“You cannot have the half-bloods,” I said, catching hold of the fabric of my gown and clenching it tight. “They belong as much here as they do there, more so, in fact. If I tried to take the iron from their flesh, they’d die.”

“Not them,” he said. “Their magic and that of all those born to them I will bind by name.”

“Then…” I closed my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.

“No,” Tristan said, and the word sounded torn from his throat. “I will not go.”

The Summer King’s words rang through my mind: Your debt has been called due, Cécile de Montigny. I will have all my people back, and you will make it happen.

All.

All.

“Please.” Tristan dropped to his knees. “I’ll do anything. Promise anything. Bind my magic, take it away, I don’t care. Just don’t make me leave her.”

The fairy said nothing. He didn’t need to. The weight of my debt was enough.

My body moved, picking up the pouch of lobelia and then the basin, my hand mechanically preparing the potion even as sobs tore from my chest.

“Cécile, don’t.” Tristan jerked the basin out of my hands and tossed it aside with a clatter. “Please don’t do this.”

“I have to.”

The pouch burst into flames in my hands, the flowers incinerated but my hands untouched. “Fight it,” he pleaded.

But it was like stopping an ocean tide. A hurricane wind. The sands of time. It could not be done. Flowers burst up through the floorboards, the reek of lobelia filling the air, cloying and horrible. Tristan tore at them, the petals turning to ash at his touch, but more sprang up in their place.

“Tristanthysium,” the King said. “Abide.”

His fury made my mind scream in pain, but he could not deny his name, especially when uttered by the one who had given it to him. Tristan dropped to his knees in front of me, and I flung my arms around him, refusing to let go.

But it was for naught.

The spell tore from me, magic rising from all directions to take back what belonged to this world. I wrenched the iron from his veins, feeling his pain as though it were my own even as I forced his magic to heal the damage I was causing. And when it was done, I was holding on to nothing.

He was mist, and the tears running down his face disappeared the moment they left his skin. But that did not stop the King from closing a hand on his shoulder. He handed Tristan a vial, waited until he’d drained the contents, then drew him back toward the tear. Back and back.

“Tristan, I love you,” I said.

Then he was gone.

They found me in a carpet of flowers, my anguish uncontrollable. Voices. Questions. Hands lifting me up and carrying me out. A tonic forced down my throat, and then nothing.

Even when the tonic wore off, I clung to that nothing.