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“Clotho made it for him,” Nesta said, relieved that Gwyn was willing to play along, to try to be normal. “I don’t think any of ours stood a chance.”

Gwyn’s throat bobbed as she surveyed Clotho’s work, still awed. “Make sure the High Lord and Lady know how precious it is.”

Nesta nodded, heart racing. “I also came here because I wanted to ask you for a favor. To help me work on something.”

All amusement faded from Gwyn’s eyes. “You came here to ask me to do work for you.”

The other words went unspoken: We haven’t spoken in months and you’re suddenly here to ask me for a favor?

Nesta swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. It was so much harder, even now, to opt for calm explanations over a barbed retort. But for Gwyn, it would always be worth it. “I need someone to write down my account of events that occurred recently. Discreetly.”

Curiosity mingled now with the sarcastic disbelief in Gwyn’s fine features.

So Nesta went on, fumbling for the words, “It . . . it was big enough, important enough, that I think there should be an official record of it left for future generations. I was hoping that the best would assist me in the task.” She meant it sincerely, but Gwyn was having none of it. Her expression remained unchanged. So distant, so far from the joy that Nesta had just witnessed radiating from her friend while she sang.

It pained Nesta to behold. Something had happened, more than Nesta overriding her wishes on Ramiel’s slopes. But she couldn’t ask her friend about it. It was clear that wouldn’t be received well.

Gwyn only stared, waiting for an explanation.

“I . . .” Nesta clenched and unclenched her fingers at her sides. “I wasn’t ready to come back here, to even talk to you about doing this until . . .” She hadn’t been ready until she’d been drowning in the sea, and realized that if she died, this history would die with her. Even Azriel didn’t know the entirety of it. “I wasn’t ready.” She offered a tentative smile that she prayed her friend would echo. “But I am now.”

Yet still no smile graced Gwyn’s lips. “I’m needed for the Equinox preparations, I’m afraid. Perhaps after, if Merrill can spare me.”

Nesta understood precisely what her friend meant: No.

The silence that spread between them was so awful that Nesta blurted, “You’re invited, you know. To Nyx’s Naming Day. Emerie’s coming. She—we’d love to see you.”

Gwyn slid her hands into the pockets of her robe, probably to fiddle with the Invoking Stone she always kept in there, rather than on her brow like the others. “Again, I’m needed here.” The same excuse Clotho had offered.

“You can’t hide down here forever,” Nesta said quietly.

Gwyn stilled. Nesta immediately regretted the words—though not necessarily the sentiment. “I wasn’t aware I was hiding.”

“I meant . . . you should live your life,” Nesta attempted to clarify.

“That’s what everyone else here does,” Gwyn said. “They live out their lives in the library. Why can’t I?”

It really wasn’t the time or place for this conversation, but Nesta couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “Because you went out there, and you triumphed, and . . . what was it all for, if you’re just going to stay down here in the darkness?”

“I’m content down here in the darkness,” Gwyn said with unusual sharpness. “My work fulfills me, despite what you might think.”

Nesta opened her mouth, but someone spoke from behind her.

“If that work is so fulfilling, Gwyneth,” Merrill sneered, “why aren’t you doing it right now?”

Nesta grimaced as she twisted to find the white-haired beauty seemingly floating toward them on a phantom wind. “Merrill.”

Merrill sniffed through her pert nose and pointed with a slim hand toward the open temple doors. “I’ve been waiting an hour for you to proofread the latest chapter, Gwyneth. Do I need to wait another?”

Nesta’s fingers clenched again.

But Gwyn’s face remained impassive. “No, Merrill.” All traces of anger, of fight, faded into resignation. Gwyn added halfheartedly to Nesta, “I’ll see you later.”

Nesta knew it wouldn’t be anytime soon. But she couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand Gwyn backing down, couldn’t stand the cold distance, the resignation to Merrill’s cruelty.

Nesta called out to Gwyn’s back, “Come to Nyx’s Naming Day tomorrow. Please.”

Merrill laughed, nasty and sharp. “I’d die of shock if she did.”