They gathered in the yard after mornmeal.

Seven turns had passed, and little had changed—Furian’s fever burned the lesser, but still hadn’t burned out entirely. The fly larvae were doing . . . well, they were doing exactly what maggots do. The process was beyond disgusting, the sight when Maggot pulled back those bandages was almost more than Mia could stomach. And there was still no telling whether it was doing any good.

The gladiatii were of a mood. Buoyed by their victory in the arena and the berth the Falcons of Remus had won in the Venatus Magni. But the price they’d paid . . .

Bryn stayed in her cell, speaking to no one, even at mealtimes. Bladesinger might never fight again. Furian hovered close to death’s door, and Byern was simply dead. If this was the tithe they paid for a chance at freedom, it was drenched in more blood than most would have preferred.

Arkades had summoned them at the command of their domina, the suns beating down on the sand like hammers as the gladiatii of the Remus Collegium assembled. Mia’s ribs ached abominably, the slice on her face itching beneath the crusted gauze. It was odd seeing the world with one eye under a bandage, the lack of depth, the loss of balance. She knew she should go see Ashlinn—Eclipse had appeared in her cell late last nevernight, informing her that their ship had arrived back in Crow’s Rest. But with the situation in the keep the way it was, Mia dare not risk a visit. Furian might wake at any moment, and if Maggot called on her to help with some herbcraft in the middle of the nevernight and the guards discovered her missing . . .

She touched the bandage at her face. She’d not yet mustered the will to look underneath it in a mirror. Wondering what she’d see when she did.

Wondering what Ashlinn would see.

Butcher stood with hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as always. Despite losing his match at Whitekeep, he seemed pleased that he’d earned himself a few more scars to add to his collection.

Sidonius waited silently, arms crossed over the COWARD branded on his broad chest. His cropped hair was getting longer, his blue eyes sparking in the sun. As always, he stood right beside Mia, never straying far if he could help it. He’d sung her praises in their cell, declaring her match against the silkling the greatest he’d ever seen. And still, he didn’t press about her parents. Didn’t ask questions she wasn’t yet prepared to answer. For all his bluster and thuggery, for all his foolery around women, he knew when to talk, and when to keep his mouth shut.

Mia liked him more and more with every passing turn.

But he is not my friend.

Wavewaker stood at Sidonius’s other side, feet planted in the earth like the roots of mountains. He’d fought like a daemon against those scythebears in the arena; he and Sid had fallen shy of their own laurel by only two points. Again, Mia found it hard to imagine the man strutting about the stage in silken hose, talking in rhyming couplets. Standing tall, skin gleaming in the sunslight, he seemed a warrior born.

And he is not my friend.

Bryn stood beside Otho and Felix, looking as though she’d not slept a wink since Whitekeep. It was so strange to see her without her twin—Mia actually caught herself glancing about for Byern. The Vaanian girl walked like a ghost. Bloodshot stare and empty stare, arms wrapped about herself.

And she is not . . .

Bladesinger leaned at the door to the infirmary. Her face was bloodless beneath her tattoos, swordarm slung around her neck with blood-soaked gauze. The slice to her back had been vicious, but the gouge to her arm had been horrendous. None knew if the woman would ever wield a sword again. Mia could see fear in her eyes.

But she is . . .

And Furian?

He lay sleeping on the infirmary slab, Maggot by his side. Mia could feel his pain whenever she strayed too near, as if it were bleeding through the dark at her feet. She had no idea why. Even with all her herbcraft, with Maggot’s remedies, none knew his future, save perhaps the Mother.

“Gladiatii!” Arkades barked. “Attend!”

The assembled warriors straightened, fists to their chests. Leona and Anthea marched out from the verandah, the dona one step ahead of her magistrae.

Leona looked tired, but at last she’d dressed in a manner more like her usual self. She was clad in a flowing white dress, the fabric rippling about her sandals as she took her place on the burning sands. Her hair was plaited about her brow like the victor’s laurel she held in her right hand.

“My Falcons!” she called, raising the laurel high. “Behold!”

The assembled gladiatii cheered, but circumstances being what they were, Mia felt their enthusiasm rang a little hollow.

“Though the tithe we paid was steep, we have the victory we have so long sought. With this laurel comes a berth in the Venatus Magni, five weeks hence. Freedom is within your reach, and soon, the City of Bridges and Bones shall ring with the name of the Remus Collegium!”

A second cheer rang in the yard, much louder than the first. It seemed no matter how deep they ran, the promise of liberty could make any gladiatii forget their sorrows. Wavewaker clapped his hand on Sid’s shoulder, Butcher slapped his thighs and roared. The thought of fighting in the magni was enough to thrill their hearts, and Mia found her blood quickening along with the rest. Picturing Scaeva and Duomo in her mind’s eye.

Soon, bastards . . .

“Three among you stand tall,” Leona declared. “The best and bravest yet trained within these walls under the careful eye of our noble Executus.”

Leona inclined her head to Arkades, who responded with a stiff, formal bow.

“And yet,” she continued, “there was only one who struck the killing blow against the Exile. Only one whose valor and skill have paved our way to glory.”

Leona looked to Mia.

“Crow, step forward.”

Mia glanced to Bladesinger, but did as she was bid, bowing before her mistress. Leona fixed her in that glittering blue stare.

“Kneel,” she said, curtly.

Mia grit her teeth at the reminder of her station, but did as commanded, wincing at the pain of her broken ribs. Taking care not to snag her bandaged brow, Leona placed the silver laurel on Mia’s head. And reaching inside the folds of her dress, she held out Furian’s silver torc on her open palm. It was slightly melted, the metal discolored from the kiss of Ishkah’s venom.

“This is yours now,” Leona said.

Mia frowned toward the infirmary, looking up into the dona’s eyes.

“If we are to have victory in the magni,” Leona continued, “if the Falcons of Remus are to claim the glory that is rightfully ours, I think it shall be by your hand, no other. But in all truth, regardless of what comes, you have earned this, Crow.”

Leona fixed the torc about the girl’s throat.

“My champion,” she declared proudly.

Sidonius roared, and the other gladiatii followed suit, stamping their feet and pounding their hands together. Mia looked once again to Bladesinger, struck by the injustice. ’Singer and Furian had fought just as hard as she, risked just as much—she’d not have triumphed over Ishkah without them. But only Mia was being named in the glories. Only Mia was being called Champion.

This is what you worked for, she reminded herself.

You only need play the game a few weeks longer.

She bowed her head, her voice soft.

“You honor me, Domina.”

“You honor us, Crow. And you will continue to do so in the City of Bridges and Bones. But you’ll not do it clad in leather scraps and offcuts of steel, no. You fight beneath our banner a champion now. And you should look the part.”

Leona clapped her hands.

“Behold.”

Two of the dona’s houseguards wheeled out a wooden dummy from inside the keep, out onto the verandah. The figure was wearing one of the suits of armor that had stood in the entry hall, but Mia realized it had been refitted to her size.

The iron was almost black, polished to a dark luster. The breastplate was engraved with a soaring falcon, and the greaves and spaulders were also crafted like falcons in flight. The breastplate was trimmed with a pleated skirt and sleeves of plated iron, and a cloak of blood-red feathers was draped about its shoulders. The helm was fashioned in the likeness of the warrior goddess Tsana, her expression fierce and merciless. Twin blades were sheathed at its belt; Liisian steel, by the look. A double-edged gladius and a long razored dagger, ideally suited for fighting Caravaggio style.

It was one of the finest suits of armor Mia had ever seen, sure and true. But it must have cost a fortune. A fortune Leona could ill afford.

“You fight beneath our banner a champion now.”

Mia glanced at Leona, holding back her sigh.

“And you should look the part.”

“I thank you, Domina,” Mia said.

“You may thank me in the magni,” Leona replied. “By bringing me the vic . . .”

The dona’s voice trailed off as a houseguard marched into the yard, a young boy in a feathered cap beside him. The lad’s cheek was branded with the single circle, but he wore expensive livery, a little dusty from the road. His doublet was embroidered with the Lion of Leonides.

“Messenger, Mi Dona,” the guard said. “The boy claims the matter urgent.”

“I bring missive from my master, your father, gracious Dona,” the boy said bowing low. “I am instructed to read it aloud, under pain of the lash.”

“Speak, then,” Leona commanded.

The boy produced a sheaf of parchment set with Leonides’s seal. He glanced at the assembled gladiatii, clearly unnerved. But with a loud, clear voice, he began to speak.

“Beloved Daughter,

“It is with a happy heart that I congratulate you upon your victory at Whitekeep. I confess surprise that you did not seek audience to gloat afterward, and it gladdens me to think that the humility I sought to teach you in your childhood has begun to take root. Would that I had . . .”

The boy faltered, glancing up at Leona and swallowing thickly.

“Continue,” she demanded.

The boy stammered a moment before he found his voice.

“ . . . W-would that I had beaten you harder, and more often.”

Several of the gladiatii stirred, glowering at the boy. Mia felt her fingernails cut into her palm, her eyes on the dona. Leona’s expression didn’t change at all.

This is why she hates him so . . .

The lad was sweating now, pawing at the collar of his doublet as if it choked him. Desperate to finish, his cleared his throat and plunged on.

“I have been reliably informed by my business acquaintances that Remus Collegium is in serious arrears with its suppliers. To spare myself the humiliation of seeing a daughter of my line dragged before the debtor’s court, I have taken the liberty of purchasing all debts from your creditors, and consolidating them into a single sum, which is now owed to Leonides Collegium and accrues points weekly.”

Leona’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Your first repayment of three thousand, two hundred and forty-three silver priests is due at the turning of the month, three weeks hence. Should you fail to deliver the required sum, I will have no choice but to seek punitive compensation through the magistrate’s court, and claim possession of your collegium, properties, and other financial holdings by way of reimbursement.

“Please do not think I hold wrath or rancor in my heart for you, my dearest. This is, as you once told me, just business.”

The boy glanced up at Leona, voice trembling.

“If only your dear mother were here to see just how far you have come,” he finished. “With all the respect you are due, your loving f-father, Leonides.”

The courtyard was so still, Mia could have heard Mister Kindly breathing. Looking at the messenger, she realized the poor bastard had no idea about the contents of the letter he was delivering. Glancing at Wavewaker and Otho’s face, the lad fully probably expected to be dragged down to the cliffs and thrown into the sea.

“H-he also wished me to convey you a gift, Mi Dona,” the boy said. “To celebrate your victory.”

Reaching into his pack, the boy produced a bottle of goldwine and placed it on the sand. A blood-red label denoted the vintage on the side.

Albari, seventy-four.

As Leona saw the label, her entire body stiffened with rage. Mia had no idea why, but to the dona, the sight of that bottle was like blood to a whitedrake. With clear effort, Leona drew a deep breath, only the trembling of her clenched fists to bely her fury. And standing tall, she addressed the boy with customary formality.

“Convey all thanks to my father,” she said. “Inform him the magistrate’s involvement will be unnecessary. He will have his coin by month’s end. I do here vow it.”

“Yes, Mi Dona,” the boy bowed, relief flooding his features.

“You may go,” she said, her voice turning to cold steel.

The boy doffed his cap and scurried away as fast as his legs could carry him.

“O, and boy?” Leona said.

The messenger turned, half-wincing, eyebrow raised. “Y-yes, Mi Dona?”

Leona ran her hand over Mia’s new armor, her fingers lingering at the dagger’s hilt. “Please convey condolences to my father at the slaughter of his champion. Tell him that I look forward to watching my Crow butcher his next offering in Godsgrave.”

“Y-yes, Mi Dona,” the boy stammered, and scampered out of sight.

Silence reigned in the yard, only the call of distant gulls and the faint song of the sea to break it. Leona walked across the sand, picked up the bottle of goldwine and held it in her hand, staring at that label. She looked among her gladiatii, fury spotting her cheeks. They had fought so hard, come so far, and even now, on the brink of victory, they still stood at the precipice of disaster. Where in the Daughters’ names would she get that kind of money?

“Back to training, my Falcons,” she commanded. “We have work to do.”

The gladiatii marched to the racks, took up their practice weapons.

The dona turned and walked back into the keep.

Arkades watched her leave.

His eyes were narrowed.

His hands, fists.

* * *

Leona sat in her study, bent over her ledgers, bathed in sunslight spilling through the bay window. The shadows were long and dark, and if one beneath her desk was of a peculiar shape, the dona was too intent on her work to notice.

A guard knocked softly on the door, stepping inside at her command.

“Mi Dona,” the guard said. “Executus begs a word.”

“Send him in,” Leona replied.

Arkades entered, clink thump, clink thump, the guard closing the door behind him. Leona’s gaze didn’t stray from her bookwork, a quill poised in her fingers, scribing figures in her neat, flowing hand. The Albari seventy-four was sat on the desk beside her, unopened. Arkades stood before her, staring at that bottle, shifting his weight.

“What is it, Executus?” the dona asked, not looking up.

“I . . . I wished to see if you were well, Domina.”

“And why would I not be?”

“Your father’s missive . . .”

Leona stilled, finally looking up.

“I thought his gift was a lovely touch.” The dona glanced to the bottle beside her. “I’m surprised he remembered the vintage.”

“I knew him to be the cruelest of men, but . . .” Arkades sighed, his voice soft with sorrow. “Your mother was a fine woman, Mi Dona. You do not deserve such insult. And she did not deserve what he did to her.”

“He beat her to death with a bottle of goldwine, Arkades,” Leona said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Because she knocked over his glass at dinner. Who exactly does deserve that?”

The executus searched the floorboards as if looking the right words. He might be a god on the sands, but here, in the privacy of his dona’s chambers, under her pale blue stare, he seemed as helpless as a newborn.

“If ever . . .”

He paused, swallowed hard. Drawing a deep breath, as if before the plunge.

“If ever you seek comfort . . . that is to say, if ever you wish to talk . . .”

Leona tilted her head, looking her executus in the eye.

“That is very kind of you, Arkades. But I do not think it appropriate.”

He glanced out the window into the yard, to the infirmary where Furian lay.

“ . . . Appropriate?” he repeated.

“I am no longer the girl who spent her childhood on tiptoe, for fear of what might set the monster she lived with off next. I am not the girl who cowered beneath the table as that bottle fell, again and again and again. I am sanguila. I am domina of this collegium. You are my executus. And my father’s cheap theater serves in only one regard: to harden my resolve to stand victorious in Godsgrave.”

Arkades simply stared at her, grief and anger plain on his face.

“I need no comfort,” Leona continued, rage shining in her eyes. “I need that bastard on his fucking knees. If you’d serve me, Arkades, I pray you, serve me in the matter I pay you for. Bring me my victory.”

Leona bent back over her bookwork, resting her head in one hand.

“You may go,” she said.

Arkades stood for an empty moment, utterly mute. Hands in fists. But finally . . .

“Your whisper,” he murmured. “My will.”

The big man turned and limped from the room, shutting the door behind him. Leona dropped her quill as soon as he was gone. Pressing her lips together and drawing one shuddering breath after another. Swiping a hand across her eyes in rage.

Her tears bested, she turned her stare to the bottle on her desk. The sunslight glinting on the glass. The label, etched in blood red.

Leona hung her head, waves of auburn hiding her eyes.

“Father,” she spat.

A knock came at the door.

“Four Daughters, who is it now?” Leona demanded.

“Apologies, Mi Dona,” the guard said, peering inside. “Magistrae seeks audience.”

Leona sighed, smoothed her hair back from her face.

“Very well.”

The older woman entered, pushing the door closed behind her. Leona sat tall in her chair, quill in hand, a fresh picture of poise. Her magistrae stood before her, twisting her braid of long gray hair and bowing her head in courtesy.

“What is it, Anthea?”

“ . . . Domina, you know that ever I have served you faithfully.” Trepidation shone in Magistrae’s eyes as she glanced to that bottle of goldwine. “And I would never seek to do you hurt.”

“Of course.”

“I know your father presses your finances. I did not wish to place one more trouble upon your brow. I’ve struggled with whether or not to bring this to you, bu—”

“Anthea,” Leona said calmly. “Speak your piece.”

“ . . . It is Arkades, Domina.”

Leona looked to the door her executus had just left by.

“What of him?”

“He knows.”

Leona put aside her quill and sat back in the chair, frowning.

“Knows what?”

“Leona,” Magistrae said. “He knows.”

* * *

Mia sat in the infirmary, listening to the nevernight winds blowing off the ocean. The turn in temperature was a welcome relief, but not nearly enough let her breathe easy. Squinting at the horizon earlier, she’d fancied she could see the third sun, poised at the world’s end. Soon it would rise, truelight would begin; awful heat and thrumming crowds and oceans and oceans of blood.

The sounds of the other gladiatii at evemeal filtered through the stone walls, and Mia could hear Butcher complaining about the quality of Finger’s “stew.” To the hoots and cheers of their fellows, the emaciated cook loudly informed the Butcher of Amai where he could stick said stew if he didn’t like it.

Mia’s smile became a wince as Maggot swabbed her cheek with aloe and evermint, the vague sting crawling in her wound. Maggot nodded to herself, wrapping Mia’s face in fresh bandages and tying a gentle knot.

“It’s healing well,” she said. “We can leave the wrappings off next time.”

“Aye,” Mia said. “My thanks.”

“Cheer up, little Crow,” came a groggy voice behind her. “Pretty as you were, you’re not true gladiatii without a few scars.”

Mia turned to Bladesinger, yawning and sitting up on the slab beside her.

“Well, if that’s the case,” the girl smiled, “you’re the truest gladiatii that ever walked the sands, ’Singer.”

“Aye,” the woman smirked. She held up her swordarm, still wrapped in bandages. “It’s going to be a beaut, that much is sure.”

“Can you move it yet?” Mia asked softly.

Bladesinger looked to Maggot, shook her head.

“It’s early turns,” the little girl declared. “Far too early to tell.”

Mia and the older woman exchanged an uneasy glance, but said nothing. Finger shuffled into the infirmary, carrying four steaming bowls on a wooden tray. As he set down his burden with a flourish, Mia looked the cook up and down, wondering how many people parts he’d used in his creation this time.

“Dinner,” he declared. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“Scrumptious,” Maggot smiled. “Thank you, Finger.”

The man scruffed the girl’s hair and shuffled back out. Mia raised an eyebrow.

“Scrumptious?” she said, once the cook was out of earshot. “Of every word in creation, the last I’d use to describe Finger’s cooking is ‘scrumptious,’ Maggot.”

“Depends how you grew up,” the girl shrugged. “Once you’ve eaten raw rat with your bare hands, you become far less choosy about cookery, believe me.”

Mia nodded, sucked her lip. Again she was struck by how much this little girl reminded her of herself. Growing up rough and brash, just as Mia had done after her parents were taken. Unafraid to speak her mind. Maybe a touch too clever for her own good. She knew she shouldn’t. Knew it was weakness.

But Mia liked her.

“Fair point,” she smiled. “Apologies.”

“You want any or not?”

“Give it over, then.”

Maggot passed Mia a bowl, raised an eyebrow at her second patient. “Bladesinger?”

“My thanks.”

The woman set the bowl on the slab beside her. Mia watched her carefully spoon a mouthful with her off-hand. Wondering what would become of her if she never regained use of her swordarm. How quickly would this world dispose of a gladiatii who couldn’t lift a blade?

Fang wandered into the infirmary, the big mastiff looking up at Mia’s bowl and wagging his tail hopefully. She leaned down and scruffed his ears, but kept her dinner to herself.

“How does Furian fare?” Mia asked.

Maggot nodded at the Unfallen, speaking around her mouthful. “Take a look.”

Mia set her bowl aside and rose with a wince—her ribs were still bothering her, and there was no real remedy save working them as little as possible. She stepped to the sleeping Furian’s side, shadow trembling, a familiar hunger rising in her belly that had nothing to do with her waiting meal.

Truth told, the Unfallen looked a little better. Color was returning to his face, and touching his brow, Mia found his fever lessened. Wincing with trepidation, she pulled back the bandages to take a peek. The injuries were ghastly, no doubt about it; the silkling’s venom had burned through muscle and skin across his chest and throat. But instead of the rotten, weeping mess she’d last seen, the wounds were clean, healthy, pink. The sight of fat, wriggling maggots crawling over the fissures in Furian’s skin still made Mia sick to her stomach, and the smell was far from roses. But Black Mother be praised, the blighted flesh was all but gone.

“It’s incredible,” Bladesinger murmured.

“It’s disgusting,” Mia said.

Utterly nauseated, she finally surrendered her bowl of dinner to Fang, who wuffed and began chowing down with relish.

“But aye, it’s incredible,” Mia admitted. “Fine work, Maggot.”

The girl waved her wooden spoon like a queen. “Too kind, Mi Dona. Too kind.”

“What comes next?”

“It’s more an art than a science, aye?” Maggot replied, wiping her nose on her arm. “I think in few turns we might rid him of the larvae. My ma told me to drown them in hot vinegar, but I feel bad about that with all the work they’ve done. After that, we keep it clean, keep it salved, keep him dosed. His fever is still fluxing, and the infection could creep back with bad luck. He’s a long way from out of the desert, but between you and me, his odds are passing fair.”

“Will he be able to fight in the magni?” Bladesinger asked.

“Steady on,” the little girl said. “I’m not a bloody miracle worker.”

“Seems like a miracle to me.” Mia shook her head in admiration, smiled at the girl. “Your ma really taught you all this?”

“Aye. She could have taught me more, if she was given time to. Sometimes I wonder about all the knowings she took to her grave.”

“Aye,” Mia sighed. “I know what you mean.”

Maggot spooned her stew around the bowl, sucking her lip. “It’s funny, but I was thinking . . . when you take a person out of the world, you don’t just take them, do you? You take everything they were, too.” The little girl squinted at Bladesinger. “Do you ever think about that? When you kill someone in the arena?”

“No,” the woman said. “That way lies madness.”

“What do you think about, then?” Maggot asked, taking another bite.

“I think better them than me,” Bladesinger replied.

The little girl turned to Mia, talking with her mouth full. “What about you, Crow? Do you think about the things you’re taking away?”

Mia parted her lips, but found no words to speak.

Truth was, she did think about those she’d ended. More and more, it seemed. The Luminatii she’d killed at the Mountain, those she could justify easily. But everyone after that? The senator’s sons and magistratii she’d unwittingly murdered in Scaeva’s employ? Those men in the Pit at the Hanging Gardens? The gladiatii she’d killed in the arena? In some way, they all paved the way for her to be here, just a few weeks from the consul’s and the cardinal’s throats. But did that truly vindicate her?

“I think the end justifies the means,” she replied. “As long as the end isn’t mine.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“I have to.”

“Well,” Maggot smiled sadly. “Better you than me.”

Fang whined, licked at Mia’s fingers with his flat, pink tongue.

“I’m sorry, boy,” she said, kneeling to scruff the dog’s chin. “You already ate it all. Surprised you’ve got room for more.”

The mastiff whined again, deeper this time, licking at his chops. He snuffled Mia’s hand, walking in a small circle with his stubby tail between his legs. Sitting on his haunches, he made a hacking noise, as if from a hairball. And looking at Mia with his big brown eyes, the dog coughed a spray of bright red blood all over the floor.

“Maw’s teeth,” Mia cursed, flinching away.

Maggot’s bowl of stew fell from her hand, spattered over the stone.

“Crow . . .”

Mia looked up, saw a trickle of blood spill from the girl’s lips.

“I don’t feel w-well . . . ,” she whispered.

“O, shit,” Mia breathed.

Maggot slipped down off the slab, coughed a mouthful of blood. Mia rushed to her side, caught her before she fell. She looked to Bladesinger, the woman wiping at her lips and bringing her knuckles away red. As she watched, the woman clutched her belly and coughed a spatter of blood onto the stone.

Mia looked at Fang, curled up in a puddle of gore.

The empty bowl the dog had eaten her dinner from . . .

“O, shit . . .”

Poison . . .

“Help me!” she roared. “Help!”

She heard cries of pain from the verandah, bewildered curses, hacking coughs. Clutching Maggot in her arms, Mia staggered to the infirmary door and saw every gladiatii in the collegium on their knees or on their backs, mouths and hands smeared with blood, bowls of stew spilled over the tables and floor. Maggot moaned, coughed another mouthful of blood onto Mia chest. A gobsmacked Finger was staring at the carnage, several guards standing around dumbfounded.

“Don’t just stand there, fucking help me!” Mia roared.

Finger saw Maggot in Mia’s arms, hobbled to her side. Somewhere in the house, someone began clanging the alarm. Between the pair of them, Mia and Finger carried Maggot back into the infirmary, laid her on a slab. Bladesinger had collapsed, blood leaking from her mouth. Mia looked about the room, mind racing. Kneeling by Maggot’s bowl, she dipped her finger into the stew, tasted and spat. Beneath the seasoning, she could sense a bitterness, a metallic tang. Her mind racing, all the knowledge that had made her Spiderkiller’s favored student spinning in her memory, repeating the four principles of venomcraft to herself, over and over.

Delivery: Ingested.

Efficacy: Lethal.

Celerity: Five minutes or less.

Locality: Stomach and intestines.

Mia’s eyes widened, the answer coming to her in a flash.

“It’s Elegy,” she said, turning to Finger.

“Are you—”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Do you have cow’s milk in the kitchen? Or cream?”

“ . . . I’ve goat’s milk for the dona’s tea.”

“Set it boiling. All of it. Now.”

“But I—”

“Now, Finger!”

The cook hobbled off, and Mia started sorting through Maggot’s jars and phials. Elegy was a deadly poison, relatively difficult to concoct unless you knew what you were about. But it was one of the first toxins Mercurio had taught her how to brew, and while the antidote wasn’t well known, it was easy enough for a Blade of Our Lady of Blessed Murder to fix. Grateful the dona had allowed Maggot to restock, Mia ransacked the shelves, grabbing the ingredients she needed.

Brightweed. Lopsome. Milkthistl—

“Four Daughters . . .”

Mia turned and saw Dona Leona in her nightshift, standing by the infirmary door. Magistrae stood beside her, horror on her face as the alarm continued to ring.

“What in the Everseeing’s name . . . ,” Leona breathed.

“Poison,” Mia said. “Elegy, mixed with their evemeal. We don’t have much time. I can’t find the fucking silver nitrate . . . Do you have a mirror?”

The dona’s face was fixed on Maggot’s, watching the blood leaking from her lips.

“Leona!” Mia barked. “Do you have a looking glass?”

The woman blinked, focused on Mia. “A-aye.”

“Bring it to the kitchen. Now!” She turned to the guards hovering beside their mistress. “You, carry Maggot, you two bring Bladesinger. Hurry!”

“Do as she says!” Leona barked.

Mia gathered her armful of phials and jars, rushed across the yard with the guards in tow while Leona dashed up to her room. She could hear Maggot coughing again, Bladesinger groaning. The verandah looked like a war zone, gladiatii laid out in pools of blood. Wavewaker was facedown, Bryn leaning on a table, thick ribbons of gore and mucus spilling from her lips, Sidonius on his back. Executus stood amid the carnage, wide-eyed and horrified.

“Arkades, turn Sidonius on his side,” Mia shouted, rushing past. “Roll everyone off their backs or they’ll drown in their own blood!”

In the kitchen, Finger was leaning over a large pot, stirring the steaming milk inside. Mia pushed him out of the way, began adding her ingredients, measuring carefully despite her haste. She had no seconds to waste—every moment would drag Maggot and the others closer to death. But as always, the passenger in her shadow kept her nerves like steel, her hands steady. First rule of venomcraft: a poorly mixed antidote was as bad as no antidote at all.

The guards placed Maggot on the kitchen bench behind her. The girl was ghastly pale, moaning and bringing up another gout of blood.

“Keep her throat clear, she needs to breathe!”

Sweat in her eyes. Pulse hammering under her skin. Maggot coughed again, a bubble of bright red popping at her lips.

“Maggot, you keep breathing, you hear me?”

Leona arrived with a large oval looking glass from her bedroom wall.

“Will this d—”

Mia grabbed it off her, seized a kitchen knife and pried the mirror’s frame away. Taking the blade to the back of the glass, she began furiously shaving away the reflective layer of silver nitrate, gleaming flakes of metal spilling onto the kitchen bench. Maggot coughed again, head lolling on her shoulders as if her neck were broken.

“Crow, she’s stopped breathing!” Magistrae cried.

“Maggot, don’t you die on me!” Mia shouted over her shoulder.

She gathered the flakes of nitrate, crushed them to powder with a mortar and pestle. Shoving Finger aside again, she added the powder to the boiling concoction on the stove, the scent of burning metal in the air. She looked over her shoulder, saw Maggot convulsing in Leona’s arms. Prayers to the Black Mother, the Four Daughters, whoever was listening spilling over her lips.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please please please . . .”

It was ready, the concoction set. Mia scooped a healthy dose into a clay cup, turned to the girl behind her. Maggot was pale as death, still as a mill pond. The dona’s eyes were wide, her nightshift and hands spattered in the girl’s blood.

“Take a cupful to everyone affected,” she told Finger. “The unconscious ones first. Make them drink at least three mouthfuls, take a funnel if you have to, go go!”

Mia wrangled Maggot from Leona’s arms, breathing quick. Laying the girl on her back, Mia wiped the bloody foam from Maggot’s lips, forced her mouth open. Holding the cup in steady hands, she poured a goodly dose into the girl’s mouth.

“Swallow it, baby,” she whispered, massaging her throat. “Swallow.”

Maggot wasn’t listening. She surely wasn’t swallowing. Mia pulled her up to sitting position, the antidote spilling from the little girl’s lips. Leona and Magistrae helped prop up Maggot between them, and tilting her head back, Mia poured more of the draft into her open mouth.

“Swallow, Maggot,” she begged. “Please.”

Mia massaged the girl’s throat, shook her gently. Maggot wasn’t responding, wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. Hanging limp in their arms like some broken doll. The Blade in her had seen all this before. But the girl in her, the girl who looked at Maggot and saw a pale reflection of herself, she refused to believe it. Praying for some miracle, like in the books she used to read as a child. Some prince to ride in on a silver charger to wake Maggot with a kiss. Some fae godmother with her pockets full of magik and wishes to spare.

Mia felt hot tears in her eyes, a crushing weight on her shoulders. A scream was building in her belly, but her voice only a whisper.

“Please, baby.”

“It’s funny, but when you take a person out of the world, you don’t just take them, do you?”

Leona looked at Mia, eyes wide with shock, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“ . . . Crow?”

“You take everything they were, too.”

“Please,” Mia begged.

“Do you ever think about that?”

The cup slipped from Mia’s fingers, shattered on the floor.

Do you ever think about that?