I watched Marc depart for the meeting with the half-bloods with a heavy heart, hating that I’d been the one to cost him something that had mattered so much. Logically, I understood Tristan’s concerns – saw the need for the half-bloods to know who the true leader of the revolution was. What I did not understand was why Tristan seemed intent on driving Marc away when he was so integral to their plots. What we’d done didn’t seem to warrant the reaction.

But the more I thought on it, the more I realized that Tristan’s actions were as much a way to protect himself as they were to protect the sympathizer cause, if not more. Marc was like an older brother to him, and I thought, perhaps, that he was unconsciously pushing him away to insulate himself from what he saw as Marc’s imminent demise. There was only one way, as far as I could see, to undo the harm that had been done to their relationship, and that was for me to survive.

To live.

Such a simple thing, on the surface. Heart to keep beating, lungs to keep breathing, but my father was not wrong when he’d said I faced a certain inevitability. The child would come, and while I hoped and prayed with all my heart that it would be many months from now, and that he or she would live, I knew that the more trauma my body suffered, the less likely I was to survive.

Which meant the less likely it was that Marc would survive.

The injustice of it, the unfairness, ground upon my mind as I paced through the house, trying and failing to derive a solution, but there was none. The sacrifice of one life for the chance of saving the other, neither of which would be at risk if I hadn’t made the choice to save myself. Rightly or wrongly, that was the worst part of it: that all of our woe had resulted from my fear, from my will to endure, my desire for love. From my selfish wish to have a life worth living. I’d gotten exactly what I wanted, but the cost… the cost was beyond what I’d ever imagined. And it need not have been, if only I hadn’t fallen prey to my father’s trickery, because I could have had nearly all those things without risking anyone other than myself. And Marc wouldn’t be on his way to a meeting where he’d give up a role I knew he cherished more than he ever admitted.

Depression dragged me into the darkest corners of my mind, visions of all the many ways our situation would play out circulating through my thoughts. Down and down, and with them came a regret that was crippling. And no matter how hard I fought it, unrelenting.

Which meant I had to do something.

---

Other than the time I’d spent in the galleries, I’d only on the very rarest of occasions visited the royal library, my leisure time dedicated to my art rather than to reading. Sadly, that left me woefully unequipped to navigate the enormous structure with anything resembling expedience, so I went in search of one of the multiple librarians employed by the crown.

I found one bent over an ancient-looking tome, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper as though his life depended on it. He was so deeply embroiled with his work that though I stood almost next to him for several moments, he did not notice my presence until I gave a soft cough.

He started upright, stool going sideways to clatter against the marble floor, pot of ink splattering in every direction, including all over the pages of the manuscript. He stared in undisguised horror at the stained pages until I stepped closer, using my magic to lift the ink from the paper, returning the tiny droplets to their pot.

“Incredible,” he said, touching the pristine pages. “The level of focus…”

I shrugged. “I learned as a child to clean up my messes or face the consequences.”

He finally seemed to realize who precisely he was speaking to, collapsing into an awkward bow that knocked him against the table, nearly sending the ink toppling once more. “My apologies, my lady. I did not realize…”

I waved away his panic. “It’s of no matter – well I know what it’s like to lose oneself in one’s work.”

“Of course.” He bobbed another bow. “We have several pieces of your work here, including your portrait of Her Majesty, which–”

On any other day, I’d be willing to discuss artwork for hours, but not today, so I interrupted. “What is your name, sir?”

“Martin, my lady. Fifth librarian.”

He couldn’t have been any older than I was, only just having completed his guild training, though he must have scored high to earn a placement here. “Martin, I require some assistance in my research, if you are willing.”

“Of course.” He bowed again. “On which topic?”

“Bonding.”

He led me through the towering shelves of books with the confidence of one who all but lives among them, stopping next to one, the crystal sconces in close proximity brightening to reveal the titles. Extracting two volumes, he held them out. “These are particularly well done.”

Opening one, I took in the pages of drawings of intricate bonding marks, all labeled with the names and titles of those who bore them. Some brilliant silver. Some greying with a mate’s illness.

Some black.

“Every bonding mark is unique,” Martin said, seeming to misinterpret my silence as I stared at the blackened marks of a woman who’d survived her husband’s death some two hundred years past, the image filling me with both terror and hope.

Handing back the volumes, I said, “I’m rather more interested in the nature of the magic. Whether–” I swallowed hard “–whether there is anything about the chances of surviving the death of a spouse.”

His face filled with sympathy, and though Marc’s and my situation was well known – and discussed – in Trollus, it still troubled me that we were seen as a tragedy. “I’m not dead yet,” I snapped, then pressed a hand to my temple as he looked away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Martin made a noncommittal noise, then ran a finger down the spines of a long row of books. “There are innumerable accounts of survival, as well as the steps certain individuals took which they believed allowed them to endure the loss, but…”

That was exactly what I was interested in, although his hesitation told me all I needed to know.

“But there is no pattern,” he continued. “No way of predicting who will survive the severing, and no proven method for improving one’s chances. If there were, it would be well known and practiced. I’m happy to set the best of them out for your reading, but I do not think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

The words on the spines seemed to blur and dance, taunting me with the futility of this errand.

“And there is no way to break it?” To even have asked the question felt like infidelity on my part, to consider destroying the greatest gift that had ever been given to me.

Silence, then, “None other than death, my lady.”

Which circled back to the only solution: my survival. “What literature do you have on afflictions?” I asked. “Specifically, my own.”

The section was enormous. Row after row of volumes detailing the impact of iron, inbreeding, and confinement on my people, but as much as I was tempted to blame the human witch Anushka and her curse, my fingers drifting to the gold necklace at my throat told the truth. It was our own doing, our ancestors’ greed that had tied us to this world. All Anushka had done was make our world smaller.

“This isn’t one of my areas of focus,” Martin said, examining the shelves. “I’m afraid it never really captivated my attention.”

“Because you aren’t afflicted.” I immediately bit my tongue, because it was possible his was an affliction that was as hidden as my own. But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the case. There was a certain selfishness to interest: one cared about what affected oneself, and only the best of people cared for what lay beyond that sphere.

A frown furrowed his brow, but he didn’t answer, only selected a volume. “This is specific to your concern, my lady.”

Sweat rose on my palms. I knew I couldn’t be cured. But maybe, just maybe, the key to understanding my ailment, to surviving it, resided within these pages. But as I flipped the cover, only unmarked paper greeted my greedy gaze. Startled, I flipped from cover to cover, but there was nothing. “These are blank.”

“Pardon?” Martin snatched the volume out of my hands, staring at it in bewilderment. “How strange.” Setting it aside, he extracted several more volumes, and the prickle of agitated magic across my skin told me that it was more of the same. I stood frozen in place while the librarian tore into the shelves, swiftly tossing aside those specific to my affliction and turning to those more encyclopedic in nature, but everything to do with uncontrolled bleeding had been excised from the pages.

“Impossible,” Martin whispered, a book held loosely in one hand.

Except that it wasn’t. Every scrap of research the royal library possessed about my affliction had been purged. And I knew who was responsible.

My father.

And there was only one reason I could think of for him to do it. He wanted to eliminate any chance of me surviving my pregnancy. The worst part of it was, there might have been something here. Something within these pages that would have ensured that Marc, our child, and I would endure, and now it was gone.

“Who would have done this? And why? For what purpose?” Martin demanded, but I wasn’t really listening, my ears roaring with fury. “Please excuse me, I have to go,” I said, and I bolted to the front of the library.

And nearly collided with Marc’s mother.

“Pénélope,” she said, taking my arm. “You shouldn’t be out unaccompanied.”

“Why not?” I demanded. “I’m tired of hiding from him.”

“I know you are, dear, but today isn’t the day.”

Only then did I notice her agitation, her face turned toward the far side of the city as though her blind eyes saw more than just blackness. I tensed, realizing now that half my agitation was not just my own – it was Marc’s. Something was amiss. “What’s going on?”

The Comtesse didn’t answer. Or if she did, I didn’t hear it, because a heartbeat later, Trollus shuddered with a horrific boom. Stone blasted out from the Dregs only to come smashing down, screams and turmoil filling the air.

Next to me, Marc’s mother collapsed.

I managed to catch her, lowering her to the smooth white stone. “My lady? What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not yet. Please… not yet.”

Then she went still.

“No,” I pleaded, knowing in my heart that this was somehow my father’s doing. Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I screamed, “Help! Somebody help us!”