How does he know that? It’s impossible—the witches know of it, surely, but humans are far less aware. How does he know the exact name for it? Has he spoken to a witch in Vetris? The one who started the witchfire, maybe—the one who caused the earthquake last night? Varia would never tell him about Weeping—it’s the key to her plan with Evlorasin, and she’s assured me she’s made certain none of her associates would talk about it. He couldn’t have spoken to a Heartless who knows of Weeping—I’m the only one left.

I’m the only one who knows. And I haven’t said a word to him about it. He read it. He must’ve read it somewhere, in one of these books. Someone must’ve written it down during the Sunless War, the tome scuttled away.

He knows too much, and his touch is intoxicating to my traitorous body, still. I have to get away from him.

“Is there anything else”—I struggle to make my voice even—“Your Highness wishes to ask of me?”

Lucien is quiet, his eyes catching the morning sun and fracturing with warm brown. “Just one. Will you forgive me?”

“For what, Your Highness?”

“The kiss last night,” he says. “I acted out of turn.”

I raise my head slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve already forgotten it.”

My lie sounds smooth, and it tests the very limits of my ability to spin a web. I’m terrified the truth is gleaming out of my blank expression—that I enjoyed it. That I remember every second of it. That I wish for another, and another, and another—

His eyes flicker with some emotion I can’t read—disbelief? He regains himself, turning to a table and picking up a small leather-bound book from it. He hands it to me.

“Then at least allow me to give you a gift.”

I look down at the book and take it, careful not to touch our fingers together. I make a proper bow.

“I’ll be taking my leave, then.”

Every bone in my body wants Lucien to stop me as I walk away. I want him to pull me back, to kiss me senseless. I want to feel not so alone in this moment, to be with him like that other timeline version of myself certainly is right now.

Stiffly, I walk to the door and leave. Once I’m out of sight and down another sun-drenched hall, I open the book. It’s a picture book. I inhale sharply—there, on the page, a grisly scene is sketched. A village sits on a tranquil hill, but the hill is fractured, the shelf sliding down into a massive chasm ripped straight into the earth. And from that chasm are rising familiar shapes—serpentine, bright ivory-white scales. Valkerax.