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“Not him. My darling brother. The second trial has begun—obfuscation. But the power of the Light is in revelation. And right now, we could use some revelation.”

I blink. “Your plan . . . is for me to spy on Galvin and learn how to kill him.”

“Yes.”

“You think he’ll just offer up that information?”

“I think he’s arrogant enough to believe he has complete control over you.” It could work. I’m the only one who’s safe with Galvin right now—the only one he can’t hurt more than he already has.

I’m still uncertain. “I could turn on you.” He doesn’t understand the strength of the monster within me, how it roars for his blood, how eager it is to obey my sire.

“Like I said, I have faith in you.” Foolish, foolish boy.

“What will you do?”

“Find the others. Find your godfather. When you have what you need, find me.”

He’s still a traitor. And I have more questions than answers right now about the Dark and the Light, about him and his history. But we have the need to kill Galvin in common. For now, that’s enough.

I nod.

He smiles tightly. “Good luck, Vesper.” He reaches for me as though to touch my shoulder, and I step away from his grasp. I don’t know what I’ll do if he touches me, if I can withstand the temptation again. Every moment near him is a battle. My mouth is dry from an unnatural thirst, and I find myself counting the seconds till he leaves.

“Go,” I beg. “Please.”

He nods solemnly. And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the empty chapel.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Abright light flares behind me, and I spin. The fire I started in a hunger-fueled rage has grown. It’s overtaken the altar, burning the cloth, flowers, and book of prayers resting atop it. The flames suddenly burst toward the ceiling.

I look around me for anything to extinguish it. But then a dark shape appears in the midst of the flames. It’s a tall, humanlike figure.

And then all at once, the flames are extinguished. My scythe is still barren of magic, and the room is pitch black, the air suddenly bitingly cold. Then I hear humming.

It comes from the rafters, a child’s voice, growing louder and dimmer and echoing from here and there so that I can’t quite pinpoint its source. A shape forms above me, among the arching buttresses of the peaked ceiling—the barest of gray amid the black, like the movement of fabric in the wind. The humming transforms into a soft, barely whispered song.

“Little girl, little girl, hear my lullaby. Cease your wandering and your wondering all through the night. Take my hand. I’ll hold you tight. And keep you and guard you this long dark night.”

This could be the Ridding. The spirits of the school could be tempting me to use the Dark. But this feels different from before. There’s a sweetness in the air, one that creeps into my bones and lulls my mind into a sleepy fog. The billowing fabric moves toward me, like it’s gliding on the air, growing brighter until a figure appears. A child, cloaked in a white gown, her face transparent and blank.

My hands tremble, from either fear or the plunging temperatures. I step back, ready to run, but my feet are stilled by her voice, frozen not of my will, but of something unnatural grabbing hold of me.

“Still, little girl, rest and be. The time has come. You will listen to me.”

“What do you want?” I manage to ask, voice shaking.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t fear me. You know me. I am she—the second Sister of Necessity.”

The sister of the old crone, one of the spirits of Gossemort. Her presence can mean nothing good for me.

“I am the fire—your life is my tinder. I am called Saint Decima, and I am the Ender.” It’s then that she lifts her small hand. In it, she holds a pair of scissors, pewter with an ornately carved handle. The blades are long and sharp, catching what minimal light penetrates the hall.

“Your journey is long, your path is unsure, your mind is muddled, but your heart is pure,” she sings in her soft child’s voice. “I will give you my judgment. I will mark your plight. The end of your suffering by the end of the night.”

“Or you could stop this,” I say. “You and your sisters—you’re allowing the Ridding. You’re the spirits of this school. You could protect it.” My mouth might be very well getting me in trouble again.

Her head tilts, her eyes frighteningly wide and focused in a way no child’s should be. Her other hand lifts, and my stomach lurches when I see a long, bloodied thread. It looks just like the one Saint Nona spun in the clocktower. “You made a bargain with my sister, left your life up to Fate. Once your oath is fulfilled, your destiny awaits.” Saint Decima opens the shears, her fingers curling around the handle. “Try as you might to manipulate and scheme, the death of all things is marked only by me. Wage war on your fate, but choice is a lie. By the end of the night, you will surely die.”