“Martinson sisters,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about you.” He struggled to sit up against the pillow, but Sophie shook her head, the single white streak in her hair glittering like a tear.

“You need to rest,” Sophie said firmly. “You need to get better.”

Francis ignored her and pulled himself up anyway. “I have so many things to say, the first of which is that I’m sorry. From the depths of my heart, I apologize. I made a grave mistake.”

At his words, Claire realized how tight she’d been holding herself. Anger, sadness, fear, hope, despair—all these emotions had been threading through her, and she’d gathered each bit, wrapping them into a tight ball that sat heavily on her chest. But at Francis’s apology, it unraveled.

“Why did you do it?” Claire asked, unable to sit. “Why were you going to let the Royalists kill Sophie that night on the Sorrowful Plains?”

“I never thought they intended to kill her,” Francis said, bringing his eyes away from Sophie’s and to her. “But I am a foolish old man, who was so focused on making the past come back that I ignored what was happening in the present. I dreamed of the old days. Of when guilds could mix freely and my dear friend Mathieu wouldn’t be condemned for falling in love with a brilliant and beautiful Forger and forced to abandon their bright daughter. Of a time when wraiths were few and wraith-made orphans even fewer, so that my son and daughter-in-law could have seen what a kind and clever soul their son has grown into.”

Claire looked at Nett. The tip of his nose was red as tears rolled down his cheeks. Sena wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Her eyelashes were wet.

“I dreamed,” Francis continued, his eyes landing on Thorn, who had also remained standing, “of a time when no one was considered lacking. And”—his gaze flitted to Sophie—“of unicorns.” He breathed in, and the breath seemed to rattle around his rib cage rather than in his lungs. Eyes still on Sophie, he said, “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m only telling you my dream so that maybe you can keep fighting for it.”

Another deep breath. “I look around at the five of you. And I hope. A Tiller with a Forger sister. A Forger with a Spinner friend. And a Gemmer, working to fix the mistakes of the past.”

The certainty in Francis’s voice was too much.

“But I can’t,” Claire said, her voice cracking. “We might have half of the Crown of Arden, but we still don’t know where the real Love Knot Tine is and the Forgers seem unlikely to have anyone be their queen—legendary or otherwise!”