I laid my fingers over my neck; I felt the stone half of my heart grow colder than the ice on the mountains.

I would have to take him by surprise at the mines that evening, when he left his shift. And while I felt too restless for it, I slept most of the day. Late afternoon sunlight crept through my curtains when I woke, and I saw that Mrs. Stirling had left a tray of food by the bed. It must have been hours ago, because the tea and soup were cold.

I rose and dressed, avoiding my reflection in the shattered mirror. My neck was sore; I imagined the bruises were beginning to show on my skin as I silently crept down the stairs.

I paused in the foyer, listening. I reached out with my magic, mindful to go gently, or else I might gain their attention.

Mrs. Stirling was in the kitchen. She stood at the counter making dumplings. Flour was on her apron, on her face. She sang beneath her breath. Farther down the corridor, I sensed Phelan in the library. The doors were open, and he sat with the book of nightmares cracked before him. He was so still he could have been hewn from stone as he stared at the page. His worry hung in the air like a thundercloud. And then beyond the back door, in the garden, was Deacon. He was supposed to be gathering herbs for dinner but he was preoccupied with whittling a stick into an arrow.

I called my magic back to me and slipped away from the town house, careful to make no sound.

I hurried down the street, fighting the sensation I was being followed. It eventually overcame me so greatly that I did pause and wait in the alley between two shops, to see if anyone was trailing me. Phelan, most likely. But I never saw him, and I imagined I was simply being paranoid, after discovering that my father was not who I believed him to be.

I called a horse and cab and traveled to the northwest point of the city.

I lingered in a shadow by the mine yard, waiting for dark, when my father’s shift would be over.

It seemed like I waited an eternity before the miners began to file out of the earth, their faces streaked with grime. My father was at the end of the line, his head bowed, his boots dragging. I intercepted him, grasping hold of his shirt and tugging.

“What—?” He let out a startled sound until he realized it was me. He followed me to an alley, and his concern nearly smothered me.

“Has he discovered you? Do we need to flee?”

I gaped at my father. He acted as if nothing had happened the night before. As if he had not tried to strangle me.

“Clem,” he urged, impatient.

“Who are you?” I countered coldly.