It repeats. The nausea, the puking and the crackling in my head. I’m in a vortex of pain. My bones ache. They feel rubbery. Like the handbook says, it’s as if my body has been force-fed through a meat grinder, bit by bit. I fight wave after wave of pain, disorientated and confused. The air is thick. It’s hard to breathe.

I made it through the Pathway. Just.

And I think: if I made it through, maybe she did too. Akuji.

No. Mara Graziani.

I don’t see her, though. I don’t see anyone. I drag myself through a dense woodland. White clouds hang low over a canopy above. I push thoughts of Vidhan from my head. An urgent, primal shout rings out and I freeze, sword at the ready. I force myself to stay frozen for a count of ten.

They arrive. Swinging from branch to branch, high in the trees, a troop of monkeylike creatures with long, brightly coloured tails. They whoop and chatter and hurl down rotten fruit—and god knows what else—from above.

Venetia. Realm six. My fifth world away from Sol. If The Book of Seven is anything to go by, not a great place for a Collective Pathfinder to find herself. But here I am. Alone. No one to watch my back. With nothing but a sword and a vial of Reaper blood. Yet what can I do but go on?

Malik needs me. Bea needs me.

And I will find them both.

I set out south, following a beaten path through the woods I can only hope leads to Paris Nouveau.

—

I see the horseman trailing me from miles off through the dense trees.

A lean and long figure.

He—I can see he’s a man as he draws near through the dark wood—takes his time. Disappearing, reappearing, until he’s close enough for me to see his speckled grey is a flea-bitten mare, sixteen hands and flecked with sweat. It clips alongside me, about ten feet away, between the trees. The rider—in a waistcoat and a high-collared jacket—is armed. But I know he’s not a Pathfinder. Surprisingly, I feel it. His weapon, jammed in his belt, is an ancient-looking pistol, front-loaded, like something out of the nineteenth century. His hands rest on the pommel of his saddle and he leans across and spits a jet of saliva through his teeth. He wears a bowler hat, sloped over his eyes. Young, tanned, prominent Adam’s apple. He’s assessing me.

I stop. I turn around and I face him, feeling no fear.

I’m too far gone for that.

He brings the grey to a rest and she shakes her dappled head and whinnies. My gaze settles on the canteen on his saddlebag.

“Could use a drink,” I say. My voice is hoarse, almost unrecognisable.