Page 72 of Silver in the Bone

“At least take this.” Neve offered up the candle and its iron chamberstick.

“There’s plenty of light on the way,” I protested.

“Please,” she said more forcefully. “It would make me feel better.”

“All right.” I sighed through my nose. “But only to end this conversation.”

“Uh-huh.” Neve let out a knowing hum. Knowing what, I had no idea, but I didn’t like it, or the smile that came after. Retrieving her CD player and earphones from her fanny pack, she slipped the latter over her ears.

“Go to sleep,” I told her.

“I’ll see you when you get back,” she said, still with that same tone. She leaned against the thin pillow and headboard, stretching her legs out over the blanket. Her music followed me into the hallway.

I was still replaying the moment as I made my way down through the tower, creeping past the hall of sleepers ensconced in whatever they dreamt of in this nightmare realm.

Shielding the struggling candle flame with my hand, I crossed the courtyard quickly, glancing up to make sure no one was watching from the walkway along the high defensive walls. By the time I’d made it down the stairs to the springs, I was out of breath.

I forced myself around the last curve of the stairs, chest burning, legs like bags of sand. Breath wheezed out of me as I scooped up Ignatius, still wrapped in his purple silk. I turned back toward the stairs like a prisoner facing the gallows.

“Botheration,” I muttered, and went to sit on the maiden statue’s enormous foot instead. Looking up at her from below, I added, “Sorry, girl.”

I knew it was a mistake the moment I leaned back against her cold stone ankle. My body went heavy as the last bit of momentum left it.

I might have stayed there, sprawled out with only a candle and a demonic sentient hand for company, if I hadn’t heard the quick strike of feet on the stone steps.

I slid down off the side of the foot, blowing out the candle as I landed in an ungraceful crouch. It had to be Olwen, but on the off chance it wasn’t ...

My pulse thrummed in my ears as I waited, risking a quick lean around the statue. Then another when I saw who it was.

Emrys stood at the edge of one of the pools, staring down into its glowing depths. His face was so devoid of emotion, it was as if his spirit had been ripped from his body. The sight of it sent an unexpected pang through me.

And then he removed his gloves. One, two, dropping to the stone. I leaned forward, trying to see, but between the dozens of feet that separated us and that incessant cerulean light, nothing seemed unusual.

Not until he reached for the hem of his sweater and undershirt. The muscles of his back tightened as he pulled both over his head.

The iron chamberstick slipped out of my fingers and clattered to the ground. Emrys whirled back, eyes wide with surprise or fear or something worse, but it was too late. I’d seen them.

“What the hell did that?” I rasped.

I hadn’t imagined the scar on his face at Rook House. It continued down along his neck, across his breastbone. That single, ragged scar fed into dozens of others, their brutal seams raised red and angry. My eyes couldn’t follow them all as they stretched over the taut muscles of his chest, his arms, his back, down below the sharp, low V of his abdominals.

He looked like a glass figurine that had been knocked from its shelf. Shattered, and hastily put back together.

Emrys’s face was rigid as he reached for his sweater and pulled it over his head, as if that could erase what I had seen. I stood there, unable to move.

“Are you following me now?” he asked angrily, picking up his gloves and turning to storm back up the steps.

“What did that to you?” I whispered. The heavy layers of clothing, the refusal to take his gloves off—no glamour would have hidden this from anyone with the One Vision, so he hadn’t bothered.

“Leave it, Tamsin,” he said, his voice like ice.

Somehow, I’d crossed the distance between us. Somehow, I was taking his hand, turning it over to see where the scars continued over the tendons and muscles of his forearm.

“What the hell is going on? Did those things—” No, it couldn’t have been the Children of the Night. I would have seen it happen. “Did Madrigal do that to you?”

He ripped his hand free, but he hadn’t turned fast enough to hide the agonized shame that spilled over his features.

“Emrys!” He stopped a few steps above me but didn’t turn. “What happened?”

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