“That poem,” he breathed, voice feeling far away. “The pin … But she’s—”

“Dead?” She said it too brightly, and her eyebrows rose like it was a joke he was too stupid to fathom. “Do you still not understand? Avice Ferrers is just as dead as Knighton Villiers.”

Ba-DUM—his heart gave a hard, heavy squeeze. His fingers tingled, and cold sweat beaded on his brow.

He’d changed his name, hadn’t he? After what he’d done to Billy, he’d needed to put distance between himself and Knighton Villiers, and he’d wanted to escape the constant reminder of his father. So Knigh Blackwood had served the purpose.

And could she have done the same? No, when said out loud Ay-viss didn’t sound like Vice, but when written down … Take off the A and Avice became Vice.

Lady Avice Ferrers had become Lady Vice.

Oh gods.

Hands shaking, they raked through his hair.

Oh gods. What had he done?

“You didn’t kill her … you are her.” He blinked. The voice didn’t sound like his, but it came from his raw throat.

“Oh, well done.” She clapped, then winced and gripped her hands together. Blisters and red burns covered her knuckles and fingers. The sight of each one made him crumble just a little more, like the old wall he stood on.

Wild Hunt take him, this was his fault.

“What happened? How did you—” He shook his head, throat closing.

She snorted. “You don’t get to have that story.”

No, of course not. Not after … Damnation. What have I done?

All this. Her trial. Her punishment. And what had he ever, really, seen her do wrong? She’d been a pirate for years, but she’d wanted to become a privateer, she’d told him that in their night-time talks. Even before the letter of marque, there were startlingly few reports of The Morrigan attacking Albionic ships.

He had no guilt about employing underhand tactics against pirates. To catch them, he had to think like them. His unorthodox methods were one thing when used to right a wrong, but to execute a wrong …

“Vee—Avice, I—”

“Don’t call me that.” All hint of amusement had vanished, leaving her face cold, tired, and so sickly it made his stomach spasm.

He swallowed down the nausea, but every part of him roiled, churned, like an angry sea upon a shingle beach. He’d continuously fought his feelings for her, not trusting his emotions or gut instinct, and that was what led to this mistake. This gross mistake. He’d been far too eager to believe himself wrong, to believe the worst about her.

“Vee, I”—he shook his head—“I’ve been an idiot. I’m so sorry—and I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I’m going to get you out of here.”