“No. He won’t even know we are in Hereswith. And we’ll be back in Endellion on Tuesday, if everything goes smoothly.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” She narrowed her eyes.

“I honestly don’t know what you’ll think, but I ask you to trust me.”

She was quiet after that, watching the land pass by in a blur. We reached Hereswith in only three days. I had to pay the driver extra to let us disembark before we reached town, and then Imonie and I carried our satchels and walked through the valley into the forest that crowned Hereswith. Evening was falling, and the air was cool and sweet with the promise of autumn, the mountain wind rushing to greet us among the pines.

Imonie was savoring the fragrance, the gentle sway of the trees, until her nostrils flared and she stopped upright.

“Clementine.”

I stopped to look at her in the starlight. She must have smelled it on the wind, the place I was guiding her. “Don’t worry, Imonie.”

“Whatever you plan to do upon coming here . . . you should change your mind. This is reckless, dangerous. What would your parents think if they knew?”

I didn’t know what they would think about my decision, what they would do once they discovered what I had done. The uncertainty churned my stomach, but I had lost too much and come too far to turn around as a coward.

“I’m not changing my mind. I need you to wait here for me. I’ll return shortly.”

She didn’t like that. But she heeded me, settling down on a log with the wind for company, and I continued to weave through the woods.

Soon, the pines grew sparse and I could see the lights of Hereswith, shining like fallen stars. I arrived at the mansion’s backyard, a verdant garden meticulously maintained by one of the town boys, and I walked the gravel path to the back door.

My heart was hummingbird swift within me, and a tremor shook my bones as I arrived on the porch, as I lifted my hand.

I had a piercing moment of doubt. But I saw myself and who I wanted to become, and my confidence returned, limning my resolve.

I knocked on Mazarine’s door.

She was exactly where I knew she would be—sitting on a plush divan in her library with the curtains drawn, candlesticks burning and dripping wax onto the floor. She was dressed in black velvet with an amethyst hanging at her throat, and she smiled when she saw me enter the chamber.

“Clementine Madigan,” she greeted me. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. Although defeat does not suit you.”

I wondered if anger had grown a film over my eyes, something I could not blink away, and I suddenly felt a sting of vulnerability. Her comment unsteadied me for a breath.