“That’s impossible,” she says. “Marianne wouldn’t do that.”

Not without undoing the curse first. Not without coming back for Violet.

“They were good friends, you know. God knows how—even I wouldn’t call my grandmother a warm person. But she took a real shine to Marianne. And she wouldn’t lie to me about this,” Caspian says.

“But that’s why I’m here,” she persists. “I’m looking for a church. There’s supposed to be something there—a ‘Hand of Illios,’ whatever that means—I’m not really sure—”

“You mean the Blessing of Illios?” he says, surprised. “Youhavebeen busy.”

“Yes, exactly,” she says with relief.

His eyebrows raise. “I wasn’t aware you were planning to be a scholar.” Then he sees her frown, and his troubled expression clears. “Ah. The Blessing of Illios is their yearly ritual. A week of blood oaths,ass-kissing, masochistic tattoos, and so on, then hey presto, you’re officially a scholar. It’s not such a big song and dance here, but the scholars in Prague like to gather at Our Lady Victorious to celebrate.”

Violet takes a mental note of the name. “That’s where my mother was headed. It must have been. Maybe she destroyed her research, but—she leftsomethingfor me to find. She wouldn’t have just… gone.”

Violet’s stomach lurches at the thought. There are so few days left. Marianne wouldn’t simply pack it in and leave.The way she left her brothers? The way she left you?

“I’ll ask my grandmother. She might know more.” Caspian hesitates. “I really hope you find her, Violet.”

“Thank you,” she says, and means it. “For everything.”

“Well, it’s quite fun to thwart the scholars’ plans every now and then. And you’re the most exciting thing to happen to them in years.” Then he smiles warmly at her. It’s a genuine smile that reaches the corners of his eyes, and maybe the first one he’s ever given Violet. “Besides, it would be an awful pity if the scholars remade you in their image.”

She smiles back, oddly touched by his concern. If Penelope wasn’t forever at the forefront of her mind, or Elandriel, or her mother, or any number of more pressing concerns—then maybe he would have a right to worry. But until then—

“Ah, your knight reappears,” he says, glancing behind them both. “I will leave you, then. But remember, we don’t have to be anything but what we are. We’re not scholars—but we’re notnothing, either. Keep the third option in mind.”

He gives her a stupid flourish of a bow—all politician, all charm again—then disappears into the crowd. Violet stares at him as he walks away, trying to burn the conversation into her brain so she can pick it apart later. He can’t be right about Marianne. Everlys stick together; she’ll come back.

Aleksander reappears, his face flushed. “There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you and—Is that Caspian Verne? What the hell were you doing with him?”

She snaps back to the present. “He just wanted to talk.”

“Talk. Right.” Aleksander folds his arms. “Do you know who he is? Who his family are?”

“Does it matter?”

“The Vernes are assholes,” he says with surprising vehemence.

“Caspian’s the one who invited us. And I don’ttrusthim, exactly, but… there aren’t a lot of options, you know.”

Violet can feel herself getting exasperated, and tries to shrug it off. Every scholar has at least one skeleton in their closet, and it usually belongs to another family. And Aleksander, of all people, has no right to judge who she speaks to.

He glances away from her. “Why did you bring me here?”

His tone is so sharp that she finally takes him in properly. Aleksander’s eyes are shadowed, and his entire body is one knife-like line. The man in front of her is a stranger, dark and angry. Miles away from the person she left in the hands of the asteria only moments ago.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” she says, bewildered. “I thought—”

“You thought you’d take me down into some dark cellar”—something in Aleksander’s voice squeezes painfully—“to muck about with amateurs who have no interest in—norespectfor—the scholars. If you knew me at all, you’d know I’d hate this.”

Violet takes a step back.

“I guess I don’t know you at all, then,” she says quietly.

Aleksander runs a hand through his hair in agitation. “You don’t understand. You asked so much of me. Too much.”

“If this is about Caspian—”