Page 56
“Since the opera house? About twelve hours,” Mira said.
“The others?”
“Adeline's hands are badly burned. Permanent nerve damage. Syra is dead.” Mira drew a breath. “She intercepted Elias fleeing with August. Cracked him across the skull with a brick. Dragged August to safety. A hunter shot her.” Mira's voice stayed steady. “Marigold won't come out of her room. And August . . . ” She gestured to his motionless form.
Beatrice studied him—the glowing pendant, the empty eyes.
“The suppression failed,” she said finally. “Elias channeled his power directly through August. I couldn't fight both.”
“I know.”
“But you're still connected. I can see it.” Beatrice's gaze moved to me. “That's what will save him. Not breaking the pendant by force. The connection itself.”
“I've tried reaching him. Nothing works.”
“Because you can't pull him out. You have to create space for him to come back.” She paused. “And that requires opening yourself completely. No walls. No defenses.”
The cellar. Kneeling here last night, holding August's hands, begging him to come back. Trying to force it, make it happen through sheer will.
“I don't know how to do that,” I admitted.
“Then you need to learn. Quickly.” Beatrice's expression was grave. “Every hour that passes, the corruption settles deeper. You have days at most.”
Something settled where my breath should be.
“And that's assuming Elias doesn't find us first,” Beatrice added. “The opera house fire will bring investigators. Questions.”
“We're fugitives,” Mira said quietly.
“Which means staying here puts Mrs. Hartwick at risk.” Beatrice struggled to sit up straighter. “We need to move. But not until Adeline can travel.”
The door opened. Garrick stood there, looking like he hadn't slept. Red eyes. Clothes still stained with blood.
“She's awake,” he said. His voice was hollow. “Addy's asking for you, Lily.”
“Me?”
“She wants to talk.” His voice held no accusation, just exhaustion. “Will you come?”
I glanced at Mira. She nodded.
I followed Garrick upstairs. Adeline's door was open, the room dark with drawn curtains.
She lay propped against pillows, hands wrapped in clean bandages. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the bed.
I sat.
For a long moment she looked at me. “Mira told me. About the nerve damage. How I'll never have full use of my hands again.”
“I'm sorry—“
“I know.” She cut me off gently. “I know you are. Everyone is. But that's not why I asked you here.”
I waited.
“I need you to understand something.” Adeline shifted slightly, wincing. “What happened at the opera house—the plan failing, the explosion, all of it—that wasn't anyone's fault. We made a plan. It went wrong. That's what happens.”
