Mal brought his horse up beside mine.

“Alina,” he said softly. “Come away.”

I shook my head. I wanted to remember. Tasha Stol, Andrei Bazin, Shura Rychenko. As many as I could. They’d been murdered by the Darkling. Did they haunt his sleep the way they haunted mine?

“We have to stop him, Mal,” I said hoarsely. “We have to find a way.”

I don’t know what I hoped he would say, but he remained silent. I wasn’t sure Mal wanted to make me any more promises.

Eventually, he rode on, but I forced myself to read every single name, and only then did I turn to go, guiding my horse back into the deserted street.

A bit of life seemed to return to Kribirsk as we moved farther away from the Fold. A few shops were open, and there were still merchants hawking their wares on the stretch of the Vy known as Peddlers’ Way. Rickety tables lined the road, their surfaces covered in brightly colored cloth and spread with a jumble of merchandise: boots and prayer shawls, wooden toys, shoddy knives in hand-tooled sheaths. Many of the tables were littered with what looked like bits of rock and chicken bones.

“Provin’ye osti!” the peddlers shouted. “Autchen’ye osti!” Real bone. Genuine bone.

As I leaned over my horse’s head to get a better look, an old man called out, “Alina!”

I looked up in surprise. Did he know me?

Nikolai was suddenly beside me. He nudged his horse close to mine and snatched my reins, giving them a hard yank to draw me away from the table.

“Net, spasibo,” he said to the old man.

“Alina!” the peddler cried. “Autchen’ye Alina!”

“Wait,” I said, twisting in my saddle, trying to get a better look at the old man’s face. He was tidying the display on his table. Without the possibility of a sale, he seemed to have lost all interest in us.

“Wait,” I insisted. “He knew me.”

“No he didn’t.”

“He knew my name,” I said, angrily grabbing the reins back from him.

“He was trying to sell you relics. Finger bones. Genuine Sankta Alina.”

I froze, a deep chill stealing over me. My oblivious horse kept steadily on.

“Genuine Alina,” I repeated numbly.

Nikolai shifted uneasily. “There are rumors that you died on the Fold. People have been selling off parts of you all over Ravka and West Ravka for months. You’re quite the good luck charm.”

“Those are supposed to be my fingers?”

“Knuckles, toes, fragments of rib.”

I felt sick. I looked around, hoping to spot Mal, needing to see something familiar.

“Of course,” Nikolai continued, “if half of those were really your toes, you’d have about a hundred feet. But superstition is a powerful thing.”

“So is faith,” said a voice behind me, and when I turned, I was surprised to see Tolya there, mounted on a huge black warhorse, his broad face solemn.

It was all too much. The optimism I’d felt only an hour ago had vanished. It suddenly seemed as if the sky were pressing down on me, closing in like a trap. I kicked my horse into a canter. I’d always been a clumsy rider, but I held on tight and did not stop until Kribirsk was far behind me and I no longer heard the rattling of bones.