My shout breaks him out of his strange trance, and I manage to free my hand just as he releases his grip. His eyes snap back to the present, to me, and they waver over my shoulder to a paused Yorl. Then back to me. Then to Yorl again. He stutters between us, and the coldness in his obsidian orbs isn’t anger. It’s…fear. What is he so afraid of from touching me? But it’s there for only the second, and then his princely demeanor shutters it off. Lucien draws himself up to his full height.

“Is something amiss?” Yorl asks languidly. I can’t take my eyes off Lucien, and neither does he look away from me. The celeon clears his throat. “We have places to be, Zera.”

our heart, the hunger keens. we can feel it beating, so close…

The hunger reaches me through Lucien’s gaze where Yorl’s words can’t. My heart. My heart is waiting. No matter how good it feels to hold his hand, no matter what strangeness is going on with him right now, no matter if this is the last time I see him or not, I have to go. I tear my eyes from Lucien’s face and trot after Yorl, over the bridge to the noble quarter, but the lawguards hold their halberds down on Lucien, dressed more like an outlaw than a prince, and he doesn’t follow.

“Zera!”

Lucien’s shout has me pivoting on the cobblestones. He stands there, behind the halberds, his dark eyes burning now. All the coldness of fear is gone from his face, replaced by dark flames, roaring with determination.

The prince holds out his hand to me.

“Say my sister’s name,” he says simply.

“Princess Varia?” I frown. “There. Happy?”

Lucien’s eyes bore into me. “Her true name.”

All the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. We stand on opposite sides of the bridge, the wind whistling between us as the crowd moves, ignorant of the gravity of the moment.

Her true name. Her witch name. Why? Why would he want me to say it to him aloud like this?

“Did you know”—Varia’s words ring in my head—“that a Heartless is never supposed to say their witch’s name aloud to another witch?”

My eyes start at Lucien’s boots, and slowly, terrified, work their way up his legs, his hips, his chest, up his strong neck and to his face, his sister’s words echoing all the while.

“If a Heartless says their witch’s name aloud, you’re essentially giving other witches permission to steal you away. We can use the sound to create a spell to transfer ownership.”