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“The pantheon and Apollius might be gone,” Lore continued, “but if we repair the Fount, It just takes Their place. Sure, It will be better. It will make the world act as it should.” She rubbed the back of her wrist over her eyes again.

“But we’ve seen how divinity works, Gabe.

How everything is manipulated, even when it’s benevolent. How do we go back now that we know?”

He didn’t have an answer for her. In the deep of his mind, glowing embers, creeping flames.

The magic itself was not evil. It was what you did with it, how you shaped the tools given to your use. And who was to say the Fount was the best wielder of that tool?

Lore leaned back, her arms still around him, trusting him to anchor her. He couldn’t read her expression, somewhere between afraid and determined. “There’s something else. Something that will make you angry with me.”

Gabe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Honestly, I’m too happy to see you to be angry, but do your worst.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say; her eyes closed tight before opening again, though she looked into the middle distance over his shoulder instead of at his face. “I killed Anton.”

For a moment, nothing. His mind ran clear as a mountain stream; his body had no reaction.

Then, a crush, guilt and sorrow and horrible relief making him bow forward, now his turn to make her hold him up.

It bent him nearly in half to bury his head in her shoulder, but he couldn’t imagine letting go of Lore, couldn’t imagine any other port in a storm.

She stroked the overgrown hair at the back of his head, a slight tremble in her fingers. “Do you want to know about it?” she whispered. “I can tell you, if you do. But you don’t have to know.”

Muffled, hidden in her hair. “Tell me.”

So she did. How she sneaked into the greenhouse, that night after the tomb broke in the catacombs, after she gave Nyxara her first bodily death. How she cut off his head with the garden shears.

“He was in pain, Gabe,” she murmured. “That wasn’t any kind of life, not really. I was trying to be merciful. As merciful as I can be.”

That was a kind of confession. Deep down, Lore was not a being disposed to mercy. Even without the Buried Goddess in her head, she was a dark and harsh thing, beautiful in the way a sharpened blade was beautiful.

“I know,” Gabe said. He took a deep breath. “I know.”

A pause on the silent beach. Time was slipping away from them. He could feel Lore going more diaphanous, melting into the air. Waking up.

“I should be grateful,” Gabe said finally. “That you could do what I was too weak to.”

“Not weak,” Lore corrected, grabbing his jaw, making him look at her. “Too good.”

But that wasn’t right. If Lore was a dark and harsh thing, so was he, down in the bedrock of himself. Even if he’d tried so hard to scrub those stones clean.

She faded away, slowly. He stood there as it happened, until she was gone, until the circle of his arms was empty.

Gabe closed his eye.

The scent of burning dough woke him—Val was probably trying to help with breakfast again. She’d taken it upon herself to be useful since they moved in a week or so ago.

Gabe forced himself out of bed, performed the barest hint of ablutions at the basin in the corner, picking up the straight razor meant for his face and turning in the spotted mirror to try shaving his head instead.

He’d never kept it as short as Malcolm, shaven straight to the scalp, but it was probably all he could manage at the moment.

His fingers lingered on his hair, where Lore had run her hands through it in his not-dream. He put the razor down.

Downstairs, a cheery girl from the market was delivering milk and eggs to Mrs. Cavendish, the landlady. The delivery girl’s name was Lucie, and before they’d moved in, she apparently only came by once a week. Ever since she saw Gabe, she’d been here every other day.

She sat on the edge of the table, eating a scone Mrs. Cavendish had provided—one that wasn’t burnt, so probably not the responsibility of Val. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have more deliveries today!”

“Then we’d love for you to stay, dear,” Mrs. Cavendish said.

Mari, seated at the table with coffee, looked at Gabe and hid a smirk behind her mug when she saw his grimace. He took a seat as far from Lucie as he could.

Oblivious, Lucie leaned conspiratorially close, nominally looking to Mari before turning back to Gabe so they were both included. “Did you hear about what happened?”

Gabe picked up a scone. “No.”

Lucie seemed thrilled to be the one to impart the news. “The Sainted King in Auverraine is claiming to be Apollius reborn.”

It wasn’t news to Gabe, obviously, but he didn’t have to feign his surprise. His pulse kicked in his wrists, and his breath hitched.

“Well, I never.” Mrs. Cavendish shook her head at the oven. “It seems something dramatic is always happening in Auverraine.”

“Quite a claim.” Mari’s smirk had fled the scene, her face grave. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, everyone is talking about it.” Lucie waved a hand.

“I heard it from Matilda, who heard it from Grace, who learned it from her husband, who guards at the Rotunda in the evenings for a little extra pay. Between that and a new Arceneaux sister, it seems things are interesting in Dellaire.” She grinned at Gabe.

“Makes you glad to be here instead, right? I’m glad you are, anyway. Dangerous down there.”

He was not one to be flirted with often—he didn’t have the demeanor for it, and the Presque Mort tattoos on his palms put off anyone who might be brave enough to look beyond his glower—but Gabe knew Lucie was flirting with him.

She was very pretty. Logically, he knew that. Green eyes and bright-red hair the color of poppies, an easy smile. But he was spoken for. Spoken for twice over.

“Interesting,” Mari said, when it became clear that Gabe wasn’t going to give the verbal reaction Lucie wanted. She managed a wry smile. “It was always clear that the King thought highly of himself, but claiming to be a god is taking it to another level entirely.”

Lucie laughed, sliding off the table. “Well, they say he’s as handsome as a god, so I guess it went to his head. I’ve only seen portraits, myself. They’re certainly godlike, though I think some artistic liberties were taken.”

“No,” Gabe murmured. “He really looks like that.”

“Then that Queen of his he sent to the Isles must truly rue the day she killed his mistress,” Lucie said, headed toward the door with her basket swinging on her arm. “A crime of passion, I know, but if I was marrying a King who looked like that, I would turn a blind eye to someone on the side.”

Gabe swallowed down the harsh retort that rose to his tongue. It tasted bitter.

With a wave, Lucie was gone. He and Mari both waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded away and Mrs. Cavendish had bustled into the other room.

Then: “Fuck,” Mari said, forehead in her hands, elbows braced on the table.

“Quite,” Gabe replied.

Gabe left the house with his scone half eaten.

The walls were starting feel like prison bars, and nervous energy kept building in his body, desperately needing an outlet.

He gathered his cloak and walked out into the mist, planning to wander around the city until the exertion made him feel slightly less like screaming.

The citizens of Farramark walked fast, the weather not lending itself to lingering. But today there was a person standing in the pre-rain, wearing a hooded cloak, leaning up against the wall of the neighboring house, and smoking a cigarette. Gabe didn’t think anything of it.

At least, not until the person pushed off the wall and started walking.

They stayed yards behind Gabe, ambling along the street. Entirely possible it was nothing.

But at this point, Gabe didn’t count on that.

He took a side street at random, trying to look nonchalant. Moments later, the person with the cigarette was behind him. Another side street, headed left again; the person took that turn, too.

So he was being followed. Wonderful.

His plans for a long walk to pass the time soured.

Gabe headed for the fighting barns. If Eoin was having him followed, maybe it was to protect his investment.

Make sure Gabe didn’t do anything that could compromise his safety, at least not before Eoin had seen him flick a flame in and out of existence at least a thousand more times.

All the way to the barn, the person followed, staying a few feet behind, never approaching any closer. When they were on the right street, the whoops of the crowd and crash of fists faint but audible, the person stopped next to another wall and lit another cigarette, within view of the door.

Gabe marched into the barn. He stayed at the back of the crowd, too far away from the ring to see anything. A crunch as a fist met a nose. Cheers and boos as a winner was called.

He stayed by the door and watched his follower smoke.

A minute. Two. Five. They flicked the ash to the ground, and then started up the street, apparently satisfied that Gabe was occupied.

When they were almost out of sight, Gabe slipped out into the mist. Turnaround was fair play.

The follower walked much faster now that they didn’t have to worry about tipping Gabe off. It was obvious within two turns that they were headed to the Rotunda.

Gabe hung back, watching them approach the building and continue around the side, to the same entrance where they’d attended their first meeting of the Brotherhood. He walked slowly, keeping close to the sides of buildings, as they produced a key, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

With a burst of near-silent speed, Gabe ran to the door, shoving his fingers into the gap before it closed all the way. He gently pushed it back open just enough to slip inside, then twisted the handle so it didn’t make a sound as it closed.

The staircase was dark, but there was a dim glow down at the bottom. Someone was here.