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I peered at it. “Probably. March, that's before the reliquary ever came into the lab.”

“Before,” Tristan repeated. “This proves that he chose you. He knew how much you'd mean to me before I did.”

A thrill ran through me at the implication in his words. Couldn't be helped. The “before I did” became a zing in my belly. But I mashed it down. This was not the time to do a happy dance because the cute boy in class liked me. I needed to think like an organic chicken—hormone-free.

Organically, the best I could come up with was, “Your boy's gone nutso.”

“It appears the years have taken a toll on Fabian.” He moved to the desk. Half its drawers hung open, papers spilling out. He picked up a stack, flipped through, and stopped to read one.

I went to see what he'd found. The page was old, the paper thick and ragged at the edges, the ink faded. A heading at the top, in neat script, read The Severing, and beneath it was a description of the ritual.

A Curse can only be severed with consent by vessel and sacrifice. No trickery can be used by either, or the Severing will fail. The sacrifice must receive their share of the Curse with full awareness of what they will carry. Only mutual love can lure a Curse into severing itself. The love in the vessel forms a bridge with the love of the sacrifice, allowing the Curse to grant a portion of itself to the sacrifice, so neither vessel carries the whole weight of the Curse.

“The sacrifice?” I whispered.

Tristan's throat worked as he swallowed, and he looked over at me. “We didn't have a choice in this. We are victims. But anyone who willingly takes half a Curse is making a sacrifice.”

“There's more.” I lifted the bottom of the page.

In ink several shades darker and a script that leaned differently, was a second paragraph.

A forced transfer may be possible if the Curse's true name is known and a bond of genuine love exists between the Curse and the sacrifice. The name provides the leverage. The bond provides the channel through which the Curse can be drawn. Untested. Theoretical. Requires further—

The sentence ended there, cut off by a crisp tear in the page.

“Tristan, I think we have our heartbroken man.”

“I think you're right.” Clenching his jaw, he crumpled the page in his hand and dropped it. “They have the name. All they needed was love.”

“And now they have it,” I whispered.

Blinking, he looked at me. “What?”

“I mean.” I cleared my throat. “They think they have it. Mirana foretold it.” I grimaced. “I hate being a foregone conclusion.”

“If anyone's a foregone conclusion, it's me.”

“No, I'm the one who they want to hold the Curse. Mirana must have told them I could, which means, I'm the conclusion.”

“But they needed to find someone who I would love for it to work.”

“No, it's me. I won, I won, I won!”

We burst into laughter together. But then his expression went serious.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I was thinking how important love is to their plan.” He motioned at the crumpled paper. “I convinced myself you were in danger and needed my protection, but maybe I'm the danger.”

I went still. “What does that mean?”

“It means that they can't use you as a vessel if you don't love me.” He straightened his shoulders. “It's too late to take you home and hope they leave you be. But we haven't consummated our . . . attraction to each other. So, we just need to keep things platonic.”

I snorted.

“What?” Tristan glared at me.

“Tristan, you're old enough to know you don't need to have sex to fall in love. In fact, half the time, sex prevents love.”