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Not Ava. It’s impossible.

If it were true, it would mean the Sacred Light was up to some kind of mischief. Which would be blasphemy from a man of his position who’s supposed to be apolitical.

Not that the Sacred Lights have always been apolitical in the two-hundred years since their position was created. Some have tried and failed to take control of The Four Hundred.

This Sacred Light is too smart for that, and besides, I chose Ava on my own. I could have picked any girl. There’s no way he could have known I would choose her, even if he had introduced us at a young age. I didn’t choose Ava because she reminds me of the girl, but because she’s the perfect trophy.

The Sacred Light is smart, but not a mind reader.

I lean against the wall, my arms crossed as the first notes drift from the piano. My pulse thrums in my ears while she plays a sweet melody. My chest tightens with that unbearable ache.

It’s longing. Longing for something that was never real. Nostalgia is weakness. It makes us blind to reality, softens the edges of things that should stay sharp. It makes us vulnerable.

I have to squash it. It’s time to get down to business.

“Ava, I have to ask you an uncomfortable question.”

“Uncomfortable for you or me?”

“You.”

“Naturally.”

I smile. “Are you a virgin?”

The music stops, and she looks up at me wide-eyed. “Why do you need to know?”

“Keep playing.”

Her eyes fall to the keys, and she resumes the melody. “Yes, I’m a virgin,” she says after a while, her voice small.

A pang shoots into my chest.

Why?

She has to be a virgin if I want her to be my sacrifice. And I’ll like being her first. I’m oddly possessive when it comes to her. Pushing into her will be an exhilaration like nothing I’ve ever known. It will mean I’ve won. A sign that she’s finally discarded her morals and chosen me.

But I don’t like her discomfort. It needles me.

I clear my throat. “When did you start playing?”

She glances at me briefly, her expression guarded. “When I was four.”

A chill runs down my spine, and my throat tightens.

“And who taught you?” My voice is steadier than I feel.

She frowns, looking lost in thought. “I started playing on my own at first. Just for fun.” She smiles warmly. “My dad says I could play simple versions of all Beethoven’s symphonies by ear all by the time I was five.” She shakes her head.

“You think he’s lying.”

She stiffens. “No. He would never lie. I think his memory embellishes my talent because he’s so proud of me. My mom played the piano. Very well. Virtuoso well. I think my dad is always searching for her inside me and my little sister, Violet, because he misses her so much.” She smiles wryly. “When we search for things—things that are intangible—we usually find them.”

I nod. “What happened to your mom?”

I already know the answer to this one, but I want to hear how much my little doll will tell me.

“She died a little after Violet was born. She had really bad postpartum depression. She… She took her own life.”