“You tell,” the man said, holding her with one hand, reaching for his belt knife with the other. “You tell, or I hurt you. Bad.”

Matisse struggled uselessly. If her Elantrian eyes could have formed tears, she would have been crying. As if to prove his point, the soldier held up his knife before her. Matisse had never felt such terror in her life.

And that was when the ground began to shake.

The eastern sky had begun to glow with the coming of dawn, but that light was overshadowed by a sudden burst of light from around the perimeter of the city. The soldier paused, looking up at the sky.

Suddenly Matisse felt warm.

She didn’t realize how much she’d missed feeling warm, how much she’d grown used to the stale coolness of an Elantrian body. But the warmth seemed to flow through her, like someone had injected a hot liquid into her veins. She gasped at the beautiful, amazing feeling.

Something was right. Something was wonderfully right.

The soldier turned toward her. He cocked his head, then reached out and rubbed a rough finger across her cheek, where she had been wounded long ago.

“Healed?” he said, confused.

She felt wonderful. She felt … her heart!

The man, looking confused, raised his knife again. “You healed,” he said, “but I can hurt you again.”

Her body felt stronger. Yet she was still just a young girl, and he a trained soldier. She struggled, her mind barely beginning to comprehend that her skin was no longer blotched, but had turned a silvery color. It was happening! As Ashe had predicted! Elantris was returning!

And she was still going to die. It wasn’t fair! She screamed in frustration, trying to wiggle free. The irony seemed perfect. The city was being healed, but that couldn’t prevent this terrible man from—

“I think you missed something, friend,” a voice suddenly said.

The soldier paused.

“If the light healed her,” the voice said, “then it healed me too.”

The soldier cried out in pain, then dropped Matisse, stumbling to the ground. She stepped back, and as the terrible man collapsed, she could finally see who was standing behind: her father, glowing with an inner light, the taint removed from his body. He seemed like a god, silvery and spectacular.

His clothing was ripped where he’d been wounded, but the skin was healed. In his hand he held the very sword that had been impaling him moments before.

She ran to him, crying—she could finally cry again!—and she grabbed him in an embrace.

“Where are the other children, Matisse?” he said urgently.

“I took care of them, Father,” she whispered. “Everyone has a job, and that’s mine. I take care of the children.”

*   *   *

“And what did happen to the children?” Raoden asked.