She wavered.

You could take the light with you. Don’t be silly. You aren’t afraid of the dark. Just a quick look around.

She hesitated, then reached up and unhooked the lamp. I felt a surge of triumph, but quickly suppressed it. Not yet, I had not won yet. The Acolyte walked to the edge of the stairs.

So hard to see. Didn’t it sound like the noise came from further down? May as well be thorough.

A pause. I did not dare push her any harder. It should be enough; the seed had been planted. I willed her forward. If this failed, all my plans would be wasted; I needed to get inside the Martyrium.

The Acolyte stood perfectly still, her lamp held up high. Listening.

Then she sighed.

“Stupid rats,” she said.

She carried on walking, swinging the lamp from side to side as she descended the stairs. I let her take a few steps, then slipped toward the plaza. Once I reached the paved square, I raced for the Martyrium door.

It opened before I even touched it. I dashed inside, quickly pulled the door shut behind me, and backed away.

Five seconds passed. Then ten. I strained my ears. Had the Acolyte heard me? I could see the lamp through the misted glass panes of the door. It moved slowly, weaving a little, but not drawing any closer.

A giddy rush of relief came over me; I held the stairway railing for support. The spiral of alcoves glowed above my head; each calm, undisturbed, lit by a single candle. I let my pulse steady. I was inside. Getting out again would prove its own challenge, but at least I had made it this far, and one step closer to Finn. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply.

I’m coming, I thought. Just wait for me.

The air inside the dome was rich with the smell of night blossoms and incense, the curve of the walls stretching toward the dark sky. My boots were quiet on the stairs; I trailed my fingertips over the vine-covered balustrade as I walked. At the entrance to my mother’s alcove, I washed my hands and picked up the scalpel.

“Hi, Mom,” I murmured.

No visions tonight. She slept peacefully, her face relaxed, mouth slightly open. The candlelight softened her features and turned her skin a warmer shade of bronze. I approached the bed.

“This is going to be goodbye. So we have a little time.”

Her body radiated warmth; even just standing near her, I could feel it. I gripped the knife tighter.

“Not long, just … just a little while.” My throat tightened. The laugh lines around her eyes, the soft angles of her face—I needed to fix all of it in my mind. Keep her, preserve her. I swallowed, looking up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

And even though she was right next to me, I missed her. I had missed her every day since her martyrdom, even though it was meant to get easier with time, even though we had been broken from the start.