“Don’t give me that!” She wiped tears and hair from her eyes so she could see his face clearly. Never before had she had such a need to read an expression. “Tell me! Why do you want me dead?” Farilane folded her shoulders in, her arms clutching herself. She felt as if she’d been stabbed multiple times and was growing weaker each second as more than mere blood drained away. She had an increasing sense that she’d already lost this fight—it ended even before she had been born. All that remained was the consolation of being granted the time to understand, to accept. She wanted to sob but couldn’t—not yet. “Kile . . . my father told me never to love anyone—said it would kill me. Well, apparently, he was right, and I didn’t listen because you were just so damn enticing with your tilting head, unfathomable mysteries, disarming manner, and keen intellect. I really thought . . . I mean, seriously, I never felt this way about anyone before, and it doesn’t hurt that you happen to be a god! But I suppose that’s part of it, isn’t it? That’s how you managed to—to . . . How ironic is that? The two things I was absolutely certain about were that magic didn’t exist and that there are no gods!” She threw up her hands up in frustration. “I just . . . I just don’t understand. I thought we were friends. I even thought you liked me. We’re so similar. I’ve only known you for a few weeks, and yet we constantly tripped over a shared synchronicity. There’s a children’s game sparked by saying the same thing at the same time. It’s considered bad luck. Apparently, that’s true.” She wiped her face. “Kile, was it all an act? Is that just what gods do, mess with people, break their hearts? Do you enjoy this?”

Kile shook his head. He didn’t look like he was enjoying anything. Eyes tense, mouth tight, he had that sick face again as if he struggled not to vomit.

“Then why? Why do you want me dead?”

“I don’t.” His eyes locked hard on hers. His gaze seemed to drill deep with a desperate need to prove his sincerity. “Believe me when I tell you that.”

“Then what is going on? Why is this happening?”

“It’s all my fault.”

“I know that!” she nearly screamed. “You and your ten-point predictions! Everyone knew about them. Except me. My mother knew, too, didn’t she?”

Kile nodded.

“Everyone knew that I had to die, but tell me, Kile, does anyone know why?”

“No.” The word came out weak and soft, riding on a lack of air. “Not the whole of it.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

Farilane spread out her arms in indignation. “Why not?”