The music stops abruptly. A cacophony of noise erupts around me. Voices shouting over one another. Things being knocked to the ground. I feel as if I’m waking up from a dream—the images of my mother slowly breaking apart, ethereal and impossible to hang on to. Followed by the sinking disappointment she was never here at all.

And then I look up and my nightmare comes to life. Latham stands in front of me, a sword in his hand. His eyes are bright and eager.

A small, round table sits between us. I can use it as a shield. If he can’t reach me, he can’t kill me.

I put a hand on the silky wood to keep him from moving it out of place. He gives me that shrewd smile again, as if he’s still playing the bone flute and I’m still dancing to his tune. What does he know that I don’t?

A raven flies into the room, frantic and shrieking. It dives for Latham. Aims for his eyes.

Relief cascades over me. Talon must be close.

The bird’s sharp beak draws blood. Latham grunts and slashes the sword in the air. He misses. Tries again.

And then a desperate, injured squawk. An explosion of black feathers and innards. My stomach pitches. I taste bile at the back of my throat.

Latham advances on me, but I keep one hand on the table between us. I won’t let him get close enough.

He raises the sword.

“Saskia, watch out!” Bram’s voice cuts through the air. But I don’t take my eyes off Latham. Dimly, I wonder why Bram doesn’t break Latham’s bones—snap his humerus so the weapons slips from his hand. Sever his femur to topple him. A faint memory flits at the edge of my awareness. Did Bram already try and fail? Maybe that’s the knowledge that keeps twisting Latham’s lips into a smirk.

The sword swings downward. I see it like I’m traveling along a path in a vision. Disconnected from myself. Moving slowly, as if time is a bit of molasses dangling from a spoon, stretching and stretching but never landing.

The sword falls, but it isn’t headed for my throat or my heart or my lungs.

The blade slices through the slender red tattoo at my wrist. Pain seizes me, white-hot and blinding. I scream. My hand detaches from the rest of my arm. Blood spatters my cheeks and pools on the table. There’s so much of it.

I feel suddenly cold.

Black spots rush into my vision and the world goes dark.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Voices float toward me from a distance. I try to open my eyes, but the effort is too much.

“What if she never wakes up?” That must be Jacey. Her words are soft and shot through with worry.

“She will.” Tessa’s voice. “She has to.”

My wrist throbs.