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“Galvin likely seeks me for the reason that I had to leave you and your father,” she says, looking back at me. “Corrupted by jealousy, ruled by fear, Marcel tore magic in two. Antoine Van Asten, your father’s friend and an Elder of Gault, was vassal lord of Imaelhain when it was a Gaultish territory. In what began as a noble defense of the Dark, he established his own kingdom.”

Eyes flash to mine—sharp, sinister Light. It is a lie that the Light is good and the Dark is wicked. I have seen my mother’s Light. It cuts sharper than any shadow. Unfettered hatred flares in her eyes, a spark of something so devilish that I shrink away. “You have to understand this, Nightingale. Why do you think he has sought you? Why do you think he has sheltered you, tutored you? He has hoped that as you grew in the Light and the Dark, that you would lead him back to me. I knew that if either he or Marcel were to find what lies in my possession, they would not use it to heal magic, but to rule it.”

I knew there were secrets. I knew he’d used me. But I had not known this. Love was a tool to get what he wanted from me. My stomach crumples, and I have to look away from her. My mother is a Saint, and I am little more than a key to a lock.

She waits. She does not offer comfort. She lets me ache.

“What lies in your possession . . .” I softly repeat the words, half in question, half in fear.

She takes my hand and lifts me to my feet. We walk to the riverbed, stepping into the water. The cool stream soothes my bloody, aching feet as I step over smooth stones. In the middle of the river, my mother reaches into the water and hums that familiar tune. Moments later, she stands, and in her hand, dripping from the stream, is a book.

I have seen a number of strange and perilous books in my time at Gossemort. A school of magic is no stranger to the odd. But this book is certainly the oddest. Its cover is bound in swaths of leather peculiar enough to turn my stomach and make me not want to ask what animal they were shorn from. But most horrifying of all is a set of jagged teeth sewn into the cover, stitched in the shape of a grinning mouth. I can’t even be sure if they’re all from the same animal. Some are large and flat. Others are small and needle-sharp.

“This is the book that began all magic,” my mother says. “Found by Oras themself.”

Oras—the first meiga to harness magic. Every meiga child knows the legend about how they found a book of magic in the waters, given to them by a mysterious lady . . .

“You’re the lady of the waters,” I whisper. Most ancient of the Saints. My mother isn’t hundreds of years old—she’s thousands.

She nods. “And this was written at a time before magic was shorn. It tells how to heal it, how to anchor it, how to rule it. It is a wonderful and dangerous book, containing many mysteries and truths terrible enough to drive an unworthy person mad. This, I suspect, is what Marcel and his son desire.”

I run my hand over the cover. A way to heal all magic. “Do you know Father’s story?” I ask. “The one he left for me?”

“I’m aware of what the words say. I’m also aware of what interpretation of them the king has clung to, and what path you have been strung down because of it. But you should know, Nightingale, that words are tricky things. They do not often mean what they seem and seem to mean what they don’t. What ought to be said in plain words is oft left to the mud and mire of story. The world would like the Dark and Light to remain divided, but all things are Dim in tales.”

I study the book, my brow knitting together as I think over her words. “It said my bloodbond would heal all magic,” I say.

“What delightfully flexible wording, don’t you think?” Her lips quirk into a mischievous smile, the one that I’ve borrowed for scheming and acts of treason more times than I can count. “The wonder of stories is that you can make them mean whatever you desire.”

Her words weigh on my mind, but I’ll have to contemplate them later. “If we heal magic, the war will end.”

A shadow passes over her eyes. “Marcel is a vicious tyrant. And Antoine Van Asten has always been a force to be reckoned with.”

“Well, then I’m the reckoning.”

She nods again. “So take the book. You are the tie between the Light and Dark. Use it to heal magic.”

She places the book in my arms, looking too much like an eternal being and not like my mother. She comes close, her face shining with Light, and cups my cheeks in her hands. She leans toward me, eyes imploring. “You fight Fate,” she whispers. “Such is a daring endeavor. But I have heard that you are well known for your nerve.”

“Will you fix my heart?” It’s the question I promised myself I would not ask—maybe because it felt like power to pretend I was unbothered, that I could endure the world a hardened, unfeeling creature . . . a little like her. But I can’t. I can’t stand it, letting my heart be this cold, empty thing.

She smiles sadly. “Oh, darling Nightingale. Don’t you know? Your heart was always yours to repair.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Iam back in the icy air and shadows of the graveyard, hope springing in my chest for the first time all night. I take the timepiece from the angel’s outstretched hand, placing it back around my neck.

I do not even get a chance to turn.

He grabs my shoulders, pushing me back into the angel. My skull collides with the stone, and stars of darkness patch my vision. And then—teeth, a pair of wide white eyes, and disheveled dark hair. Galvin is ripping at me, trying to wrench the book from my hands. I scream and fold my arms over it, holding it tight.

The silver stake—it’s in my pocket. But what my mother said . . . I have hope where I didn’t before, that I could find a way to heal magic without this bond or break the bond without dying. Surely the book would have the answers. I can’t kill him yet. Poppy—where is Poppy?

Galvin grips my hair and hurls my skull back against solid stone. I scream.

A yowl breaks through the night, and Galvin abruptly releases me. The cat has leaped at Galvin’s head and currently has its claws deep in the prince’s cheeks. Galvin reaches for it, shouting, trying to yank it free, but the cat is fast. It climbs Galvin like a tree, running up and down his tall frame, slashing at his arm, his neck, his crotch, too fast for Galvin to catch. I’m staring, stunned, when the cat pauses, latched to Galvin’s thigh, and glares at me.

Right. I should run.