Imonie’s hands were gentle as she drew the poison from my wound with a salve, and when her ministrations were done, she left me alone. I remained in the water for another hour, until I felt the painful shift in my body. My gills closed, forcing me to sit up, to return to the air.

I coughed up the last bit of water. My skin was pruned as I carefully climbed out of the tub and dried off. I pulled the cork and watched the water swirl and drain, swirl and drain until the tub was empty.

I had hesitated. That was why I’d lost. I should have stabbed him. I shouldn’t have waited for his air to run out, allowing him the chance to win. There was no one to blame but myself, and I longed to turn back time, to change my actions.

The mirror hanging above the washbasin drew my gaze, and I stood before it, as if I had forgotten my own face.

The gills had left behind scars in my neck. Three thin slashes on each side just beneath my jaw, catching the light like iridescent scales. I gently touched the scars, surprised by their tenderness. They would remind me of my loss, of my foolishness, and yet I didn’t feel the urge to hide them.

I stepped into the dining room. Lennox was sitting at the table, papers spread out before him, spectacles perched on his nose. My father sat across from him, bleary eyed and still running a fever, drawing up the contract for the new warden. Phelan stood before the bookshelves, reading the illuminated spines and holding a cup of tea. Imonie was bustling in the kitchen, cooking away her distress. All four of them stopped their tasks and looked at me. I stood on the rug in a slant of morning sunlight, my black dress still wet from my long submersion, my hair a snarled, copper mess around my shoulders.

“Well met, Miss Clementine,” Lennox said in a cheerful voice, holding up his glass of mulberry wine. “I must say you were a worthy opponent.”

I said nothing, staring at him until his smirk eased and he returned his focus to the papers.

My father’s gaze lingered on me the longest—he was noticing my new scars, how they gleamed every time I breathed—and he sighed as he resumed writing the document, his quill scratching over the paper. I walked past Phelan to the kitchen counter, where the teapot was still warm, and poured myself a cup. Imonie set down a pitcher of cream and the honeypot, as she knew my preferences, and I put far too much into my tea, stirring it around and around, my thoughts far away.

“How is your wound?”

I turned, startled to see Phelan was standing close to me. Imonie made a sound of dislike, but the magician didn’t notice.