figure is outlined against the faded sky. Hugo Valentine is swathed in a heavy, dark coat. He has taken off his shoes; the hems of his trousers are rolled as he lets the waves lap over his feet. The wind tugs at his golden hair, and when he sees I have noticed him, he lowers his head in a slow, solemn nod.

Camille and I seal the crypt closed. When I turn to look again, Hugo has gone. The ceremony is over.

Henry and Oberon lead me out of the caves. I feel distant and numb, and it’s like I’m watching myself from far away. Flanked by my brothers, it’s a somber echo of our procession on my betrothal night.

When I hear Marcus call to Camille in a low, hard voice, I turn back. His hand is on her arm, drawing her away from us. “I’ll catch up with you,” I tell my brothers. “I want to speak to Camille before I leave.”

Henry nods, and he and Oberon continue on without me. Camille and Marcus are beside Therion’s altar. He extinguishes the candles she lit earlier with a single breath, then retreats to the opposite side of the cave. As though he can’t stand to be close to his daughter.

He casts me an irritated glance when I appear, but he doesn’t speak to me. “Camille, I want the whole of Saltswan closed up by tonight, before I leave for my train.”

“You don’t need to close the house,” Camille says. “I’ll still be here.”

Marcus glowers at her. “I’ve already sent a telegram to your school. They’ve agreed to take you early; you can board there until your remedial classes begin. Pack enough for the rest of the year, at least. I don’t expect you’ll return home any sooner.”

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“What do you mean,no?”

Camille falters slightly beneath the sharpness of her father’s voice. I step closer to her, and we stand side by side as she faces him. “I mean that I’m going to stay here. At Saltswan. And you are going to leave me alone.”

Marcus tenses, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “And why would you think I’d ever allow that?”

I reach for Camille’s hand; her palm is cool as the sea as she laces her fingers with mine. We exchange a glance. She draws in a breath, squaring her shoulders before she turns back to her father. “Becauseif you don’t, then I will make sure everyone knows what kind of father—what kind of man—you are. Alastair told me everything before he died: How you abused him. How you sent him away to cover it up.”

Marcus gives both of us a scathing look, eyes narrowed as they linger on our clasped hands. When he speaks, his voice is laced with disgust. There isn’t a shred of guilt in his expression, only blade-sharp anger. “Abuse,” he repeats. “Don’t be so melodramatic. All I’ve ever done has been out of love, Camille. Alastair knew that, and I thought you did, too.”

At these words, I can no longer keep silent. “There’s nolovein what you did, Marcus Felimath.”

His gaze flickers toward me. “Keep out of this, Lacrimosa Arriscane.” He speaks my name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Lip curled, he goes on, “Camille—if you spread those revolting rumors about our family, the only one you’ll harm is yourself. No one is going to believe you.”

Camille wavers for a second, then, resolute, she takes out a folded page from the pocket of her coat. “Perhaps not. But I have it in writing, in Alastair’s own hand. Do you really want it known that you beat and tortured your only son? That you caused him to take his own life?”

She holds the paper up so Marcus can see it clearly but keeps it out of his reach. The neat, even handwriting on the page is identical to the penciled notes I saw in the margins of Alastair’s books. I stare at the paper, remembering Camille’s not-quite-hypothetical question about copying Alastair’s writing.

A scatter of words on the page catch my eye:burned,broken,he’s left me no other choice. And there’s enough truth in this for the grief that ensnares me to feel wholly real. “You drove him to it,” I say, my teeth clenched so tightly I can taste blood.

“You drove him to it,” Camille echoes. “He wrote everythingdown, Father. And I think the best thing for you to do is to leave. Go back to your business in the north, and stay there.”

She folds her arms. The pages, clutched in her hand, are riffled by the wind that casts off the sea. Marcus Felimath stares at his daughter with open loathing.

“After all I’ve done for you, I cannot believe you’re so ungrateful.” He cards his hand through his dark hair, his breath turned to a hiss. “I’ll leave, Camille, but it’s not because of your pathetic threats. Take the house. I want to see you fail. And when that happens, I will watch, gladly.”

Without another word, he turns from us and strides away. I watch him go: his angled shoulders, the lines of fury in his gait, as he crosses to the path leading back to Saltswan.

Camille sinks against me. I take the forged papers from her trembling hands before she can drop them, and carefully slip them back into her pocket.