The one thing Jess was sure he saw was a High Garda soldier taking aim at her, and the ringing sound of a shot, and a vivid red hole in the woman’s chest. A fatal wound.

But not quickly enough to stop what she’d already set in motion.

Jess pitched into a red, shrieking darkness that ate him whole.

EPHEMERA

Text of a letter from Callum Brightwell to Kate Hannigan, sent in code. Burned on receipt.

We both know we’re on opposite sides of this thing, but one thing’s certain: this oncoming war, and the chaos it will bring, will only help us both. Let the Welsh have the city and claim their victory; the king and his court and all the ministers will be well away before they come. They’ll leave the city to us: the rebels, the criminals, the ones they think aren’t worth saving.

It’s a fat target, and we can both enrich ourselves. Your movement needs money, and I’ve already sent your leader in France a tidy sum in trust—you can check with him if you like. Whatever riches you gather, you keep.

Allies are more important than politics these days, wouldn’t you agree?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jess opened his eyes on a dark, windowless room that stank of mold and the river.

River. Not the ocean. He knew this smell. It was even stronger than the vile stench of burned books that still clung to his skin and clothes.

It smelled like . . . home.

The next second brought memory and a sharp stab of fear. Was he alone? Had the others been lost somewhere in that terrible, screaming silence? But no, he heard a scrape of movement and a moan and rattling, phlegmy coughing, all from different spots around him in the dark.

He heard Morgan whisper, “Jess?” and flung his hand out toward her. He missed and slapped wet stone, then tried again. His fingers brushed cloth with hard edges beneath. A pack. A pack full of books. He rolled over, every muscle seizing in pain, and managed to crawl another foot closer. This time, he touched Morgan’s skin. Her arm. “Jess?”

“I’m here,” he croaked. His mouth tasted like sewage, and he desperately needed water to wash it clean. “All right?”

She burst into frantic tears and threw herself into his arms, and he held on. He didn’t know which of them trembled harder. It didn’t matter. They’d seen something so terrible, neither of them would ever forget.

All that knowledge, lost. Wolfe’s mother. So much gone.

Someone was upright, stumbling in the dark, and fell over something in the way.

“Scheisse!” Thomas. Thomas was alive. “Jess? Jess!” He sounded desperate. Of course he would be. Alone in the dark again.

“Here,” Jess gasped. He let go of Morgan, though he kept tight hold of her hand. “Thomas?”

“Here,” the other boy said faintly. “I fell on something.”