“They are all, and have always been, me,” I finished for her.

“But then . . . you lied to me.”

The vehemence with which she spat these words suggested that this was, for her, the most egregious of my crimes—more unforgivable even than the act of abducting her.

“The others, perhaps,” I allowed. “But not I.”

“You tried to kill my father.”

Here, she had me. While I regretted Madness’s actions, I could hardly argue I had not meant to cause Mr. Armand harm.

“Again, it was the doing of another mask,” I said, though without hope she would believe me. “I . . . am relieved your father will recover.”

“He won’t, though,” she argued. “And neither will Charlie. Not if I don’t come home.”

To that, I reverted to silence, for I could not disagree. No more than I could permit myself to entertain her reasoning. Now that she was here with me, mine at last, I preferred to forget there existed anyone else.

“If they really are all you,” she said at last, after the silence swelled to an unbearable volume, “then I want to talk to the other one. The blue-masked figure.”

“Valor, you mean. Sadly, he is no more. You understand I could not have him usurping my plans any longer.”

She hitched a breath, and from seemingly nowhere, a pair of tears fell, though I surmised from the sternness of her expression that she hated that I had borne witness to them.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“Again, you doubt my word. Soon, though, you will learn as I have that Wrath has little cause to lie.”

“He is Valor and you’re Wrath?” she asked, banishing the tears with one bandaged hand.

“He was Valor,” I said. “And yes. I am Wrath.”

“And all of you are Zedok. Erik?”

“Erik is dead,” I said calmly.

“But you were Erik. Once.”

“I told you—”

“The man who was here,” she said, abruptly reverting subjects. “Who was he?”

“He is,” I replied with care, “an old . . . associate.”

“Yeah,” she snapped. “You two sounded real friendly—hey.” Glancing down at herself, she noted for the first time the white nightgown. “Where are my clothes?”

“You were soaked,” I answered simply, having prepared myself for this topic. “It is a wonder you did not suffer hypothermia.”

“So you undressed me?” Fear once again crept into her now shaking voice, overshadowing any outrage.

“Certainly not,” I said. “I daresay you would know if I had.” I gestured to my sternum, hoping the blood there spoke for itself. She would not find a trace of it on her person. I nodded in the direction of the bay window. “The two masks there saw to your garments. I did, however, bandage your hands. Your wounds needed tending.”

“But . . .” She trailed off, her eyes leaving me briefly to spare another glance for Envy and Spite. “The masks. You . . . you said they are you.”