I gestured assent. Behind Celane’s right shoulder, the vision had morphed and reformed into a new shape. A foetus, a half-formed creature with eerie, flat features. I could see its heart beating through the thin membrane of its skin.

“Tonight,” I said.

As Celane turned to leave, she passed through the vision. At her touch, it dissolved in a swirl of fine grey mist.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Millie’s front door sat slightly skew in its frame. The wood was worn pale around the lock, and the brass handle had dulled with age.

An old woman in the neighbouring building watched me from her window, lips pursed in suspicion. I could hardly blame her—I had been hovering outside the door for almost ten minutes already. Despite walking halfway across Ceyrun to reach Millie’s flat, I could not seem to bring myself to knock.

She might not even be home. Maybe I was standing outside an empty apartment, skin scorching under the sun, for nothing. I studied her door like the battered wood might provide answers.

Foolish, I thought. Enough of this.

I knocked. For a moment, I heard nothing from inside, and a guilty relief surged through me. This was a sign, she was not here, I should leave—

The door swung open.

“El? What are you doing here?” Millie squinted against the sunlight.

I wanted to say something, just something funny or light-hearted, but the words evaporated from my mind. I gestured clumsily, a kind of helpless shrug. Millie’s eyes widened.

“Come in.” She reached out and took me by the arm, ushering me into the cool darkness of her living room. The abrupt change of temperature made me feel lightheaded. “Tell me what happened.”

Her place was a mess, as usual. A stack of books lay beside her couch, and there were plates and glasses piled high in her kitchen sink. A dusty red dress draped carelessly over the pedestal table, as if she had thrown it off once and then never picked it up again. All the curtains were drawn over the windows to keep out the heat.

“El, you’re scaring me,” she said. “Please say something.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

She sat me down on the couch, shoving aside scatter cushions to make room.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said, and hurried to the kitchen. She found a glass and thrust it under the tap. “Did you walk here?”

“Yes.”

“You can afford to pay for a cab sometimes, you know. It’s baking out there.” She returned with the glass and pushed it into my hand. “Talk to me.”

I looked down at the water. “I was planning to work my way up to the topic.”

She sat down. “That bad?”

“Depends.” I ran my finger over the rim of the glass. “Millie?”

“Yes?”

“How do you…” I stopped. “How do…”

I could not do it. How do you feel about me? I drank from the glass, unable to look at her. If Millie turned me away, I would have no one left. The idea was intolerable.