The blankness that had stolen through her the moment she and Hypnos had gone after Enrique came on fast and blinding. She could barely tell Zofia to begin without her before she stole into the kitchens and locked the doors behind her. Alone, she tried to breathe, but she could not feel air stirring in her lungs. The world around her dulled and dimmed.

The last time this had happened, Séverin’s touch had revived her senses, but Laila refused to go to him. To lose any more power over herself would be its own death.

Feel something, she urged her body, staring at the cut. Anything.

One second, then two … then five. Something thick and tarry glugged from the wound. For years, Laila had avoided looking too closely at what was inside her. All her life, her father’s words chased her.

You are a girl made of grave dirt.

Now, Laila felt no horror. If anything, it was pride that moved through her. By all accounts, she should not be alive.

“And yet,” said Laila fiercely. “Here I am.”

Another second ticked before she finally felt it: a dull throb. Laila snatched greedily at the pain.

When she was young, she had imagined different miracles. Like reaching into a tree and finding a mango made of solid gold. Or a prince who might find her washing clothes in the river and be so taken by the sight of her that he would whisk her away to a palace of moonstone and jasper. But now, Laila was old enough to recognize pain for the miracle it was. Pain was a loud, angry line between the living and the dead.

Days ago, Laila had kneeled on a floor of ice … her pain so great, she could not breathe through it. She imagined she would never see Hypnos wave around another glass of wine, Enrique open a book, Zofia reach for a match, or Séverin smile. For every piece lost to her—seconds and heartbeats and texture—each hope regained was a torch flaring to life, and it would hold back the dark.

This blankness might be death’s shadow, but it was not yet the end.

PERHAPS THE UNIVERSE was delighted with her foolish optimism because it soon revealed even more wonders. At the back of the pantry, Laila found a jar of, if not newly baked, then at least baked within a reasonable amount of time, sugar cookies. It didn’t take her long to find caster sugar which she turned into a pale royal icing to frost the cookies just how Zofia liked them. There was bitter cocoa in the cabinets, which became hot chocolate for Enrique and Hypnos, and when she searched for cinnamon to add to the concoction, her fingers closed around smooth, metal edges, and she drew out a tin of cloves.

When she saw it, she laughed.

“Very well,” she said aloud.

Laila balanced the tray full of food and drinks in her hands as she made her way to the salon. She’d made a similar walk dozens of times in the past, but this one had an air of ritual about it. As if she were making an offering to something greater than herself, and all she could do was hope that it was enough. The door was slightly ajar, and as she opened it, she felt a strange warp in the air.