I laid awake listening to West’s breathing. It sounded like the waves lapping the shore of Jeval on warm days, rushing in and then dragging out.

I didn’t think I’d remember any of those things when I left Jeval—the color of the shallows, the stretch of the sky, or the sound of the water. Those four years had been so shadowed by the pain of losing my mother and the yearning for my father that it had consumed both light and dark. Until West. Until the day the Marigold showed up at the barrier islands, her strange winglike sails bowed in the wind. It took almost six months for me to believe that every time I saw it sail away wasn’t the last time. I had begun to trust West long before I realized it. But I wasn’t sure yet if he trusted me.

A flash of light ignited along the crack beneath the door, and I watched as it disappeared. Out the window, dawn was more than an hour away, leaving the sky black.

I slipped out of West’s heavy arms and sat up, listening. Azimuth House was silent, except for the sound of quiet footsteps on the staircase down the hall. My bare feet found the plush rug, and I stood, holding my skirts in my arms so they didn’t rustle. West was lost in a deep sleep, his face soft for the first time since I’d seen him at the gala.

The handle to the door creaked softly as I lifted it, opening the door. Clove was snoring against the wall, his legs crossed in front of him and the chest of coin under his arm.

The glow of a lantern was bobbing along the wall, and I peered over the bannister to see a head of silver hair below. Holland was wrapped in a satin robe, making her way down the corridor.

I looked back to the dark room before stepping over Clove’s legs and following the light. It washed over the floor before me as I took turn after turn in the dark, and when I reached the end of the corridor, it flickered out.

Ahead, a door was open.

I walked with silent steps, watching Holland’s shadow move over the marble, and the light hit my face as I peered through the crack. It was a wood-paneled room with one wall covered in overlapping maps, the others all set with mounted bronze candelabras. Holland stood in the corner, staring up at a painting that hung over the desk. My mother was wrapped in an emerald green dress fit with a violet gem brooch, her face aglow in the candlelight.

I pushed the door open and Holland’s gaze dropped to meet mine.

She lifted a finger, wiping the corner of her eye. “Good evening.”

“Almost morning now,” I answered, stepping inside.