“I can’t remember why I’m fighting this fight.”

Victoria’s gaze had left the Duke and was now on her brother, who stood stock still in the snow. Rather than saying anything, I slipped my hand into hers and squeezed it hard.

“At first, it was fun,” she said. “A way to alleviate the grinding tedium of Trollus with secret meetings, codes, and plans to overthrow a tyrant. We liked the idea of changing our world, of making it better; we knew the risks, but… Following Tristan has a way of making one feel invincible. Even when we were breaking you out of Trollus, and I knew half-bloods were dying, it didn’t sink in that this fight was going to cost me.”

I gave a little nod, knowing what she meant.

“Even when the King separated us and it was such misery, I believed it was only for a time. That Tristan would come up with a plan and we’d rally.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. “Then he told us that Anaïs was dead – that Lessa was posing as her – and it hit me that nothing we could do, or Tristan could do, would bring her back. Death is final. There is no coming back from it. And since then, no matter how hard we fight, no matter what we accomplish, those who matter most to us keep falling. It seems that even if by some miracle we win, I will have lost.”

I wanted to tell her not to give up hope, that maybe there was a way to help Vincent. That to give up now would mean Angoulême had won. That people were counting on her, and her fight would make a difference to them. But it all sounded sour in my mind – false assurances and empty platitudes – and I knew none of it was what she wanted to hear. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to be done.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with a vicious swipe. “You should’ve let us die.”

“No, I shouldn’t have.” Climbing out of the sled, I took hold of the rope on the front. “As you said, death is final. But where there is life, there is hope.” Tugging hard, I dragged the cause of all our plight into camp.

My gran had a steaming cup of tea ready for me as I stepped into the firelight, and I gratefully accepted it as I handed off the rope to Tristan. “Where’s Martin?”

“In the tent.” Tristan rubbed at one temple. “I’d leave him be. He’s angry that Angoulême is still alive.”

“Aren’t we all.” But the fact remained that the librarian was a wealth of knowledge, and right now, I needed him. Motioning for my gran to follow, I ducked under the canvas.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat on top of a rough wool blanket.

“For what?” Martin’s eyes were closed, but the muscles of his jaw were working back and forth as though he intended to grind his teeth to dust. I was thankful, because I felt my face lose its color at the sight of his injuries. Both arms were gone at the shoulder, and his legs, judging from where the blanket fell flat against the ground, had been removed just above the knee.