Behind him I heard Harry whisper a sentence or two that contained the word “poisoned.” Oh yes, the draught of sickly drink. Now that they mentioned it, I had felt strange ever since first I sipped it. Somehow I managed to disagree, though I didn’t care enough to argue. Eliza’s brew was no poison. It was something more . . . helpful. I hoped.

“Would you like to lie down?” Marcus asked again.

This time I nodded. “I would, yes. I think that would be good.”

Miabella.

“Yes?” It was my own voice. Who was calling? And who was I to answer?

Miabella.

“Yes.”

Harry joined in. “Eden?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” But I wasn’t, not really. My hands, crossed against my chest. I held them out before me to watch them shake, and they were not my own. They wavered before me more distant and hazy than any oasis. And they were covered with blood.

“Harry?” I said in barely a whisper. “Harry?”

He was beside me then, an arm around my shoulders.

My hands were not my own.

They were covered in blood.

I swung around, pressing my crimson-smeared fingers against Harry’s chest, but the gore wouldn’t wipe away. “Do you see it?” I demanded, holding my palms out for them to inspect. “Do you see? It’s his, it’s Malachi’s. I can tell. It’s so close to mine. I can smell it. Tatie’s right, there is a smell to us. . . . I must have done it—or maybe, maybe I haven’t done it yet. Don’t you see?”

“See what?” Marcus was baffled and frightened, but he wanted to help. “Is there something wrong with your hands? Give them here.”

“Yes, they’re—” I looked down at them again, just to make sure. “They’re all . . . they’re all . . .” The blood remained, and it might have spelled my cousin’s name, with such certainty did I know its origin. But how? And why?

Then I saw, in a long, neat line, heads bowed and hands folded together, a string of brown-robed monks file solemnly past the door behind Harry and Marcus. Each man held a strand of red and black beads with which to pray, and every hooded face was pointed toward the stone floor. I counted five, ten, twelve. The thirteenth monk paused in the doorway, lifting his face to stare directly at me. The red and black beads hung limply from his hand, wrapped securely around his knuckles.