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Gwen stared at him as if he’d grown a second head, then at the lantern as if it were about to jump out of his hands and shatter in her face. Orpheus nearly laughed.

Trust me, he didn’t dare say, but he felt it.

Part of him, deep inside, ached for it.

“Here goes nothin.”

The tiny fireball tumbled into the glass chamber, and after that, there wasn’t a trace of doubt on Gwen’s face.

Violet light kindled into a tiny inferno, the lantern flickering into a pleasant, cool glow. Within the chamber, the fireball broke apart, little embers collecting into twisting spheres, the spell turning the raw Netherflame into tiny baubles of forged light. It didn’t struggle to remain lit or break apart from the decaying effects of raw magic. It held steady, a pleasant cool glow that lit the room far better than Gwen’s singular, dancing flame.

“It worked,” she breathed, like Orpheus had been lying to her all this time. “It worked. My magic worked.”

It was the kind of awe only a student could feel, that didn’t fade from her face when she turned to look at him. He pushed the thought away and gestured at the pile of lanterns in the corner.

“I suppose we should get started.”

By the time they’d worked through all the lanterns, Sanctuary’s hymn had faded, the tolling bell silenced by the velvet smother of the world. Only the light within Orpheus’ prison cell remained, a glowing pile of embers that burned as brightly as any sun.

Two hours after dawn broke, Atticus arrived to collect the lanterns.

He didn’t speak. He stared first at the window, then down at a lantern. Cradling one in his hand, he thumbed over the marks on the portal sigil with a reverence Orpheus didn’t expect.

“So simple a solution.” Atticus murmured before putting the lantern down and approaching him, not addressing the window he must assume Orpheus made for himself. “Well done, my unfortunate mage. I wasn’t sure you’d pull through without a Prometheus breathing down your neck.”

“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” Orpheus closed his eyes when Atticus fit the silver collar back around his throat and sealed it with his blood. “I meant it.”

Atticus’ voice was quiet when he said, “So you did.”

Chapter XX

The Myrkur

“We will get the fit right, your majesty. I swear.”

Fenrir hadn’t thought pinning a sleeve up would take much effort, but by early afternoon it became clear that, of all the people affected by his missing arm, Fenrir was somehow the most well-adjusted.

“This way they won’t know!” The steward, a man named Ralph, Fenrir had never once met when Lore had been in charge, stood proudly as the tailors draped Farris’ cloak over a fully stuffed sleeve with a false wooden hand that swung dangerously every time he turned.

“Uh, I don’t think this—”

Near the window, Vera made a subtle cutting motion with her hand.

“—matches the length of my real arm.”

The tailors spent another two hours measuring, pinning, repining, then sewing his sleeve-arm-hand thingy up a whole extra eighth of an inch.

Fenrir spent those two hours standing, sitting, pacing, and then finally examining his stump in the mirror for so long Vera had to cover it with a blanket by the time Ralph ushered the tailors back in with his thrice-altered clothes.

Ralph stood proudly while the tailors dressed him, chin held high, hands clasped behind his back. “Perfect, sire, no one will be the wiser!”

Fenrir would have argued that it’d be really hard not to miss a wooden hand swinging around like a weapon but, again, Vera made a sharp motion and Fenrir forced out a smile.

“Thanks, Ralph.” Fenrir turned to the tailors, his smile coming a little easier when their uneasy faces clued him in that this had all been the palace steward’s design. “These are the best fitting clothes I’ve ever had.” Which was true, despite the whole part man, part doll problem.

The tailors filed out and Ralph took up the rear, bowing low before shutting the door behind him.

“Give it a day then we’ll cut it off,” Vera said, curiously vicious.