“Alyserat.” I smile back at her.

…

Tonight, walking away from a door feels like walking over the edge of a cliff.

Lucien feels it, too, somehow, and he laces our fingers together the whole way back to our guest apartments. Not saying anything, just holding. Just being here. Existing with me, beside me. And that’s all I need. But it’s not all I want.

I tell him what Crav said about the Glass Tree, the High Witches being eaten, and his face doesn’t move for a long while. Malachite and Fione walk ahead of us, until his bodyguard looks back.

“Something went on, Luc. At the dinner. You gonna tell me what it is, or do I gotta guess?”

Lucien looks up, dark eyes pointed. “It’s not safe to say.”

“Ooookay,” the beneather leads. “Then what’s the plan?”

“We dress for easy movement,” he says. “And you follow me.”

“Tonight?” Fione asks. “It has to be tonight?”

“The sooner the better,” the prince says. “Time is against us here.”

“You mean the High Witches are against us,” I say, and he nods.

“They’re tightening defenses as we speak, closing ranks. Against the valkerax, against anyone. Us included.”

“Infiltration it is.” Malachite opens the door to the guest apartments, and we all shuffle in. “My favorite. Miles better than torturing.”

“A night of rest sure would be nice,” I mourn. “We’ve been on the go since the airship. And you mortals tend to need sleep.”

I look pointedly at Lucien but he ignores me, packing a pouch full of medicinal herbs instead.

“And you immortal Heartless tend to underestimate us.” Fione’s eyes flash determined. “We do what must be done. Tonight.”

I know there’s no talking her down. She’s not going to budge—but I’m worried. Staying so strong must be taking a toll on her. She hasn’t shed a tear, or shown much emotion at all, since the village on fire. And I’m worried. She was such a tender thing when I first met her. She had—and still has—that backbone of steel. I’m worried she’s using it like armor against the world, and herself. But how can I even say that? How can I bring it up? Everyone has a different way of dealing with this, and who am I to tell her hers is wrong?

“Rations,” Malachite says, tossing Lucien an armful of flatbread and seed tack. “Enough fuckin’ cheese to last a lifetime, still.”

“We’ll take a quarter wheel,” Lucien says. “Not much room else—we need to move light. Be sure to refill your waterskins, too.”

“You gonna be okay to do magic, Luc?” Malachite asks.

“Fione, what do you know about the Glass Tree?” The prince ignores him.