“Let her go.”

Tristan sighed, but I ignored the twist of crippling disappointment that writhed through my skull; instead I watched as Anushka’s feet settled on the ground and her arms were freed.

“You are making the right choice, Cécile,” she said, and then the arm holding the pistol rose, and I knew she intended to kill me, and for my death to kill Tristan. For history to repeat itself once again.

But I moved faster.

She stumbled backwards, fingers dropping her pistol to clutch at the wound in her chest. But it wasn’t deep. Wasn’t enough. Knife slick in my hand, I went after her, and stabbed the blade into her again, feeling it grind against bone. Leaning over, I met her wild gaze and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“You are not my mother. You are her killer.”

Anushka gasped out one breath. Then another. And then she whispered, “If the world burns, its blood will be on your hands.”

She said no more.

A dull echo reverberated through the air, and the ground shuddered and shook. Tristan caught me against him, holding me steady, and then the earth stilled. “She’s dead,” I said, my toneless voice at odds with the cacophony in my head. The curse was broken, but the implications of that had yet to settle in my mind.

“Cécile?” Sabine’s voice was weak, snapping me out of my thoughts. Rushing to her side, I used the bloody knife in my hand to cut away her dress.

“The bullet’s still inside,” I muttered. “Can you get it out?”

“Yes.” Tristan’s face tightened in concentration, but as Sabine screamed and fainted, the shards of metal pulled free of her wound.

“Keep pressure on it,” I said, pressing his hand against her shoulder.

Then I ran to the chest where my mother had the ingredients for her magic. My hands shaking, I dug through them, searching for what I needed for a healing spell. Tiny bottles clutched in my arms, I dropped them onto the carpet next to Tristan, and then, relying on my memory of the time I’d helped Tips, I started mixing them in the basin.

“Fire,” I ordered, holding out a scrap of paper, waiting for the flames to turn from silver to yellow before touching it to the potion. As the fire flared up, I said, “Heal the flesh.”

Magic came from all directions, intensified by the moon and the solstice, and I pressed my hand to the injury, feeling the power flood into her and the wound knit beneath my hand.

Then it was over. Sabine remained unconscious, but her breathing was steady and her pulse even. Wiping my hands on my ruined costume, I slumped against Tristan, fingers gripping his shoulders as my emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

“Why did you do it?” Tristan’s heart beat rapidly where my ear pressed against his chest, and one of his hands slipped up into my hair, gently cupping the back of my head.