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They circled wide, sticking to the shadows of the wall. When they reached a boarded window, Lysander crouched and pried loose one plank. Then he looked up at her, offering his clasped hands.

“Step here. I’ll lift you through.”

Idonea hesitated. “And you?”

“I’ll follow.” His eyes gleamed in the dim light with certainty.

She set her boot in his palms, and he lifted her like she weighed nothing. She gripped the stone sill, hauled herself through, and dropped into the dim interior.

A moment later, Lysander slipped through after her, landing silently at her side. The world narrowed to just the two of them, pressed close in the dark, his shoulder brushing hers.

“Stay quiet,” he murmured, voice low enough to curl right into her chest.

Together, they crept down the corridor towards Alcaeus’s chamber.

And when Idonea pressed her hand to the door to her father’s room, she couldn't tell whether the tightness in her chest came from Lysander or the door.

Lysander didn't follow her in.

Idonea found Alcaeus pallid as paper, sweat beading along his brow despite the cold. She knelt at the edge of the cot and took his hand. The skin was damp and warm under her fingers, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

Tears pricked at her eyes; a sob lodged stubborn in her throat.

“Idonea,” Alcaeus said, his voice steady. He gave her fingers a soft squeeze. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve—” Her words splintered. There were so many if onlys snarled in her mouth. “I would’ve been fine.”

He worked at swallowing. The motion looked like effort. A husky cough racked him and a speck of blood gathered at the corner of his mouth. Idonea pressed her forehead against his fever-hot arm.

“Remember,” he rasped, voice frayed. “I’ll do anything to see you unharmed.”

She tried to apologise again, but he shook his head.

“Do not apologise.” His breath was shallow. “None of this is your fault.”

His free hand found her hair and brushed through it with a tenderness that made her stomach ache.

“Father … I—” she began.

A surprised smile tugged at his colourless lips. “I never thought I’d hear you say that again, daughter.” There was something wry in the half-formed humour of it, an attempt to anchor them both to something human.

Idonea steadied herself with a long, steadying breath. "I can — look, I can save you. I know how. I just need—"

"Idonea."

"What?"

"I know you can. That isn't what I'm afraid of."

She leaned down and pressed her mouth to his cheek.

“Idonea. There is … something I must say.”

“Anything,” she answered before she caught herself, because there was no space left for hesitation.

“You need to know the truth about your mother,” Alcaeus said, and his voice carried the weight of something long kept.

The floor tilted. “What truth?” she asked, though some part of her already feared the answer.