It caught mine as it slipped from the edge, and her second followed, wrapping around my wrist. My vision swam with black spots as I dangled midair. As the wind roared past my ears. My heart thrashed wildly. I couldn’t see her properly, couldn’t hear her panicked instructions. There was only the ground looming beneath me, my body suspended midair. Helplessly, I clawed at her. Her arms shook beneath my weight.

“Lift me up!” My shouts sounded delirious to even my ears. “Lift me up now!”

A shadow shifted in her eyes at the command. She flashed a feline grin. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

“I—what?”

“Tell me,” she repeated in a hard voice, “that I’m pretty.”

I stared at her for one heart-stopping moment. She couldn’t be serious, yet she was. From her weak arms to her spiteful eyes to her sharp smile, she was serious. She could drop me—she would drop me—if I didn’t appease her soon. She couldn’t support my weight indefinitely. But what was she asking? For me to lie? To flatter her? No. She wanted something else. Something I couldn’t give her. Through gritted teeth, I spat, “You said you wouldn’t let me fall.”

“You’ve said a lot of things.”

I’d told her the truth. I wanted to kill her. To kill all of them. I couldn’t concede to this heresy—this grand romance she’d dreamed up between us. As if it were possible. As if a witch and witch hunter could be more than enemies. I remembered none of it. I wanted to remember even less. In that second, however, the wind swept past with terrifying glee, and I glanced down. A mistake. Black edged my vision. My hand slipped a millimeter within hers. “Fine,” I said quickly, loathing myself. Loathing her more. “You’re . . . you are very pretty, Lou.”

“The prettiest you’ve ever seen?”

I nearly wept in frustration. “Prettier, even. I can’t think when I look at you.”

She beamed, and the tension melted from her face as quickly as it’d come. Her arms stopped shaking. Too late, I realized her game: her magic couldn’t work on me because of the Balisarda, but she’d used it to strengthen her own body instead. She’d been pretending to struggle this entire time. Stoking my fear. She probably could’ve lifted me with a single finger. Fresh anger burned white-hot in my chest. “Now,” she said, immensely pleased with herself, “tell me that I’m an excellent singer.”

“You—you—”

“I’m waiting,” she trilled.

“You’re an excellent singer. You sing like a bird. An angel. And if you don’t lift me up this second, I’m going to snap your pretty neck.”