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By the time Harte had been deposited into a windowless cell, the fever had him well in its clutches. He didn’t regret the choice he’d made, even if Seshat continued to rail at him. Maybe he could have saved himself, but he’d used his last bit of strength to try to save his brother instead.

Seshat rattled the bars of her cage, raging at his stupidity and weakness, but Harte couldn’t remain conscious. Even with the goddess screaming within him, a dark and empty sleep pulled Harte under. He’d already broken too many promises anyway.

He surfaced a while later, confused and lost. Something had happened. Esta. She’d changed the illusion, switched out her gown for a costume that barely covered her in a sprinkling of stars.

No… that wasn’t right.

A brightness appeared. It disappeared and then came back once again, each time bringing with it pain that throbbed with each beat of his heart.

Voices. He couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.

The crown. He reached for where he’d placed it in his coat but found it gone. He’d been in the chamber of a heart, a cold fire… and the crown had been there.

No… Something happened.

His thoughts were jumbled, unclear. Gray eyes and dark-blond hair. The boy.

Where was the Dragon’s Eye?

It’s gone, you fool. You gave it up for the boy, Seshat said, her voice the only steady thing in his world. You doomed us both to save him.

Gone. She was right. The crown was gone. Harte remembered now. He’d given it up for a chance that the boy could escape. His brother.

You could have escaped, and instead you let them take you. It was an accusation, but there was a question in Seshat’s voice as well. It felt like she was trying to understand the puzzle before her. You had the crown. You had everything you needed, and you let it all go. For a child.

For my brother, Harte agreed.

He will grow to hate you and all that you are, she told him. They always do. Even the ones we trust.

Maybe he will. His heart broke a little at the thought. He would deserve at least part of Sammie’s hate for how he’d used the boy. But Harte hoped it would be otherwise. He’d done what he could to try to make it right.

Now they will take everything you have and destroy everything you love. For a meaningless child. Confusion and frustration colored her words.

Not meaningless. Sammie was innocent, as Harte had once been. He would have the chance at a life that Harte had never had. I didn’t have a choice, he said, a truth that could not be denied. It had been the right thing to do. He knew that still. The only thing I could do.

It was the last thing he thought before sleep pulled him under once more.

The seconds ticked by like hours. Hours passed like seconds. The cuffs that bound his wrists and the locked chain that attached his ankles to a bolt in the wall would have been easy enough to break out of, but the room wouldn’t stop spinning, and the pain throbbing through his body felt like too much. He was so incredibly weak. All he could do was allow his eyes to close, allow the darkness to pull him down.…

Wake up. Seshat’s voice was louder now. Urgent.

Harte stirred a little, wondering how long he’d been out, when an unexpected brightness seared his eyes. The blinding light pulled him from the depths, making his head swirl again.

People were close by. With him in the cell. Unseen hands touching him. If only he could remember where he was… or why he was there, pinned to a rough blanket and secured hand and foot.

Harte lay perfectly still, feigning sleep or unconsciousness as he tried to remember. It was easy enough, since it hurt too much to move. Body and soul, everything hurt too much.

The hands went away, but the voices did not, and a moment later Harte felt himself being hoisted upright, propped against a hard surface. Someone grasped his face, shaking him, smacking his cheeks until he couldn’t stand the pain of it any longer and opened his eyes.

A man stood there. Dark hair. Dark eyes set into a blur of a face. Harte couldn’t tell who it was. His eyes wouldn’t focus. Even propped against the wall, his body felt heavy, dense. Weak.

“You will eat,” the face said.

A gloved hand pulled down Harte’s jaw. A spoon was placed at his lips. The salt of beef broth flooded his dry mouth.

Harte choked and sputtered. His throat was so raw it had forgotten how to swallow. He turned his head, closing his eyes to refuse more, but his captors were insistent. Again the hand, the spoon. Again the wash of salt and blandness of the beef. Over and over, until Harte stopped fighting it and simply closed his useless eyes and allowed it to happen.

In the end, the front of his shirt was soaked with broth, and they left him damp, smelling of old meat. The thin broth felt heavy in his stomach, and Harte felt nauseous again, but he knew that if he was sick, there was a good chance he would have to sit in his own filth. So he forced himself to take steady breaths and managed to keep the food down. He felt exhausted and aching, and oddly… better. But when he felt Seshat curling inside of him, when he remembered that Jack Grew might already be on his way to California, he wondered if better was really what he wanted to be.