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“Morbid curiosity, I suppose.” He raises one shoulder, a lazy shrug. I stare at him incredulously until he clenches his hands into fists. With reluctance, as though he has to force out the words, he adds, “I was concerned about you.”

All I can do is shake my head at him in disbelief. “You didn’t seem concerned when you refused to—how did you put it?— beg for clemency on my behalf.”

“You’re lucky I did follow you, because when I was near the main entrance to the salt mine, I saw someone cutting open the lock on the gate. If I hadn’t gone after him, you’d be lying dead under a pile of fallen rocks right now.”

I twist my wedding ring around my finger, trying to set together everything Alastair has told me. A cut lock, the boy at the altar, Therion’s cries as the darkness filled the room. “Who was that boy in the mine?”

“If I had to make a guess, I’d say he was one of the Salt Priests. Therion is special to them; they wouldn’t want him connected to someone outside their sect. Particularly not someone like you.”

“What do you mean, someone like me ?” I know exactly what Alastair means—the same unsaid reasons he intimated when he sent me away from his house four years ago.

That to him, to everyone, I am not worthy.

Heated indignation burns me, makes my nails dig into my palms. I wait for him to answer. I want to hear him say it.

He holds my gaze with studied carelessness. Silence draws out as we stare at each other, then he runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry, mirthless laugh. His mouth twists, an expression that is more grimace than smile. “To begin with, you don’t drink salt water.”

I let out a slow breath, shaking my head. “How would the Salt Priests have heard about my betrothal?”

“I don’t know, Lacrimosa. I’m not an expert on the ways of Salt Priests.”

“Funny, you act like an expert on everything else.”

Alastair sits down on the chaise, pinching the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh. “Perhaps Therion sent them an invitation to the ceremony,” he says sarcastically. “Or maybe they had a vision of you during one of their seawater-drinking rituals.”

I take a heavy step toward him, picturing myself grabbing the front of his sweater and shaking him until that snide look is gone from his face.

With effort, I swallow down my fury and sit at the opposite end of the chaise.

“It would have been helpful if you didn’t lie to my brothers about what happened. ”

“I didn’t see a reason to overcomplicate things: You were safe, the danger had passed.”

“Or you didn’t want them to know that you’d stolen from me.”

Alastair shoves himself up from the chaise and crosses the room, to where his overcoat is draped on the back of a chair.

He starts to rifle through the pockets. “Why do you need the mirror so urgently? Do you intend to summon Therion again? Perhaps you miss your husband.” He snorts, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize it was a love match.”

I take a deep breath. The truth lies in my mouth with a taste of smoke and bitter berries. It aches to be so honest with Alastair Felimath, of all people. I feel as though I’m drowning and I’ve grasped for a tether line without thinking of who holds the other end.

“I was supposed to go with him to the chthonic world. That was our agreement: He’d restore the mine and I would stay with him until the end of the salt season. But instead, I woke up here.”

Alastair comes back to the chaise and drops my mirror carelessly onto the cushions beside me. If he’s shocked by what I’ve told him, he doesn’t let it show. “And you’re… disappointed, to still be in Verse?”

“I’ve seen things, inside my house. Water pouring down the stairs. My veil was in my room, but I know it was left in the mine. A face at the window—it looked like Therion. He’s angry with me, because of what happened at the ritual.”

“Who would have imagined plying a god to do your bidding would have consequences?” Alastair mutters to himself.

I ignore him, forcing myself to continue. “And I… lost time. I closed my eyes in one place, woke up in another hours later.”

He’s quiet for a moment, as though deep in thought. Then he gestures tersely in my direction. “May I…?”

“May you what ?”

“I want to check something. Hold still.”

He shifts closer, one hand outstretched. I dip my head as his fingers pass lightly over my temple. He’s barely touching me, and his face is scrunched up in an expression of annoyance. But even in the dim light of the library, I can make out a stark blush on his cheeks.

As he traces along my hairline, then over the curves of my skull, my skin turns heated, my nerves crackling.

I don’t want to think of the last time he touched me like this—his fingers in my hair, his forehead against mine, the catch in his breath when I said his name.

But I can’t help it. It shouldn’t feel nice to be so close to him again, but it does, and I hate it.

Then he presses down. I hiss at the sudden pain, wriggling away from him. “Ouch!”

“You have an enormous bump right there,” Alastair explains. “You probably hit your head in the mine. Between that, all the chthonic liquor, and breathing in whatever you burned in the brazier, I’m surprised you didn’t see a whole pantheon of gods outside your room.”

He’s being dismissive rather than reassuring, but part of me wants to believe him.

If what I saw was only a hallucination, then I’ll be safe.

But there’s too much proof for me to pretend it isn’t real.

“I don’t think all of this can be so easily explained away.

And I didn’t just see Therion outside my room.

The Salt Priest from my betrothal—what if he’s still here? ”

Alastair drags a hand through his hair with an irritated sigh. “Look, I’ll walk you home, check around your house.”

“Fine.”

He picks up his overcoat from the chair and has put one arm through it when he pauses and turns abruptly toward the closed door. With the coat hanging down from his shoulder, he strides across the room and opens the door. Camille is on the other side.

“I told you to leave us alone,” Alastair snaps. “How long were you out there eavesdropping?”

She brushes past him and comes over to me, staring with wide-eyed wonder. “Are you really married to Therion?”

I nod helplessly, too overwhelmed to tell anything but the truth.

Camille takes my hand, looking at the salt crystal ring, how the stone gleams in the muted lamplight.

Her fingers are long, elegant—pianist hands.

She strokes her thumb gently against my palm.

My stomach gives a flutter, like a trapped butterfly.

I want to lean my face into her shoulder.

But then she turns to give Alastair a scolding look. “You might have told me the whole of it at the bonfire, instead of being so mysterious about why I should follow her to the beach.”

“You followed me because Alastair told you to?” Realization settles in, and I pull away from Camille, rubbing my hand against my skirts, wanting to wipe away the feeling of her touch.

She bites her lip, looking chagrined. “We wanted to be sure you weren’t… going to be harmed.”

“Harmed by who, exactly?”

Alastair steps forward, regarding me coolly. “I thought your brothers were going to sacrifice you to Therion, to restore the mine. Like a Salt Priest ritual.”

“You thought they were going to sacrifice me?”

“Is it so much different from the truth?”

“He was worried about you,” Camille says quickly. “We both were. He told me to follow you, and I did, because I wanted to know you were safe.”

I glare at Camille. “And I suppose he told you to kiss me as well?”

Alastair lets out a startled laugh. “You kissed her?”

I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified at what I’ve done. “I’m leaving .”

I storm out of the library, my face burning. I’m on the verge of tears. Camille runs after me, catching hold of the door before I can slam it. We’re out on the landing, in the shadows, watched by an enormous framed portrait of a gray-eyed Felimath ancestor.

“Lark,” she says, reaching out to me. I step back before she can touch my arm.

“I owed Alastair a favor. He was suspicious after the bonfire, and he asked me to follow you. He was worried . I’m sorry I deceived you.

I should have said something then, but I didn’t want to ruin your night once I realized you weren’t in danger.

At least, I thought you weren’t in danger.

And the kiss—” She pauses, biting her lip.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going home.”

I hurry down the stairs, sniffing fiercely as I fight back tears.

For a brief, foolish moment I had been drawn to Camille, enough that I let down my guard.

But now all I can think of is Damson and how everything ended between us.

Her sharp-edged smile as she whispered to her new friend, their eyes on me as I came toward them.

How I knew they had been talking about me when I wasn’t there.

And now Alastair and Camille have done the exact same thing.

I picture Alastair laughing as he told his sister how I came to Saltswan and cried when I tore up the letters I’d written him. Shame burns across my cheeks, hotter than bonfire embers.

I rush out into the night, tip back my head, and let the wind cast over my face. Clouds have covered the moon; I can barely make out the clifftop path beyond the manicured garden. But I forge ahead anyway, ignoring the sound of footsteps behind me.

A beam of light dances over the ground, throwing my shadow into an enlarged silhouette. Alastair draws up at my side, holding a flashlight. Camille is farther back on the path, hopping on one foot as she tries to lace up her boots.

“You’re going to fall into the sea,” Alastair warns, gesturing to the edge of the clifftop with the beam of his flashlight.

“Good. I’d prefer that than being anywhere near you .” I feel so wretched and humiliated. I turn my back on him and continue walking. He stays at my side, his long-legged steps easily keeping pace with me.

“I’m still going to walk you home. If someone really is sneaking around your house, it isn’t safe to go back on your own in the dark.”

I glare at him. Lit from beneath, Alastair’s face is thrown into a chiaroscuro, which makes him look like a pen-and-ink sketch. I wish my brothers were here. I wish for anyone except him .

But when I imagine myself back in the empty cottage, chased by those same creeping shadows, I feel cold and scared and I don’t want to be alone. Wretchedly, I realize that I’ve started to cry.

Alastair searches through his pockets, then passes me a clean, folded handkerchief. “It isn’t poisoned, if you’re wondering,” he says.

I snatch it from him, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose. As I do, Camille catches up to us. Her feet are now shod in brown leather boots, and she has a woolen scarf bundled up in her arms.

“Here, put this on,” she tells Alastair, draping the scarf around his shoulders. “Or you’ll catch a fever.”

“A fever is a symptom, not an illness,” he says. But he obediently winds the scarf around his throat.

I take the flashlight from his hand. “You can both come to my cottage,” I bite out, as I move back toward the path, now illuminated. “But walk behind me. I don’t want to look at either of you right now.”