She had reckoned with the lies she had told me, but even now I am not sure if she recognized the lies she told herself. You will change your mind, I thought. You have other loyalties.

As I do, I thought reluctantly.

“I think all the magic is coming from the Ward,” I said. “I think the Council milks Half-Kith bodies of powers people don’t even know they have. The children who have gone missing, where are they? Dead? Kept like calves in stalls, forced to give their blood? I told you I would find a way to give magic back to the Ward. I am going to keep my promise.”

Helplessly, she said, “It’s not your duty to change the world. It’s dangerous to try.”

You are dangerous.

“Be with me,” she said.

Slowly, I shook my head at the impossibility of it, at the sure future I had seen written on the tree bark’s inner skin. I saw how alone and friendless I would be in Sid’s country. I would be her novelty. She loved me now. How long would it be before she grew tired of me, before she left me like she had left her own country, like she was leaving mine now, like she had left the Ward after one day when she had said she would stay three? I saw myself: abandoned in a land with unfamiliar birdsong, whose city never became suddenly encased in ice, where they did not salt bread, where I would never taste honey made by sea bees. I would hear the alien tones of a language I didn’t know, and miss Morah’s wisdom, Annin’s hope, my only sisters. I would know no one there except Sid. I would depend on her for everything.

Her voice small, she asked, “Do you not love me like I love you? Won’t you come with me?”

Yes, I thought. I love my blithe scoundrel. I love your good heart.

“No,” I said. “I can’t come with you.”

“Oh,” she said, the sound low and blunt. I realized I had unintentionally done to her what she had done to me so many times, which was to tell a misleading truth. She had asked two questions, I had answered one, and she thought my answer served for both.

“I see,” she said.

“Sid,” I said, and would have explained, but she lifted a hand to stop me.

She said, “An apology will make it worse.”

“I don’t want to apologize.”

“Good. There is no need.”

Then she left, quickly, even as I called her name, then stopped calling. I did not, in the end, want to share the truth, because the words of love inside me felt like the only part of her that could ever remain mine.

Night fell. There was no moon. The stars were painfully bright.

I stood on the balcony, looking at the harbor, the sea.