A surge of rage took hold of me. He knew damn well that the only thing that would heal me was using my power, but to do that, I needed to return to the surface.

“If you would just let me venture aboveground—”

“You are too precious to us, Sankta Alina, and the risk is far too great.” He shrugged apologetically. “You will not have a care for your safety, so I must.”

I stayed silent. This was the game we played, that we’d been playing since I’d been brought here. The Apparat had done a lot for me. He was the only reason any of my Grisha had made it out of the battle with the Darkling’s monsters. He’d given us safe haven underground. But every day the White Cathedral felt more like a prison than a refuge.

He steepled his fingers. “Months gone by, and still you do not trust me.”

“I do,” I lied. “Of course I do.”

“And yet, you will not let me help you. With the firebird in our possession, all this might change.”

“David is working his way through Morozova’s journals. I’m sure the answer is there.”

The Apparat’s flat black gaze burrowed into me. He suspected I knew the location of the firebird—Morozova’s third amplifier and the key to unlocking the only power that might defeat the Darkling and destroy the Fold. And he was right. At least, I hoped he was. The only clue we had to its location was buried in my scant childhood memories and the hope that the dusty ruins of Dva Stolba were more than they seemed. But right or wrong, the firebird’s possible location was a secret I intended to keep. I was isolated underground, close to powerless, spied upon by the Priestguards. I wasn’t about to give up the one bit of leverage I had.

“I want only the best for you, Alina Starkov. For you and your friends. So few remain. If anything were to happen to them—”

“You leave them be,” I snarled, forgetting to be sweet, to be gentle.

The Apparat’s look was too keen for my liking. “I simply meant that accidents happen underground. I know you would feel each loss deeply, and you are so very weak.” On the last word, his lips stretched back over his gums. They were black like a wolf’s.

Again, rage coursed through me. From my first day in the White Cathedral, threat had hung heavy in the air, suffocating me with the steady press of fear. The Apparat never missed an opportunity to remind me of my vulnerability. Almost without thinking, I twitched my fingers in my sleeves. Shadows leapt up the walls of the chamber.

The Apparat reared back in his chair. I frowned at him, feigning confusion. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting right and left. “It’s … it’s nothing,” he stammered.

I let the shadows fall. His reaction was well worth the wave of dizziness that came when I used this trick. And that’s all it was. I could make the shadows jump and dance but nothing more. It was a sad little echo of the Darkling’s power, some remnant left behind in the wake of the confrontation that had nearly killed us both. I’d discovered it when trying to summon light, and I’d struggled to hone it to something greater, something I could fight with. I’d had no success. The shadows felt like a punishment, ghosts of greater power that served only to taunt me, the Saint of shams and mirrors.