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“We?”

“Yes, we.” I lowered my eyebrows and focused on my hand on the door. If she answered my question in the affirmative, I might not be able to control my reaction if looking at her. I was already balancing on a knife’s edge of control after everything that happened in the courtyard and the realization that she was staying, that she truly was mine, settling into my bones like a Medea-blessed truth. “Unless you’d rather have someone else? I could arrange a tutor to aid you if you’d rather, someone from the Atheneum.”

“No strangers,” she muttered. An embarrassing knee-weakening relief raced down my spine. “Not if we’re not supposed to let anyone know I’m not from Avicourt.”

She tripped over the word, and I squeezed her hand again, smiling for a moment. Then I carefully edged the door open in case someone was on the other side of it.

“Most will expect us to be pretty isolated for the next few weeks leading up to the marriage rites. Aside from your ladies-in-waiting, at least. It’s a time each pair spends getting to know one another preparing for the life they will build.”

Our steps echoed off the stone tiles, louder than before because of the openness of the space. Phoebe looked over her shoulder, twisting away from where she spoke with Amaria in hushed tones. She stood at once, a hand on her satchel of components.

Amaria’s attention was slower, filled with dread. I couldn’t blame her. She expected me to be alone, for us to be on the precipice of war. When her gaze landed on Amethyst, she froze, her eyes wider than I’d ever seen them. She rose, more unsteady than I’d ever seen her, and crossed the large room. The hug was a clash of limbs, more disorganized than the one she’d shared with Shelby. I let my hold on Amethyst drop before she felt constrained.

“You’re…”

Amaria trailed off as Amethyst nodded, her expression morphing into something between relief and grief before disappearing entirely.

Phoebe approached more cautiously, pulling my attention away from the reunion.

“Your sister?” Amaria asked.

Amethyst’s voice was just as unsteady. “Already completed the rites or whatever they’re called. She’s married. For a dew days, apparently.”

The women separated, and Amaria turned to me.

“Are Shelby and I not returning to Embercrest with the others, then?”

Phoebe frowned but didn’t say anything as I shook my head.

The desire to touch Amethyst rose up in me, and for the first time in over a week, I didn’t push it down or wish it didn’t exist. I circled her wrist, and she leaned into me, breathing deeply, the move so ingrained I wasn’t sure she was aware of it. The wisteria edge of my scent grew, twining around us, and her shoulders loosened even more.

“Phoebe,” I said into the sudden quiet, “I’d like you to evaluate her spell now if possible.”

She inclined her head. “Of course.” Then she turned to Amethyst. “It’s probably best if you sit. If the spell was laid improperly, evaluating it may cause pain.”

Amethyst scrunched her nose in clear distaste but didn’t say anything, crossing to the open bench and perching on its edge, gripping the stone.

“May I ask why?” Amaria whispered.

Amethyst’s tear-lined, distraught face was all I could see at the question. Her whispered confession that her begging to stay wasn’t just because of her sister’s happiness and the selfish satisfaction that had stolen my breath when it eclipsed every ethical line instilled in me as a child.

“Yes.” I swallowed and flicked my gaze to the main entrance of the basilica as the large doors were opened and the Votarist and scribe from before entered the foyer. The Votarist walked through the same door and hallway we’d traveled only fifteen minutes ago while the scribe continued to the far side of the room. “But not here.”

Amaria nodded in easy acceptance, letting the conversation drop. She crossed the room and sat beside Amethyst, circling her wrist as she flinched with Phoebe’s first touch on the translation tattoo. That had me closing the gap, a rumbling growl barely leashed behind my lips. Phoebe’s magic crackled around her, stronger than I’d seen in years. Despite her slight frame—she stood only a few inches taller than Amethyst even while seated on the bench—she exuded absolute authority.

Amethyst’s sharp cry echoed through the room. My scent lashed out in reflex. Amaria raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, her touch on Amethyst not moving.

The scribe hesitated just in front of the arched threshold that led deeper into the main public portion of the basilica. Even from here, his frown was evident. When he looked toward me in clear question, I shook my head. He disappeared deeper into the basilica without a word.

Amethyst’s breathing sped, morphing into sharp, frantic pants, and her hair whipped around her as her magic slipped, nearly as extreme as it had in the Forest.

“Phoebe,” I growled.

The air crackled again and a tendril of the earth wrapped around my ankle. Then, all at once, Phoebe’s magic disappeared, faster than the sea receding at low tide. The tendril tightened for a heartbeat before falling away, too. Her touch lingered on Amethyst, her gaze intent as she traced the spell’s tattoo. Amethyst panted, her chest heaving as she collapsed into Amaria. Her face was so pale, every breath of life snuffed out of it like that first night in the Passage. Goddess, Phoebe hadn’t been exaggerating at all. This was so much worse than watching Reuben mend her while traveling.

“Holy Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

Jesus… Christ? As in anointed?