But it wouldn’t help any of them if Ephyra fell to pieces now. She locked up her grief, her fear, her anguish and set them aside as she ground up the cuttings, drew the esha from the plants into Hassan’s body, one hand pressing against his pulse, the other hovering over his wounds. One by one, the wounds closed, his body taking the esha and using it to repair itself.

And when it was done, and Hassan was breathing evenly, sitting up with Khepri’s help, Ephyra sat back, exhaustion filling her bones. She closed her eyes, letting darkness take her.

Ephyra woke to murmuring voices and the faint smell of woodsmoke. She opened her eyes to peer up at a gray sky. It gave her no indication of what time it was or how much time had passed since they’d escaped from the tomb.

She sat up. As she blinked around at the others, they suddenly went silent. Their somber gazes prickled at her skin.

Finally, Anton spoke from beside the dying fire. “You should eat something.”

“How’s the prince?” Ephyra asked, instead of replying.

Jude nodded toward the tent. “Resting.”

“You should eat something,” Anton said again.

Ephyra turned away. “I’m not hungry.”

Without another word, she stalked into an empty tent and lay back down. She’d shared the tent with Khepri and Beru, but Khepri was off tending to Hassan, and Beru was—

She cut the thought off at the knees and rolled over on the bedroll, slipping back into sleep.

When Ephyra woke again, someone was in her tent.

Illya sat at the edge of Ephyra’s bedroll, his face shadowed in the darkness.

Ephyra wiped at her face, fuzzy with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t think you should be alone,” Illya replied. He had his hands in his lap, palms pushed into his thighs, like he was trying to calm his nerves.

“I’m fine,” Ephyra said. She turned to gesture him out. “You can leave.”

Illya didn’t move. “You’re not fine. I was there at the Sacrificed Queen’s tomb, remember? When the Daughters of Mercy told you that Beru was dead.”

She did remember, though she wanted to forget. She remembered the anger, the emptiness. The heat of Illya’s lips on hers.

“I want to help,” he said, softer.

“You want to help?” she repeated, sitting up and leaning toward him.

He swallowed, nodding, as she crawled to the end of the bedroll where he sat.

“What did you think?” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck. “That I would just fall into your arms? That I’d be so lost in grief I’d let you into my bed again?”

“No,” he answered, looking up at her. He didn’t touch her. His hands clenched into the blankets.