It took only a few seconds for his words to sink in. “No,” I said. “No, that’s—that’s not possible.” When he sipped his amaranth, I raised my voice. “Prove it. Prove this ‘golden cord’ is there.”

“If you insist.” Warden set his glass on the mantelpiece. “Let us imagine, for a moment, that we are back in London. It is night, and we are on the bridge. But this time, I am the one that has been shot. I will call you for help.”

I waited. “This is just—” I started, only to stop when I felt something. A soft hum through my bones, just the tiniest of vibrations. It sent goose bumps rolling all over my skin. Two words materialized in my mind: bridge, help.

“Bridge, help,” I repeated, faintly. “No.”

This was too much. I turned to look at the fire. Now he had his own spiritual bellpull to summon me. After a minute, the shock turned to anger. I wanted to smash all his vials, punch him in the face—anything but share a link with him. If he could track me in the æther, I’d never get rid of him.

And it was my fault. My fault for saving him.

“I do not know what other effects it may have on us both,” Warden said. “You might be able to draw power from me.”

“I don’t want your power. Just get rid of it. Break it.”

“It takes more than a word to break the æther’s ties.”

“You knew how to call me with it.” My voice held a tremor. “You must know how to break it.”

“The cord is an enigma, Paige. I have no idea.”

“You did this on purpose.” I pushed myself away from him, sickened. “You saved my life to form this cord. Didn’t you?”

“How could I possibly have engineered such a thing, when I had no idea whether or not you would ever dream of saving my life in return? You despise the Rephaim. Why would you try to save one?”

It was a good question. “You can’t exactly blame me for being paranoid,” I said.

I sank back, my head in my hands. He came to sit beside me again. He had the good sense not to touch me. “Paige,” he said, “you do not fear me. I believe you hate me, but you are not afraid of me. Yet you fear the cord.”

“You’re a Rephaite.”

“And you judge me for that. For being Nashira’s betrothed.”

“She’s bloodthirsty and evil. You still chose her.”

“Did I?”

“You consented, then.”

“The Sargas choose their own mates. The rest of us do not have that privilege.” His voice fell into a soft growl. “If you must know, I despise her. Every breath she takes is repulsive to me.”