“You should let go of me,” I said. I imagined biting down on her fingers, the spray of blood and crack of bone. “You’re upsetting the pattern.”

“Kamillian,” said Osan, with a note of warning.

She stepped back, releasing my jaw. I smiled. That was better. Millie looked angry. She held her hands close to her chest, and her cheeks were high with colour.

“How could I let this happen?” she muttered.

“No one is at fault here,” said Osan. He scanned the path. “We should try to get her out of the sun.”

Another ruined building lay a few hundred feet ahead. It was smaller than the farmhouse, and the squat shadows cast by the crumbling walls disturbed me. The sunlight swam like liquid as we approached.

“This is where they used to bring the tithes,” I said, and then threw up. My vomit was bloody, and the smell of rotten meat overwhelmed me. I clutched my head.

Osan looped his arm underneath mine and pulled me to my feet. Millie helped him drag me over to the shade. I squirmed in their grasp as they sat me down against the wall.

“Easy,” said Osan. “Just take a breather.”

“It’s not right, it’s not right, it’s not right!”

He held me down.

“Listen to me,” he said fiercely. “You have gorge sickness. We are not trying to hurt you, we are trying to stop you from hurting yourself. Do you understand that?”

I bared my teeth at him in a snarl, but at the same time, a sensory memory tugged at me. I knew the feel of these hands on my shoulders; Osan had restrained me before. The last time I lost control. Everything was jumbled, too bright and gleaming and hazy, but that memory cut through the tangled threads of my thoughts. He had held me back during Finn’s execution.

“El?” Millie peered at me anxiously.

“Can’t think straight,” I said. “Please help me.”

“You’re safe, and you’re going to be fine,” said Osan. “But I think you need to burn off some of your lace. Can you do that?”

I shook my head. I need it. She wants it back.

He kept his tone even and friendly. “Come on, just a little? Stick with me here, El. Your lace is making you sick, can’t you see that?”

But she’s already so angry, I wanted to argue.

Instead I nodded. With difficulty, I grasped my lace and wove a defensive net around the three of us, knitting it tight and dense. The sensation of drawing on my power was all wrong—a horrible, clotted tugging, like dragging a hook through oil and thick mud. I stopped.

“Any better?” asked Millie.

“A little.” The world appeared less shiny. I straightened and rubbed my forehead. “But it’s such a waste.”

“No, it’s necessary,” said Osan. “Do it again.”

I wove a second net around the first. With the fog lifting from my thoughts, I could sense how tainted and warped my lace had become. I burned off a little more.