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Jaquob erupts with laughter. The sound’s infectious, and soon we’re both howling.

“When I was young, there were many godsandgoddesses. But that was a long time ago. What made Saint Jerome more godlike than other men?”

“He was blessed with an ear for languages. He translated our holy text from Hebrew into Latin.”

“And why do you wear a scrap of his clothing around your throat?”

“Because saints are sacred. I figure it can’t hurt to keep a conduit to God close. Think of all the miracles it might be performing without me realizing it.”

I shrug, conceding his point, and a pregnant silence settles in the space between us. He slides in closer to me, and my pulse thumps loudly in my ears.

“What happened to you, Thelxiope?” His voice is a whisper, so quiet I have to strain to hear it. His hand reaches for my face again, and when I try to look away, his fingers gently guide my gaze back to his. I feel the color rising to my cheeks beneath his stare.

“Being here, like this, is a punishment.” I don’t have the energy to explain everything to him; I don’t owe him access to my most painful memories.

“Your gods are cruel.”

“Allgods are cruel,” I counter, and he has nothing to say in response.

Instead, he leans his head closer and presses his lips against mine. I’ve never been kissed by a man, only by Proserpina, and though he’s gentle, it still feels treacherous. Outside the tent, insects churr in the afternoon haze and my memory screams.

My hands find his chest, and I push him away as a storm of emotions clash for control: the terror, yes, of him managing to physically hurt me, but also desire—why shouldn’t I let myself enjoy this? Is that why Proserpina sent him? And, oh, gods, now the guilt. “I already told you—I’m not your friend, Jaquob.”

“Don’t be cruel, Thelxiope.” His eyes are pleading, and he reaches for my hand, but his baiting has the opposite effect. As soon as the wordcruelpasses over his lips, I’m struck by the image of the dead women who washed ashore with his ship. Suspicion unfurls inside my gut, but I don’t voice it yet.

“Being cruel would be allowing you to believe you’re safe here.”

The sparkle of longing vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a flash of annoyance. “You never let me forget.”

His words hang in the air before settling into silence, and I draw my feathered knees into my chest.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” His desperation to route the conversation back to flirtation is palpable in how he lifts his chin to me. He wants me to offer myself. Men, even the ones who are pleasant to be around, are obnoxiously predictable.

“The day your ship washed up on the beach, we found seven women.”

In the moment of a blink, his lips press into a cold, straight line, but then they twist down with confusion. “That doesn’t sound like a question.”

“Who were they?”

He turns his attention to the tent’s entrance. A gentle breeze blows through the glade behind us, rustling the autumn-soaked leaves. “I didn’t know there were any women aboard.”

“How could you not have known?” I ask incredulously, but then I remember the marks around their wrists. Is it possible that their presence was hidden from him? “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, then meets my gaze once more. “I don’t know anything about them, I swear it. It’s unlucky to have women aboard, so perhaps their presence explains how we ended up here.”

A lump rises in my throat, and I cough gently to clear it.

No, dear Jaquob. You and your men were fated to land here, women aboard or not. But why?

Am I simply supposed to save him? Because I didn’t save her the night she was taken, and after she ate those pomegranate seeds, no one could?

I’ve never been able to fully accept she was tricked into doing so. As her closest friend, her other half, I tell myself it’s because she was too clever for that. But isn’t believing so the darkest kind of wish fulfillment? If she chose, then her fate isn’t entirely my fault.

Except what reason could she possibly have had to commit herself to that place? To Dis? Heat blisters beneath my skin, and my palms grow slick. This is usually where my line of questioning comes to an abrupt halt, a book slammed closed to avoid learning its ending.

Did she do it because she decided to love him? Is that what all of this is? Her way of showing me that it’s safe for me to love someone, too?