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Idonea’s breath hitched.

He wrenched the handle. A sharp crack split the air as the hilt tore free, leaving the blade jutting from the wood. Nellith had given her that dagger.

She surged forward, but Lysander caught her. His arm locked around hers.

“Idonea,” he murmured.

Heat tore suddenly through her veins. Her nails sharpened painfully. Current flooded beneath her skin hard enough to ache.

Alcaeus’ eyes found hers, then down to her equipment. “Take those as well,” he said.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice rose to a growl.

Above, Lance surged into the sky. She turned her head, searching for him, but he didn’t come down. He circled high above, out of reach.

“I hate you.” She spat at Alcaeus’ feet.

Alcaeus adjusted his coat as though nothing had happened. “Have restraint.”

Lysander dragged her away, his grip firm, but shaking. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t fight him; she stopped feeling her legs halfway to the cottage.

He guided her inside, his hand around her waist like he was holding a marionette. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore and her thoughts were noise.

The cottage was cramped and cold. Just like a prison cell.

Lysander’s hand lingered at her waist a moment too long, steadying her. He sat her on the bed and stepped back. She slid down from the edge, the weight of her own body too much to bear. Her knees hit the floorboards with a hollow thud. She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her arms. The floor was cold, grounding her.

Lysander stood near the bedroom doorway. “I’m sorry about your dagger.”

Idonea glared up at him through a blur of lashes and tears. “No, you aren’t.” She licked her lips and tasted the salty tears. “You gave it to him.”

“Witchling…”

“Don’t call me that,” she said. “Just — get out.” The air caught in her chest. “Please.”

He stood there a heartbeat longer. His hand curled at his side.

She didn’t want him there.

She didn’t want him to leave.

He turned, the sound of his boots was soft. The door closed, and the bar clanged down, locking her in. Idonea heard, faintly through the wood, the soft click of metal — the flask, uncorked. A pause and then the faint scrape of it being put away.

Idonea stayed where she was, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs. A terrible loneliness seeped in, slow and suffocating. She pressed her fingers against her collarbone, tracing the faint stars inked there.

Idonea retrieved the paper from Nellith’s book. Its edges were a little ragged from the travel. She ran her finger over the illustration of the heart, over the words. Hoping they’d make sense. Hoping she hadn’t missed something.

She paced around, then paused before the mantel. A jar rested there that hadn't been there in her initial search. A quick peek inside and she found more salt. She assumed Lidiya must have brought more for her after handing the pouch over.

A knock rattled the door.

She stood and approached, pressing an ear to the cool metal. There was a pressure beyond the door, something that didn’t breathe, didn’t shuffle its feet. Just watched.

A wraith. Had her salt circle been disrupted?

A faint hiss drew her to the window. Lance.

She crouched beside it and pulled back the curtain an inch. He perched on a chimney, eyes glowing dimly in the gloom. He chuffed once, a slow warning.