For nearly a week, Nox treated Millicent like a phantom, refusing to acknowledge her presence. Instead, she focused her attention on her notes and her books, furiously scribbling everything she knew about Amaris, about the demons, about Millicent and her powers, about herself and her own curse. She listed all the enchanted objects she’d ever heard of or encountered. She wrote and re-created through her command of language every gift and magic known to men and fae and witches alike. She recorded everything she knew of the kingdoms, including every trait or possession or inclination mentioned of Queen Moirai and the crowned prince. She wrote names, drew places, kingdoms, and objects. She drew the barn with the silhouette of a bat overhead. She drew the leering face of the ag’imni on page after page. She even drew Millicent’s ungloved hand.

Why she did these things, she did not know. Her mind was a busy, violent place. Writing and drawing the thoughts drained them from the cage of her head, leeching the terrors from her body onto the papers.

Knowing that she was always one touch away from death, she decided to do whatever was necessary to survive. She stayed in the safety of her rooms, never venturing down to the lounge. She would entertain no clients; she would work at the Selkie no longer. When she left, she would not return.

By the end of the sixth day, Millicent let herself in with a quiet knock.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

For nearly a week, the Madame’s voice had been unrecognizable. It was not the cold preen of a bird or the authoritative demand of a madame. It was a soft, uncertain, pleading thing. From the onset of Nox’s “mysterious illness” to her seemingly miraculous recovery, Millicent had not once spoken to her with the force or prudence that the Madame had worn like a suit of armor for years. Instead, her voice was always colored with a tinge of desperation. Nox knew three things. The first was that Millicent needed her more than she would ever need the Madame. The second was that the woman was terribly dangerous. And the third was that no matter what penance was paid or amends were attempted, Nox would see personally to the witch’s death.

It had been six days since she’d blossomed aglow with health once more, and still the young woman had remained in utter silence. When Nox spoke, she was almost surprised at herself that any voice remained at all.

“What do you want, Millicent?”

The Madame was in magenta today, a color not unlike many of the silks around her room. A similar color flooded her face as she nearly slumped in relief. She sounded like she might cry as she said, “I’m just here to check on you, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Physically? I feel fine.”

Millicent considered the specification, wringing her gloved hands.