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“Nothing’s wrong.” She reached for me. “I stayed for you, Silver,” she said, holding my face tenderly between her hands.

Her eyes were strangely dark in the candlelight – more black than orange, like ashes after a great fire had burnt out its rage.

“When you know all of it – just remember, I stayed for you. If they hadn’t found him – I would have stayed forever. ”

“What do you mean?”

She leaned down and kissed me; the lightest, sweetest brush of her mouth against mine.

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “But not now. We don’t have time. When I’m gone, wait until the candle burns low then come to the courtyard. I’ll meet you there. We’ll leave together.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, Silver. Leave.” Her gaze was imploring. “We can’t be happy here. There’s no future for us in the monastery. We have to go. I just…need to clear the way.”

I swallowed. I had many questions, but none of them compared to my trust in her. “I’ll come when the candle burns,” I promised.

Lark kissed me once more, and then she was gone.

I waited for the candle to burn low. Quietly, I dressed, and packed everything I had of value. A few pieces of jewellery. Some vials of ink. A small pouch of bronze talons. I’d never had much need for talons in the monastery. I regretted that now.

I crept out into the courtyard, and was met by blazing lights. All the monks and a dozen guards were there, yelling at one another. My stomach dropped. I feared Lark was in some terrible danger. Behind me, the other heirs emerged, drawn by the sound.

One of the monks was waving a vial around. It was full of a strange liquid – virulently orange, the colour of my eyes.

“She was a fraud,” the monk was yelling.

“Bloodflower ichor, applied to the eyes with a dropper. That’s how she took on the look of Tyrene’s bloodline.

No wonder she avoided her magic lessons.

” The monk’s face was a rictus of disgust, her lip curled.

“She belonged to an underworld lord who sought to steal the riches of our monastery. Our talons or jewels – our children. She was a cuckoo planted in the nest.” She pointed in my direction, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

“She would have taken Silver. We all know it.”

The other twelve heirs muttered fearfully; some, like wise Elara, said nothing at all. Rion, not as wise but far braver, frowned.

“She was here for years,” said Rion. “If she wanted to kidnap any of us, she could have done it long ago.”

“You’re a sheltered boy,” the monk answered. “You know nothing.”

There was more talk. Some of the monks questioned, like Rion, why Lark had remained here so long, feigning the First Witch’s gifts. I remembered Lark’s voice.

If they hadn’t found him —

Lark had come here to steal from us. But she had not. She’d stayed. She’d stayed for me, clumsily avoiding magic, playing with her swords. Loving me.

And then her master – the man who’d sent her here – had been captured and revealed the truth of her.

Rion looked at me, seeking my eyes. But I could not look at him.

“Where is she?” I asked. “Where is Lark?”

The gates shuddered open. A guard walked in, soaked through.

“I chased her,” he said, panting. “I caught her. She fought. She had two knives – aimed one right at my gut.”

“Where is the girl?” the monk asked, echoing my words. “Bring her in.”

“I cut her throat and threw her into the Gel,” the guard said grimly.

My knees buckled. Elara caught me by the arm and held me upright.

“Don’t look at me like that – she’d have died one way or another, by the king’s justice or ours.

Everyone knows the price of trying to steal an heir of the First Witch.

At least she won’t harm any of you now.”

I did not weep. That frightened my fellow heirs. They sat at my bedside and held my hand. Once, Rion climbed into bed and held me. I came close to weeping then, from his kindness.

The minute they left me alone, I forced myself to stand. I shoved my feet into my boots, and walked out of the dormitory toward the monastery’s gates.

I don’t know how I escaped unnoticed. I just know that I walked and walked, my body aching with grief and exhaustion. The Gel lay before me

She’s there , I thought. I’ll find her. I’ll bring her home.

I dove into the water.

The Gel tried to swallow me. I was not a strong swimmer. It was only luck that brought me back to the shore, coughing water and shivering.

I threw myself back in.

The guards found and saved me. They brought me back to the monastery, trembling and heart-sick.

Two days later, I fled again. This time, I searched the city – ramshackle, narrow buildings, full of strange faces.

I saw no sign of her. I paid a child with hair as russet as Lark’s two talons to look for her. They stole my money and never returned.

I ran away so many times over the months that followed. On my final escape, when a furious guard dragged me back home, the monks gathered around me, their faces tired and solemn.

“What must we do to protect you?” they asked.

“I won’t stay here,” I said. I didn’t recognise my own voice, it was so cold.

“Send me to a quiet hermitage. Send me far, far away. I will not remain where she was murdered. When a new king is crowned, they can come and collect me if they want me.” But I knew no king would seek me out.

If I were lucky, the current king would live a long, long life and I would remain undisturbed, hidden away where I could grieve in peace.

Braithen became my home. I stayed in my room. I did not scribe. I barely ate. I felt paper-thin.

Then one of the cats in the hermitage had a litter of kittens.

The runt of the litter, black as soot with eyes as orange as my own, barely grew.

I fed it milk with a dropper, but it would not drink.

The poor thing, I was sure it would perish.

I felt the warm weight of its body, and could not bear it.

That was when I finally opened my books once more, took up my quill, and turned to the art of magic: runes and letters, limned in good ink, blessed by the magic of my hands.

I wrote my magic, urging the kitten to flourish and live.

The next day, the kitten recovered her strength, the film fading from her eyes, and began finally to eat. I rejoiced, and named her Numen.

That was when I decided how I would pass the many long years to come.

***

Hands on my own urge me back into my skin; into the present of the cold night, and the tent before me.

“Follow me, Silver,” the priest urges. “The tent is warm.”

There is kindness in their hollow voice.

Perhaps that is why I step forward into their arms. Their breath hitches, and they hold me, guiding me into the warmth of the tent.

They release me as I enter, and I step forward as they draw the curtain entrance of the tent shut behind us.

I can still feel the echo of their heat, and the soft velvet of their dark robes.

The tent is lushly appointed, with a large bed and a vast rug unfurled on the floor.

“You deserve a fine room on your wedding night,” the priest says from behind me. They’re so close. I could step back into their embrace again.

“This is not a wedding night,” I reply. “Merely the night of my proxy marriage.”

“You’re married to the king,” the priest says.

“I am.”

A faint laugh.

“I told you. You should have read the contract,” they say. Then they’re behind me, their fingertips on my shoulders. An ache like relief fills me at being held, even by this stranger.

“You have no right to me.” I say it like a question.

“I thought you would know me anywhere,” they murmur, voice low against my ear. “I thought you would recognise me the very second you saw me. But here we are, on our wedding night, and you do not see me. This was no proxy marriage, Silver. This marriage is real, and it’s ours.”

I turn to face them, horrible hope ringing in my skull, as they step back and reach for their robe.

That night-dark robe unravels, undone by a hidden knot.

The cloth spills to the floor, and I see beneath the ruse of priesthood.

The figure before me is broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, garbed in black armour over a gown cut to severe feminine angles.

I see bare arms, scarred and sun-darkened.

The priest – who is not a priest – removes her mask.

I should have known her. But how could I? Ten years has whittled me down to the smallest version of myself, far too small for vain hopes or wild daydreams. I could not tell myself she was here. I thought it impossible.

But time has honed her into the sharpest version of herself, brilliant where I am dull. There is her face, no longer gaunt but striking – strong jaw and hollowed cheekbones, elegant sweep of brows.

There is a mark on her throat. The scar is a rope as silver as my name, deep and livid. But she speaks, and she lives .

“Lark,” I say. Or try to say it; the name is more a sob. I struggle for breath, seeking to find my strength, my voice.

“If you are stealing me from the king,” I begin.

But then I realise – of course the king does not want me, cannot want me.

This must be some trickery – a heist to pry me from the hermitage.

So I say, “If you’re tricking the hermitage, they’ll see through your ruse.

They’ll accuse you of kidnapping me, and you know the price is your life.

And I–I can’t allow you to be hurt again. ” My voice shakes. “You must go.”

Lark stares at me, her brown eyes blazing, her lush mouth a thin line.