“We need to walk from here,” she said once they reached the street that fronted the river. She hoped Renzo was sitting on a beach in Azura or another far-off country. She couldn’t bear the thought of finding him torn apart, just as her parents had been. If he wasn’t here by the river, could she believe the best for him? That he was safe? Or would this numbness that had crept over her, freezing her hands, her tongue, her heart, be with her forever?

“Nomi?” Malachi asked. She couldn’t respond.

Her parents were dead.

He tied the horse’s reins to the iron railing overlooking the water. Nomi didn’t pay attention. She stood at the river’s edge, hands tight around the cold metal rail, and tried to orient herself. Where was the bridge? Where had they stood that night, with the moon shining down and the ghost stories walking in their mouths?

Would her parents haunt her?

The sun’s touch couldn’t brighten the murky green of the river. Nomi stared down into the swirling water as her grief battered at her. She needed to move. She had to find the bridge. But it was difficult to fight the sense that it was hopeless, and that made every movement feel like a waste, a useless denial of the truth.

Her parents were dead; how could Renzo not be too?

“Nomi, is this the place?” Malachi asked. “Do you think your brother came here?”

“No,” Nomi replied dully. She looked around again—shops lined the riverwalk, mostly cafés and bakeries. To her right, beyond a butcher and a clock repair shop, a stone bridge rose over the river. “There. Over there.”

She turned and walked toward the bridge, ignoring the man with white hair in front of the butcher’s window who gave her a strange look. Maybe her face was too pale, or her expression too stricken. Maybe he didn’t like that she was walking ahead of Malachi or that she didn’t bow her head when she passed him. Maybe he recognized her. She was long past caring.

Malachi seemed to realize this, because he never tried to step in front of her or call her back. They reached the bridge a few minutes later. A steep moss-slicked stone staircase led to the muddy riverbank. Shadows and the angle of the bridge hid what, if anything, lurked below.

“Wait,” Malachi said, taking her arm. “Let me go first. It looks slippery. You could fall.”

Nomi stopped. She knew something was wrong; her body didn’t feel like hers anymore, and a haze had fallen over her mind, making each thought difficult to call up. She could barely speak, barely move. Maybe this was what being poisoned felt like.

She thought about the evil cardinal whom Queen Vaccaro had killed. Had he felt like this? Like each limb was separating from his body, one by one, until nothing would be left?