Page 60 of No Greater Sorrow

Someone shot by the tent flap with enough speed to disturb the heavy linen. Outside, Aleja glimpsed the reddened sky as a heavy waft of smoke drifted into the tent.

“They still have time to prepare. And we have plenty of tricks up our sleeves. Here, take hold,” Nicolas said.

She looked at his outstretched hand, ending in black nails. “I need to make sure Violet is okay.”

“She’s with Bonnie and trust me, the Dark Saint of Bounty is not as helpless as she makes herself out to be. We need to go—now. Come, hellhound. Follow us.”

Aleja’s hand fell into Nicolas’s. A horrible tug wrenched at her sternum, like she’d been crossing the street without paying attention and collided with a truck.

“What the hell was that?” she muttered, leaning over her knees as the colors around her coalesced into mottled shades of dark green. The air tasted of pine and damp soil.

“We had to travel some distance, but we’re back in the city,” Nicolas said. “Sorry. It can be incredibly uncomfortable the first few times.”

“I liked it!” Garm said brightly, but his voice did nothing to alleviate the swirling feeling in Aleja’s gut.

They were in a park. Maybe. The air had a subtle harshness to it despite the tall trees surrounding them—a hint of car fumes and distant industry. She’d lost track of how much time she’d spent in the Hiding Place, but it seemed to be on the verge of spring here. Tulip buds rose from the ground in shades of violet and yellow, bright enough to resemble garden lights in the darkness.

“You’re going to make a bargain inthosepants?” she asked, her gaze sweeping over Nicolas’ attire.

Nicolas spread his arms and glanced down at himself. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re kind oftight, Nic. Is the Hiding Place rationing fabric because of the war?”

“No one has ever complained about these pants,” he muttered.

“If that’s the case, it’s because Amicia has told them not to.” Aleja waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late to change now. Let’s just hope whoever is lighting the candle doesn’t get distracted by your generous—never mind. Garm, make sure to stand in front of the Knowing One’s hips at all times.”

“Okay!” Garm barked.

“This way. We shouldn’t waste a moment,” Nicolas said.

“You can feel it when someone lights the black candle?” Aleja said, struggling to keep up with his longer stride, especially with Garm circling her feet.

“I have an awareness of it, yes. But some people are louder than others, and this one… Well, she might as well be screaming,” Nicolas told her.

“Nic, wait,” Aleja said, reaching for his arm. Ahead of them, a figure hunched over a lit candle in a clearing that may have doubled as a softball diamond in the summer months.

She brushed his wavy hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ears, and straightened the silver snake around his neck so that it hung evenly. As she smoothed the rest of his shirt, she took care to avoid his chest.

“There you go. Summon your wings and do that thing with your eyes where you make them all narrow and shiny. How is it you look like you’ve just stepped off the cover of some painfully hip experimental album while I look like I passed out in my Renaissance Faire outfit? You woke up like three minutes before me.”

“It’s all about the attitude, dove. Besides, I like you disheveled. It brings other activities to mind.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll make a very intimidating companion for the Knowing One looking like I just got screwed in some sort of tavern wench costume.”

“As long as it’s implied that I’m the one who did the screwing, I’m at peace with that.”

Droplets glistened on Garm’s fur as he nudged himself between them. “Come on. There’s not much time.”

“When did you become the sensible one?” she muttered, patting the back of his neck before they followed Nicolas to where the candle flame was rapidly dwindling. Aleja remembered her own moment of weakness—the way her hands had shaken as she moved a matchstick toward the wick.

It was late and the park was deserted aside from a few sleepy ducks making slow circles in the pond. Despite this, the woman was neatly dressed, wearing knee-high boots over her leggings, paired with a naval pea coat that made Aleja jealous in this damp cold. Her hair, cut in a fashionable chin-length bob, looked colorless beneath the harsh glare of the streetlamp. With every breath she took, puffs of mist hung in the air.

“Wait. I know you,” Aleja whispered when the woman looked up from her candle and fell back to her elbows in the wet grass. “You were at the doctor’s—James Thomson’s—party. You were sick. You needed his well water.”

The woman looked up. Her doe-like eyes were surrounded by smudgy makeup, as if she’d been crying.

“Louisa,” Nicolas said.

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