The command takes me into the sweltering kitchens, snatching a fruit knife from the table smoothly as I go. The chef and her many assistants embroiled in broiling don’t even notice it’s gone as I slide out of the kitchen and into the darker, cooler wine cellar.

The command is terrifyingly smart, efficient. It places me behind a row of barrels, over one of the drains they use to flush out old, bad wine. The blood will not be noticed.

Nothing ruptures this time. The jabs are clean and quick. I gnaw the inside of my mouth, cold sweat beading my forehead and my legs grinding against the floor in some attempt at relieving the agony. Shouting or groaning isn’t an option anymore, not when I can’t afford to be seen, to be caught. I can’t show anyone how I really feel.

Perhaps I never could, in this city.

I wait for the wounds to heal with Varia’s magic, the blood seeping into my bodice, over my stomach, and slinking down the already darkly stained drain.

it wasn’t worth it, the hunger snarls.

As the cuts mend, I laugh softly. “What would you know…?” I wince as I sit up. “About what people are worth?”

The sound of creaking wood makes me stagger to my groggy feet. A human? Gods forbid a human sees this—Varia will have a time of covering it up. But it’s not just any ignorant human. There, from between the barrels, steps Lucien, his handsome face strict and pale, as if he’s watching the world end. How much has he seen? The stabbing? The talking to myself?

I clutch my stomach in some vain attempt to hide the massive bloodstain there, my voice nervous as I motion around with my other hand. “And here I thought the place where they hide all the merrymaking liquids would look a little cheerier.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, his posture stock-still. “Fione said Varia has ordered you to stab yourself if you touch her. Is that true?”

I shrug one shoulder as lightly as I can. “It’s for Fione’s peace of mind—”

“Is. That. True?” he repeats, harder. One last grain of truth, then. One last shard of truth, if he wants it so badly. He’s so serious, so drastically different from the irreverent thief who offered me the black rose in the ruined house.

“Yes,” I murmur.