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Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Never asked for me?”

Another shake of his head. Idonea looked down immediately. Her vision blurred. Humiliating.

She held the frame to her chest, breath quivering.

“When I heard a witch with your name had been taken into custody…” His voice frayed. “I wanted it to be you. So I could save you.”

Idonea looked up, and she pitied him. “I don’t need saving,” she said. The words came out rough. “You forfeited that right when you gave her away.”

His shoulders sagged. “Going after this relic is a dark path.”

“Maybe.” Her gaze hardened. “But at least it’s mine. You don’t get to decide that anymore.”

A knock interrupted them. Lysander opened the door to a wiry man in a Templar-grey field coat, stained dark at the cuffs.

"Brother Alcaeus. The Magistrate says the south rows aren't taking. Three of the older girls have tried, and the roots won't open. He thinks the soil's gone."

Alcaeus didn't look away from Idonea. "Has he tested it?"

"Twice."

"Then it's gone. Move the rotation north and start a new south plot next spring."

"He wants permission to put Arina on the north rows. He says she's strong enough."

A silence.

"Arina's seventeen. She's not due to start those fields for another year."

"Yes, sir. But the Magistrate says—"

"Tell him that Arina starts when I say she starts. Not when his quota slips."

The man hesitated, nodded, left.

Alcaeus didn't speak.

Idonea watched him. "You're protecting her."

"Everyone here reaches the fields eventually." His pen didn't stop. "I only decide how young they are when it happens. I run a farm under Templar oversight, Idonea. Every choice I make sends someone towards something that will eventually shorten their life. I get to pick the order. I don't get to change the destination."

She shook her head, spun on her heel, snatched up the cloak, and stormed out of the room, the frame still clutched close to her heart. She pushed the front door open.

The cold night hit her like a wall. The frame was still clutched in her hands when she reached her quarters. She sank into the nearest chair, the fire gone from her, only the emptiness left behind.

The image of Dyota stared back from the frame, smile frozen in another time. Idonea traced a fingertip down the glass, then rested her forehead against it.

For the first time in years, she let the silence close in around her and didn’t fight it.

“I’m sorry for what he did to you, Dyota,” she said, putting her head in her hands, letting the tears fall.

She didn’t hear anyone enter. Not over the dull roar in her head, or the broken sound that eluded her when she tried to breathe.

“I never knew he'd another daughter.”

The voice pulled her upright. Lysander stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame.

Idonea scrubbed hard at her face. Too late. Lysander had already seen enough.