Page 161 of The Mirror of Beasts

But they’re not alive, I thought. They’re not here.

It was a long while before I managed to piece myself back together again. When I straightened and pulled back, Neve said nothing—she only picked up the bucket again and handed me the cloth.

I took Emrys’s hand, inhaling sharply at how cold it was. The pads of his fingers and palms were callused, from whittling, maybe, or, more likely, gardening. I tended to them first, trying to commit the feeling to memory. Neve went to retrieve two shrouds. She dusted dried petals and herbs on his chest, whispering a chanting prayer that was too quiet to understand.

And in that moment, in the shadows of the chamber, we were back in Avalon. Kneeling on the cold, bloodstained stones, tending to the ruined faces of the isle’s dead. I knew Neve was thinking about it too by the way her hand shook as she stroked my arm.

Finally, I came to his face.

The blood had dried on his lips. I dabbed at them gently.

“He was so happy,” I whispered. “Just before …”

“Miss Lark?”

The High Sorceress stood at the bottom step of the aisle, her face as pale as the shrouds around her.

I turned my head away from her, scrubbing my tears from my face.

“Yeah?” I asked roughly.

She’d changed out of her ruined gown into a sensible shirt and trousers—clothes for working, for restoring. The pretense of her glamour and power had burned away.

But there was an intensity to her expression, a steadiness. Rather than making her fall to ash, the flames had only proven there was a steel spine beneath all her layers of silk. Her sleek black hair had been braided away from the healing cuts and bruises on her face.

The wounds were striking. Kasumi wore her bandages proudly, the way a queen might wear her best jewels. But there was no haughtiness in her expression. The High Sorceress knew, just as the rest of us did, that we would all be dead if not for Neve.

As she ascended the steps, her footfall soft against the old wood, I saw that her arms were wrapped from shoulder to fingertip. The bandages were soaked in some sort of salve, likely to heal the extensive burns I’d seen on them earlier. That sticky wetness had to be why she was so careful to use only the tips of her index finger and thumb to pull something out of her trousers pocket.

A rumpled envelope.

Just below us, she hesitated, stealing a glance at Nash’s stone form.

“He …” Kasumi cleared her throat. “He—your father, that is—”

“He’s not her father,” Neve cut in. Her eyes had narrowed with what looked like genuine annoyance.

“He was,” I said quietly. “Well, he tried. In his own way. With varying degrees of success. But he tried.”

Kasumi let out a soft breath as she passed me the envelope. “I am sorry, Miss Lark. For your loss.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” I said, looking at the rows of shrouds and bodies around us. The High Sorceress gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“Maybe you should have thought about letting me out of that room sooner,” Neve said sharply.

“Then we might be mourning you as well,” Kasumi said.

She was right. The past was past now, and any wishes to change it were wasted breath and fairy dust.

“What is this?” I asked, holding up the envelope.

“I’ve no idea,” Kasumi said.

“Really?” Neve pressed, skeptical.

“The envelope is cursed to destroy itself if someone other than the intended recipient opens it,” Kasumi said. “I should know, did the spellwork myself.”

I turned it over, and, sure enough, a faded line of curse sigils was scrawled along the bottom edge of the paper.

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