Wren wished him good night and hurried into the corridor. Her path through the estate was lit only by the sputtering magic cupped in her hands like water. Through the tinny buzz of exhaustion in her skull, Wren almost believed that conversation was a dream. But as she replayed it again and again, Wren was becoming increasingly certain of two things.

One, Alistair Lowry knew who Hal Cavendish was and what plagued him.

Two, if she didn’t cure this poison soon, she would be the one left out in the dark.

In the quiet of her room, everything fell away. Wren shed her suspicions along with her cape, casting them aside in a rumpled heap. At her desk, it was easy to pretend that this—the next batch of antidote—was the only thing that mattered. Right now, it had to be the only thing that mattered. She wanted nothing to do with sealed-off corridors and Lowry’s veiled threats.

Hannah had taken the beaker off the burner for her and organized her desk—a gesture she appreciated. She prepared a slide with Hal’s blood and dribbled in a few drops of the antidote.

Underneath the microscope, Wren watched as the serum’s compounds enveloped the goddessblood toxin. Bit by bit, they broke down the poison until it was small enough to be engulfed by the immune system. Wren came untethered from her body and stared into the eyepiece with numb amazement.

It worked.

She could cure Hal. She could go home.

In a little over a week, she would be home.

To hell with the curfew. She’d administer the first dose to Hal at once. After gathering her supplies, Wren hurried down the hall, buoyed by the lacy trail of her nightgown and the light bounce of her hair. When she flung open his bedroom door, the air barely stirred.

The silence was eerie, unbroken even by the rasp of Hal’s breathing. His heartbeat kept a halting rhythm, as faint as the flutter of moth’s wings. As she approached his bed, the soft candlelight washed over him. He did not move beneath the blood-spattered sheets.

Cold terror seized her. He wasn’t … He couldn’t be …

Wren shook him by the shoulder. “Hal?”

His eyes cracked open, and in them was a glimmer that filled her with a rush of relief. Salvation. “You’re here.”

“Of course.” She grabbed a fistful of the sheets and dabbed at the blood on his face. She could hardly dwell on the intimacy of it, how he let her fuss over him without any protests. How long had he been like this while Lowry detained her? She affixed the antitoxin to a syringe, squeezing the stopper until liquid oozed onto the tip of the needle like a pearl.

“Wren.” He’d hadn’t said her name since their first meeting. Where that was all cold antagonism, this was … almost tender. Delirious again, she decided.