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His mouth went tight, and he stared down at his barely touched plate of food. “Is that how you feel about your friend Dakari?” he asked. His voice was gentle, but the question still felt like a slap.

“That’s not the same,” Esta argued, but she couldn’t stop the guilt and shame from rising up within her, right alongside the memory of that night in Professor Lachlan’s library.

“Isn’t it?” Harte asked.

“Of course not,” she said. Still, Esta couldn’t blink away the image of Dakari’s face when Professor Lachlan had aimed the gun at his chest. She would never forget the shock of betrayal and confusion that had flashed through Dakari’s dark eyes as the bullet tore through him, nor the sound of his body hitting the floor. All because Professor Lachlan had been trying to bend Esta to his will.

“Sammie would never have been shot today if not for me dragging him into our troubles, Esta. He’d still be running his club and helping Mageus like Gracie and Paul, and he could have lived to a ripe old age. I never should have walked into his life again. I should’ve learned after what happened with Julian. So please don’t try to tell me this isn’t my fault. It’s as much my fault as if I’d pulled the trigger myself.”

“Should I blame myself for Dakari’s death, then?” Esta asked, feeling unbearably brittle.

“Of course not,” he told her.

“It doesn’t work both ways, Harte. If you caused Sammie’s death, then I’m every bit as guilty of Dakari’s,” Esta said, letting the truth of that settle over her. “Dolph’s too, for that matter.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Harte raked a hand through his hair.

“But it is,” she told him gently, tears burning in her eyes. “It’s exactly what you’re saying.”

“No—” He reached for her hand.

She looked down at their fingers intertwined. “You’re not wrong, though. Not really. Dakari did die because of me; that fact is irrefutable. So did Dolph. So did my mother and who knows how many other people.”

Harte’s voice was soft when he spoke again. Far gentler than she deserved. “You didn’t kill any of them, Esta.”

“That’s my point,” she whispered, feeling strangely lighter. “You’re right… I didn’t kill Dakari. It was Professor Lachlan who pulled the trigger.” She felt something loosen within her and gave Harte’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t kill your brother, Harte. You saved him when he was just a boy. You gave him a long life, and you’ll give him another one if everything goes as we hope it will.”

“But we don’t know for sure.” Harte tried to pull away, but Esta didn’t allow him to retreat.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “We can’t know for sure right now. But we have to believe it. We have to keep going.”

Harte pulled away from her then, and this time she let him. Before she could figure out how to make things better, though, the porter interrupted to clear away their plates and prepare the sleeping quarters. Harte wouldn’t quite look at her as he announced that he would take the top bunk and climbed into it without another word.

Left with the choice between sitting up by herself or trying to sleep, Esta undressed, stripping down to the nylon slip she was wearing beneath the simple flared skirt, and climbed into her own bunk. She didn’t know what the next few days would hold. If they were lucky, they would have the Book and four of the artifacts. If everything worked out, they would be one step closer to returning to the past and controlling Seshat once and for all. Even that promise didn’t lift her spirits, though, not when her possible end was inching closer, and not when the distance that had sprung up between the two of them made her feel like she’d lost something essential.

Esta had spent her whole life holding people back, pushing them away. Because it was what she’d been taught. Because it was safer. Even now she understood that she’d never really thanked Dakari, never told him what his friendship had meant to her, because she’d been scared. Scared that he would reject her, as she’d once thought her own parents had. Scared to admit that she needed someone to depend on, other than herself.

As the train hurtled eastward, carrying them toward whatever fate or time or luck held in store, Esta realized she was so tired of being alone. She was tired of being solitary and strong. Most of all, she was tired of holding herself away from Harte.

If the Book offered no other answers for controlling Seshat’s power, Esta would have to give her affinity—her very self—to stop Seshat. That was fine. She could accept that end as her destiny. But she could not accept going to her death without Harte knowing what he meant to her. After all, Esta had never been one for regrets.

Easing herself out of the warmth of her own bed, she shivered as the cool air of the cabin made gooseflesh rise along her arms. She didn’t let herself hesitate or second-guess but instead climbed directly up into the bunk above. Harte startled when she slid in beside him, but she ignored the way he tried to pull away from her. Instead, she curled around him, enjoying the warmth of his body and not allowing him to go. She was done hiding, finished with the endless push-pull between them.

You are not negotiable. She still felt her cheeks burn every time she thought about how the words had tumbled from her in the hospital before she could stop them.

That goes both ways, you know, he’d replied.

They hadn’t talked about the exchange since, but Esta had convinced herself that Harte understood. His words proved it, didn’t they? But then he’d pulled back, away from her.

“Esta—” Harte’s voice was strained, a whispered plea between them, but she couldn’t tell what he was asking for.

“You took the Quellant,” she said simply. “We have a little time.…”

“I can’t,” he told her, even as she tucked her face into the place where his shoulder met his neck and pressed a kiss there.

“You could try,” she whispered into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of him. Because, god, she just needed to feel something other than grief and pain and hopelessness.

No. Not something. She needed him.