It was only when we walked past Amaurotic House that Warden spoke again: “Do you often try to sense the æther at a distance?”

“None of your business,” I said.

“Your eyes hold death. Death and ice.” He turned to face me. “Strange, when they burn so hot in your anger.”

I met his gaze. “Your eyes change, too.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.”

“That is true enough.” Warden looked me up and down. “Show me your hand.”

After a moment, I showed him my right hand. The burn had taken on an ugly, nacreous appearance. He took out a tiny vial of liquid from his pockets, tipped it against his gloved finger, and spread its contents over the mark. Before my eyes, it melted away, leaving no trace. I pulled my hand back.

“How did you do that?”

“It is called amaranth.” He put the vial back, then looked at me. “Tell me, Paige—are you afraid of the æther?”

“No,” I said. My palm tingled.

“Why not?”

It was a lie. I was afraid of the æther. When I pushed my sixth sense too far, I ran the risk of death, or at least brain injury. Jax had told me from the beginning that if I worked for him, I was likely to cut my lifespan by about thirty years, maybe more. It all rested on luck.

“Because the æther is perfect,” I said. “There’s no war. There’s no death, because everything there is already dead. And there’s no sound. Just silence. And safety.”

“Nothing is safe in the æther. And even the æther is not exempt from war and death.”

I studied his profile as he looked at the black sky. His breath didn’t cloud in the cold, not like mine. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—there was something human in his face. Something pensive, almost bitter. Then he turned to face me again, and it was gone.

Something was amiss outside the Rookery. A group of red-jackets were crouched on the cobblestones, watched by silent harlies, talking in quick, hushed voices. I glanced up at Warden to see if he was concerned. If he was, he didn’t show it. He walked toward the group, causing most of the harlies to shrink back into their shacks.

“What is it?”

One of the red-jackets looked up, saw who had spoken, and flicked his gaze back down. His tunic was caked in mud. “We were in the woods,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We got lost. The Emim—they—”

Warden’s hand strayed to his forearm.