I nodded. I would have promised him the world. He had saved my life. I watched him through the window as my father drove me back to the citadel. He raised a hand and waved at me. I watched until we turned a corner.

I still had scars from the attack. They formed a cluster in the middle of my left palm. The spirit left other cuts, all the way to my elbow—but the ones on my hand were the ones that stayed.

I made good on my promise. For seven years I never said a word. I kept his secret close to my heart, like a night-blooming flower, only thinking of it when I was alone. Nick knew the truth. Nick held the key. For all that time I wondered where the days had taken him, and if he ever thought of that little Irish girl he’d carried from the poppy field. And after seven long years, I had my reward: he found me again. If only he could find me now.

There was no sound from the lower floor. As the hours ticked away, I listened for a footstep, or the echoing melody of the gramophone. All I could hear was the same thick silence.

I fell into a light sleep for the rest of the daylight hours. Fever burned through me, a remnant of the latest flux attack. I jerked awake every so often, my eyes bursting with pictures of the past. Had I ever worn anything but these tunics, these boots? Had I ever known a world in which there were no spirits, no wandering dead? No Emim, no Rephaim?

A knock woke me. I barely had time to grab a sheet before Warden entered the room.

“There is not long before the bell.” He placed a fresh uniform on the end of the bed. “Get dressed.”

I looked at him in silence. His gaze lingered for a moment before he left, closing the door behind him. There was nothing for it. I got up, smoothed my curls into a knot, and washed myself with icy water. I pulled on my uniform and zipped the gilet to my chin. My leg seemed to have healed.

Warden was leafing through a dusty novel when I came into the chamber. Frankenstein. Scion didn’t allow that kind of fantastical literature. Nothing with monsters or ghosts. Nothing unnatural. My fingers twitched, aching to reach out and turn its pages. I’d seen it on Jaxon’s bookshelf, but never found time to read it. Warden put the book aside and stood.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.” He paused, then asked: “Tell me, Paige—what does your dreamscape look like?”

The directness of the question took me by surprise. It was considered rude among voyants to ask. “A field of red flowers.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“Poppies.”