“I guess the Forest of the Dead is too slow when you’re trying to turn a profit.” Bram sounds as repulsed as I feel.

An image flashes through my mind of Latham running from my house in Midwood with my dead mother cradled in his arms. A wave of nausea rolls through me. He wants me to know what he did to her. I stuff my knuckles into my mouth.

Grim determination settles inside me.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, my voice catching on the words. I don’t care about completing the bone games. I’m going to go back to Latham’s shop and heal the bones to get the future I choose. I’m going make his every nightmare come to life.

I grab Bram’s hand and hurry back the way we came. And then we round the corner and freeze.

Latham stands near a booth filled with weapons. He’s squarely between us and the exit. He’s grown a beard since I saw him last. It’s dark and trimmed close to his face.

“Hello, Saskia.”

Bram’s hand tightens around mine. But I feel strangely calm, as if Latham and I are just keeping an appointment we made long ago.

Latham lifts an eyebrow. He sweeps his hand around the booth. “Were you looking to purchase something? Anything I can help you find?”

“No,” I say, “I’m all set.”

He tips his head to one side. “So, which way did you decide to go?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I saw two distinct paths for you. I’m wondering which you chose?”

A cold trickle slides down my spine as I think of the vial of my own blood on the shelf in his shop. The vision of Norah plunging a needle into my arm.

“You’ve been doing readings on me.” It’s not a question.

He laughs. “Would you have expected anything less?”

No. I wouldn’t have. I touch the pendant in the hollow of my throat and think of all the times I’ve had to remove it for training. All the times I’ve woken in the morning to find it lying on the floor or tangled in my blankets.

My mouth goes dry.

It’s as if I’ve walked off the edge of a cliff. I’m falling. Flailing. Bracing for impact.

I take a step back. “Please. Just let us go.”

He frowns. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Get away from us!” I scream. We’re in the middle of a busy market made of glass—visible to throngs of people both inside and out—and a crowd of curious onlookers have started to gather. Someone will intervene. Someone will stop him.

But no one does.

I’m like a bird in a cage. People might pause and stare, but none of them are going to unlatch the door.