“Yeh take care of yehself, Kiva luv,” Mot said, hobbling toward the door with Tipp trailing behind him. “And best of luck tomorrow. If I were a bettin’ man, yeh’d ’ave my gold.” He paused, then added, “Yeh’ve got yehself a plan? To survive?”

Kiva’s insides tightened, a ball of tension settling like a rock in her stomach. She reached automatically for the amulet tucked beneath her tunic, its now-familiar weight offering a hint of reassurance. She still believed—still hoped—that it wouldn’t be needed. There was still time for her family to come. But if they didn’t . . .

She wished she knew what was in store for her the next day, wished she’d thought to ask the princess if she had to do anything to make the elemental magic in the amulet work, wished she didn’t have to face the Trial at all. But wishing had never done her any good before, just as she knew it wouldn’t now.

The look on Tipp’s face kept Kiva from sharing her uncertainty with Mot, and instead she croaked out, “Of course. I’m not at all worried.”

Mot squinted at her, and then looked to Tipp, who was beaming with relief at Kiva’s apparent confidence.

“I see,” the old man said. Without another word, he turned and hobbled back toward the medicinal garden, returning with yet another load and dumping it all on Kiva’s workbench.

She watched in baffled silence as he measured, sliced, and ground his concoction, before rifling through her supplies until he found a jar of karonut oil that Tipp had spent hours painstakingly collecting. Mot poured the entire jar into his mixture, gave it a stir, and then thrust it toward Kiva.

“Let this sit overnight,” he instructed her.

Inhaling the delicious, fresh scent, Kiva asked, “What is it?”

Mot placed his wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “It’s for yer Trial, Kiva luv. To help protect yeh.” When she stiffened with shock, he gave her a gentle squeeze and nodded to the pot. “It’ll turn waxy by mornin’. Make sure yeh smear it good and proper all over yer skin, do yeh hear me? It won’t save yeh if they plan to set yeh up on a pyre, but it’ll do more than any other salve yeh can think of. Might give yeh a fightin’ chance, extra time to get free or somethin’.” He paused. “Don’t get it in yer eyes, though. It’ll sting like a bitch.”

Kiva didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—or vomit—at the thought of a pyre. It seemed as if Mot, like her, assumed it was an option she might have to face.

Surprising them both, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, an unprecedented display of affection from her, and enough to startle him so much that he failed to return the embrace before she stepped away again.