“You can’t know that.” Hal crossed the space between them and cradled her jaw in one hand. As he lifted her chin to meet his gaze, she saw only tenderness there. “What’s done is done. What-ifs will only tear you apart.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she whispered. “How do you do it? How do you live with that kind of regret?”

Hal didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was weary. “You keep walking forward. You’re strong enough to carry the weight of it.”

“No one is as strong as you, then.”

“That’s not true.” In the dim light, she could see tears glimmering in his eyes. He squeezed them shut, turning his face away from her. “Forgive me. I’m too weak to stay composed. I can’t even take my own advice.”

Wren took his hands. They were ice-cold in hers. “You are not weak for grieving. For feeling anything.”

Hal looked startled by her sudden ferocity. Saying it wrenched something in her free. Could that be true? After everything she’d endured because of her emotions, after everything Isabel and Una had told her, could she really believe that?

Yes, some buried part of her said. Isn’t that what makes us strong?

Her sensitivity had always forced her to look straight at the darkness in the world—and allowed her to imagine how she might fix it. Empathy brought her and Hal together. It carried them here. If they could work together, if they could learn to care for each other, then there was still hope for their people.

She wasn’t weak for feeling, either. Hardened hearts were breakable. But hers had endured again and again. As much as it terrified her, Wren wanted more than anything to believe herself. But right now, she only needed to convince Hal.

All she’d ever wanted was someone to help hold her together. Maybe Hal did, too. Wren took a tentative step forward and wrapped her arms around his middle. He smelled like comfort: like black tea and sugar on a long winter night.

“I know it’s not enough,” she said against his collarbone, “but I’m so sorry, and I’m here for you.”

Hal stiffened in her embrace. Then, slowly, he relaxed and rested his chin on top of her head. Although he said nothing, she heard his response in the stuttering beat of his heart. Me-too, me-too, me-too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

As they emerged from the hidden staircase, Wren strained to listen over the mournful cry of the wind. The faint sounds of dwindling conversation and music reached her. The snow poured in from the broken staircase and swirled across the floor like freshly swept dust. In the cold and quiet, the room felt peaceful. Undisturbed, as if they’d stepped back into a world that never knew they’d left. Twelve distant gongs of a clock announced the arrival of midnight.