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Her pulse racing a mile a minute, she kicked off her heeled shoes and scrambled on top of the marble counter, prying the window open as far as it would go.

Then she tossed her shoes out onto the grass and followed them, hauled herself through the window the way Oskar had taught her how to haul herself over deadfall and rocky slopes.

This was the least conspicuous exit from the ballroom; her plan was to search for him on the nearby grounds and, if she wasn’t successful, nip back in through the servants’ entrance and tear the whole mansion apart looking for him if need be.

Her bare feet hit the grass, cool and damp with evening dew.

She pulled her shoes back on, and she gathered bunches of her skirts into her hands and lifted them up and ran—at first, with the single-minded purpose of finding Oskar as quickly as possible, then eventually also with the sheer joy of running through the moonlight, unbridled, a lifetime of manacles slipping away.

She ran all along the white alabaster side of the main house, past the gardens and the hedgerows.

There were fewer guards than she thought there’d be, and they were all moonlit figures in the distance, their backs to her, looking outward.

Then again, the bulk of the security had apparently been concentrated in the ballroom and the hallway where the trunk was located.

She would have dashed right past the stables had it not been for the golden light visible through the windows, and within its rays the careful movements of a familiar silhouette that was as dear to her as a homecoming.

Pudding and Vindicator greeted her with soft huffs as she stepped inside, her skirts trailing over dirt and hay. In the glow of a lone lantern, Oskar was in the process of retrieving the horses’ saddles from the rack. He paused when he heard Guinevere approach, but he didn’t turn around.

“What are you doing here?”

His distant tone set off alarm bells in her head. She belatedly noticed that he was wearing traveling clothes and that his packed rucksack lay at his feet.

“You…” She swallowed. “You were just going to leave? Without saying goodbye?”

“I was going to,” he responded flatly. “But you’ve caught me. So—goodbye.”

Her fists clenched, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. But even that grinding pain was nothing compared to the slow fracture blossoming through her chest. He was as acerbic as he’d been the night they met, yet also less brusque.

Less charged. And that was worse than any anger on his part would have been, because it meant that he didn’t care anymore.

But it was possible that he was just tired and she was just being overly anxious. She would never know until she asked. She’d come too far to not ask.

“Oskar.” His name was a prayer in the shadows.

It carried with it all of her hope. Every dream she’d ever had.

“Will you take me with you to Boroftkrah? I…I want to go with you. There’s nothing for me here.

I’ve seen more of the world now, and I should very much like to see the rest. With you by my side. ”

She waited, hardly daring to breathe. She wished that she could see his face, that he would turn around, but he appeared to be in no hurry to do so. He hung the saddles back on the rack with painstaking deliberation.

“What about your folks?” he asked. “Your betrothed? The life you were trained for?”

She tried to push the words out—tried to give voice to all those realizations she’d had in the ballroom—but they got stuck in her throat, entangling there with her bewilderment at his sudden display of cool, measured practicality.

She apparently didn’t respond fast enough for his liking, judging from the way his shoulders bunched with tension.

“You’re telling me,” he continued, “that I traveled in the opposite direction of my mother’s last wish—that I crossed from practically one end of the Amber Road to the other—that I risked my life and, yes, my sanity, Guinevere—to bring you safely to Nicodranas…

and you’re not even going to stay here?”

“I—I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she stammered.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “People of your class don’t ever think about the inconvenience you cause others. It simply doesn’t register in your heads.”

Oh, gods, she would have given anything for the ground to crack open and swallow her whole.

Her skin was crawling with terror and with shame.

She remembered the night she’d all but ordered him to rent a room for her, because one gold piece wasn’t the luxury for her that it was for him; this was so much worse than that.

Had she truly been such a burden? She’d worked so hard to curb her selfishness, her thoughtlessness. But perhaps she would always be that spoiled girl from the Shimmer Ward.

“I’m so sorry,” Guinevere whispered.

Oskar gave a violent jerk, almost like a recoiling.

As though those words had burned him. That puzzled her a little, because, yes, she was supposed to stop apologizing for things that weren’t her fault, but this was.

He finally turned around to look at her, and his oakmoss features might as well have been carved in stone, his eyes as hard as topaz.

She trembled as it began to sink in that, after tonight, she would never see this face again.

But her hope was stubborn; it lingered, it refused to be smothered, it fanned the weak flames of her last pitiful attempt.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, forcing herself to meet his unforgiving gaze.

“I never meant for this to happen—for you to happen to me. All my life I was taught to follow the rules, to not want things. But these days that’s all I can seem to do.

I want the open road. I want to learn how to control my magic.

I want to be happy. I want”—a single tear beaded at the corner of her lashes—“I want to be with you.”

Oskar’s gaze followed the tear as it trailed down her cheek.

His jaw clenched. “You and I are novelties to each other,” he said, still in that strangely flat tone.

“You’re a slice of the upper crust that I’ll never break into in a million years, no matter how hard I work.

And I am something exciting to you, purely because you’ve never met anyone like me before.

” He leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Once all of that wears off—and it will —you’ll resent me because I took you away from the comforts that you’re used to.

And I’ll resent you because I need someone who knows how to do their fair share, not just make flower crowns and set things on fire. ”

Guinevere flinched. This wasn’t just what she’d been afraid of—it was a level of humiliation that she had never imagined possible.

All her illusions were shattering left and right.

“Why did you stay until tonight, then? You could have left first thing yesterday.” She was a stranger to her own ears—defeated yet accusing.

But even her accusations were rooted in that ember of stubborn, illogical hope.

If she could just stumble upon the right thing to say—the right question to ask—he might give her the answer that she wanted.

A fool’s dream, that. As though mere words could unlock a door barred to her.

“I wanted to make sure that you would be safe,” said Oskar. “And you will be. There are guards everywhere, and they’re more than capable of fighting off the mercenaries. I consider my duty fulfilled in this regard.”

There was a part of her that longed to be contrary. To point out that, as a matter of fact, there weren’t any guards between the stables and the mansion at all. But she would only sound churlish, and she didn’t want him to remember her like that.

Yet she had to try again. One more time.

“I thought we had something.” She cringed inwardly as soon as she said it. How weak she sounded. How plaintive.

Oskar shrugged, and she wanted to die. “It was a long trip,” he mumbled, looking down at the straw scattered around their feet. “People have needs. You were there and I was there. Let’s not pretend it amounted to more than that.”

Her tears flowed. She couldn’t stop them. He’d said it himself once—that she cried too easily. At the time, she’d thought it was a teasing remark, but he must have meant it with contempt, and now he was clearly counting down the seconds until he was free of her forever.

“It appears that I’ve misunderstood.” Guinevere said this with as much dignity as she could muster through a mess of tears and snot.

“I beg your pardon, Oskar. Thank you for—for all that you’ve done.

For taking on the Amber Road with me and seeing me safe to the other side.

I wish you good fortune and fair weather on the rest of your travels. ”

With that, she fled. Her sweet Pudding let out a bewildered whinny upon seeing her go, but she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She would throw herself weeping at Oskar’s feet otherwise.

The night air was so much colder than Guinevere remembered it being as she made her way back to the mansion.

What she had told Oskar still held true even though he would no longer be by her side throughout her next steps.

She could not be Lady Wensleydale. She would sneak up to her room and pack what she could carry, and then—

She tripped over something.

Years of dance lessons kicked in once more, and Guinevere righted her balance, narrowly avoiding a fall. She looked around, expecting to find the culprit in the form of a dislodged branch or a poorly placed decorative rock.

But it was a human leg, sticking out of the bushes.

Alarmed, Guinevere hurried over to…well, it was a guest, most probably, who’d imbibed too much—

From within the bed of leaves and late-blooming flowers, a dead guard’s face stared up at her with open, sightless eyes. His lips were chapped and slightly parted. Specks of ice glittered in his limp hair.

Frost magic. Bharash.

Guinevere was too shocked to scream. She made to run back to the stables, which were about twenty feet away, but another figure had suddenly blocked her path. She almost did scream then, clapping her hands over her mouth at the last second when she realized who it was.

“Miss Guinevere?” The Opal of the Ocean squinted at her through curls of smoke emanating from a slim cigar that was pressed between her fingers. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Guinevere wordlessly pointed to the corpse. The Opal gasped, dropping her cigar, and Guinevere reached out to clutch her arm. “We must get indoors,” she said.

But the Opal stayed where she was, resisting Guinevere’s tugs. “I have another destination in mind,” she said cheerfully.

Guinevere opened her mouth to ask what she meant by that. And that was when she caught the faintest trace of it, on the Opal’s breath—the smell of peppermint and buttercups. The smell Guinevere had first encountered wafting from a cauldron behind an alchemist’s stall in Druvenlode.

As soon as she noticed it, the disguise potion wore off.

Mia Lavera’s horns disappeared, her dark hair straightening and her ruby-red skin turning seafoam green.

The rounded shape of her eyes shifted into the taper of willow leaves, their irises morphing from silver-black to emerald.

All of a sudden, Guinevere was looking not at the Opal of the Ocean, but at the uniya mercenary named Selene.

Selene’s arm arced through the air, a dagger flashing in the moonlight. Guinevere felt a burst of pain as the pommel collided with the back of her skull, and then—

Nothing.