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I shove Quin’s image to the back of my mind and sit up.

“Go to her estate in case you’re pursued,” he says. “They won’t easily search for you there.”

I nod, and Nicostratus captures my chin with a crooked smile that should make my heart ram against my ribs, but I can’t feel it.

He reads the numb fear in my eyes. He softly drags his fingers off and rises to his feet. “Will you be alright?”

“Of course! I am already. I’m fine.”

He hesitates, but is soon gone; the moment he’s disappeared, I rush to the hut and wake Akilah. “You won’t believe it,” I say. She grumbles and I prod her again. “Silvius. He isn’t an eparch. He’s the royal boy from the woods.”

She launches into a sitting position, disbelief and curiosity in her eyes.

And I... laugh.

* * *

River’s name has been etched onto a wooden tablet and placed on a small hill, overlooking Frederica’s hundred acres and the snaking silver canal. Every morning, Akilah hauls me there and squints at me, waiting for something, while we sit on moist earth under the first rays of dawn. We leave for breakfast on her sigh, and after, I busy myself helping around Frederica’s estate.

There’s not a minute where I’m not using my hands to wash dishes, or clothes, or carry buckets of bath water. And after another long day, I return to our chamber. Akilah is asleep, exhausted, snoring lightly. I lie down for rest too, but like all the nights, I can’t find any. I toss and turn and chuckle.

Taking some candles and a flame-maker, I trudge out into the night and up the small hill to the tree, to the epitaph.

I set the two candles down. One of them tips over and rolls into my knees. I put it up again, only to knock over the other. On gritted teeth, I plant that up the right way. I uncap the flame-maker and blow into it until a flame flickers. Cradling a hand around the flame, I move it towards the candles.

The flame goes out in a stirring breeze.

I try again.

The flame fires over the wick, but it doesn’t catch.

Another breeze blows it out.

I dig into the dirt, making a shelf with my hands. There, now the candles will be protected.

The flame-maker doesn’t start and I blow.

I blow and blow and blow into it, yelling at the stupid thing to work. Quin would have said something sharp, clipped—Control and discipline, Cael.My throat tightens on the rawest laugh. “I just want light. I just want some light.”

I hurl the flame-maker against the tree beyond, take a candle, and throw that too. The other I bash against the hill, my eyes stinging.

A tiny little flame. Is even that so much to ask?

My shoulders shudder and a hot sob rushes through me. The candle under my hand continues to break apart.

My cheeks are damp where I swipe at them with waxy hands.

It’s not fair.

There should have been a first clammy kiss on a cold night overlooking a moonlit canal. Gifting of sparkling lovelights on a rickety boat. Exchanging rings in a luminarium as guests danced. Bestowing a crying infant their given name. Carrying children around a courtyard pretending to be a donkey. Striking a cane on naughty wrists and trying not to cry. Giving long-saved silver pieces and sending new adults off into the world. Welcoming the next generation with a feast during blueberry season, losing half the food to magpies. Grieving the loss of close friends, wearing black robes for months. Singing a final song when all hearing is lost.

That’swhat his life should have been.

Not his humming stopped before his voice had deepened.

I bow over his epitaph, resting my forehead against the wood.

Tears fall over his name all night.