And then we were walking. The eyes in the room drifted toward us as we passed, and West’s fingers wound into mine. I let him pull me through the crowd, toward the night sky cast beyond the open doors. I didn’t care anymore about what plan Saint and Clove had. I didn’t care if Zola was watching or whether it was true what he’d said about my mother.

“The Marigold?” I whispered frantically, squeezing West’s hand so hard that my knuckles hurt.

“In the harbor,” he answered, walking faster.

“Fable!” Zola’s deep voice echoed over the sound of the chatter.

I caught sight of Clove against the far wall, Zola at his side as they both pushed through the crowd toward us. But it was the sharp, skittering sound of glass shattering that made my pulse stop in its tracks, and I froze, West’s hand slipping from mine.

A hundred thoughts erupted chaotically in my mind as my eyes landed on the vision of a woman. An old woman. Her face was stricken, her eyes wide beneath silver hair that was braided in an intricate labyrinth over the top of her head. It was studded with fanned combs of pink tourmaline that matched the rings covering her fingers. At her feet, the broken pieces of a crystal glass were scattered around her violet gown.

The deep, breathy resonance of her voice shook the room around us when she said it. “Isolde?”

West’s hand found mine again and he wrapped one arm around me, pulling me away. I stumbled beside him, looking over my shoulder to see her, my brow knitting in recognition.

The doors ahead slammed shut and men in dark blue coats filed in along the wall, calling out orders. The room filled with the sound of voices as the guests pushed back, taking West and me with them.

“You!” one of the men shouted, and it took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me.

“Shit,” West rasped behind me.

The woman turned on her heel, walking toward another set of doors that opened on the other side of the room. A hot hand grabbed me, yanking me forward and West lifted a fist into the air, swinging. When it came down, it caught the man in the jaw.

He stumbled, falling into the crowd as he pulled a short sword from his hip, and a woman screamed. More guards emerged from the crowd, surrounding us, and the candlelight gleamed on four blades all pointed at West. But their eyes were on me.

West slipped the knife from his belt, holding it at his side with a look of eerie calm. My eyes widened, watching him. It was the face I’d seen the night he threw Crane into the sea. There were four guards surrounding us, but West took a step forward. By the time he took another, he would be dead.