“Where is Elliot, Amelia?” I ask. If he lowered the wards on my quarters, he must be in better shape than I am.
“He’s having his first proper meal in days,” she says. “He finally agreed—very reluctantly, might I add—to take a break. Of course you decide to wake up in the brief time he’s gone. I imagine he’ll be sour about that.”
“Amelia—”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s in the courtyard,” she says. “I’ll get him for you.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Cora, I’m no healer, but your lover is. He insisted you rest?—”
“I’ve slept for five days. I’ve rested plenty.” I push back to my feet, taking slow, careful steps as I cross my bedroom. By the time I near Amelia, my head is fuzzy, but I’m confident I won’t pass out. “Let me change, and we’ll go.”
I expect Amelia to fight me on it, but she only sighs, watching in amusement as I dig through my dresser. Above it, a collection of green and blue and orange memories flail in their jars, far fewer in number than they used to be.
My hands shake as I grab the first pair of leggings I find. I clumsily pull them into place and shove into a pair of black shoes. I’m too worried I’ll fall if I try to tie the laces, so I leave them loose.
Once I’m out of the room, Amelia pats my shoulder. She doesn’t hug me, like Grace would, and for that, I’m grateful. I’ve never enjoyed casual affection, and aside from Elliot, I prefer not to be touched. Amelia lets her hand fall, lips tilting.
“Glad you made it,” she says.
“That bad?” I ask. I don’t look at her as I head for the courtyard. I’m dizzy and slow, but Amelia doesn’t complain. She keeps my pathetic pace and takes her time before responding.
“Worse,” she says finally.
I nod. My throat suddenly feels tight, suffocated by too many unasked questions. I don’t want to ask Amelia whathappened—I want to hear it from Elliot. It’s his mama at the center of this, and it’s clear we never made it back to his home with her. They would’ve needed me to subdue her, and it’s clear I didn’t.
I slow as we near the final corridor. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see Elliot at the stone table. He’s faced away, shoulders slumped and food untouched. His head hangs forward, clutched between his hands.
My heart seizes, misses a beat. Somehow, without knowing, Iknow. And the question I ask is far from the one I expected.
“Is she dead?”
Amelia stands at my side. She’s taller than I am, but not by much. Even as I feel her staring at me, I don’t take my eyes off Elliot.
“Yes.”
I try to swallow, but that knot in my throat is squeezing tighter. It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak. I force the words out. Before I see Elliot, I need to—Ihaveto know.
“Was it me?”
Amelia’s touch ghosts my shoulder.
“No,” she says steadily. “It was him.”
I close my eyes, squeezing so tight my head throbs. It’s not that I wanted it to be me. I just really,reallydidn’t want it to be him.
“He didn’t say precisely what happened,” she adds. “Only that he killed her. His friend cleaned up the mess. Made it look like a natural death. We’ll see if the council believes it.”
I assume she’s talking about Henry. I have no idea how he’d make a murder look like a natural death, but I don’t doubt he’d try.
“Is he okay?” I ask. It’s an impulsive question, and I’m only asking because I already know the answer. Because I desperately want to be wrong. Before Amelia responds, I lift my hand,waving the question away. “Never mind. I’m…I’ll go see him now.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
I shake my head. My focus is still on Elliot, who has yet to realize we’re watching him. He has the survival instincts of a child. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d never think him capable of murder.
My stomach twists, acutely aware thatIam the common factor in both of Elliot’s kills. He isn’t a killer, but he does it anyway, to protect me. I may not have been the one to kill Madam Lyrie, but I have no doubt I was the cause.
