Her fingers wander to the book and tighten. “The polymaths of the Black Archive deal in one currency: knowledge. You have to offer knowledge they don’t already have.”

It makes sense, in retrospect. That’s why Yorl did all that he did: trap Evlorasin beneath Vetris, torture it, send me in to die repeatedly and talk to it, teach it to Weep. He knew the valkerax research of his grandfather was special, unique—and if he could prove it with results, with a real and true controlled experiment, it was a golden ticket—er—kingsmedal—into the Black Archives. He did everything Varia said, every last sordid thing, all for a single kingsmedal.

Fione’s right. Even if Yorl and I did grow close, I can’t ask him to give up all he’s worked for—all of his grandfather’s lifework—just for me.

The way Fione falls asleep on the pine needles with the book wrapped tight in her arms makes me think she wants to keep it. It’s our only clue in the world to stopping the Bone Tree and saving Varia. And she’s afraid. Afraid she’ll have to give it over to the Black Archive in order to translate it. She could do that, but something tells me it’s not just about the information inside. She’s smart. She’d remember everything she’d translate, including how to destroy the Bone Tree. But to her, it’s the physical book that’s important, too. A symbol. A tangible object of hope in what feels like a hopeless situation.

I snake my hand up to my heart-shaped locket, to the one that lets me go a greater distance from my witch than just a mile and a half. For a while, in Vetris, the locket was that symbol for me. Something to hold on to—a taste of hope. A taste is all you need to keep moving forward sometimes. To do what needs to be done, no matter how afraid or exhausted you are.

Malachite gives a guttural snore and rolls over, flinging his uninjured arm around a root, and for the millionth time my anticipation for the moment when my guard shift ends and I can kick his arse awake builds even higher. Not that I need to sleep. But Malachite wouldn’t hear of it—we were going to do shifts like normal people do. Like mortals do.

I grip the locket tighter against the warmth in my chest. Being treated like a mortal…is nice. Being given consideration, my condition and life treated as something important. Worth preserving, instead of throwing away. It’s all very nice. Too nice, maybe. Maybe I’m getting spoiled. Soft.

Or maybe I’m growing. Growing up. Growing older, like I never thought I could.