“Thank you, Mot,” she said, with feeling. “Truly.”

“Yeh can thank me after the Trial is over and yeh’re still alive,” he said, his ruddy cheeks slightly pink. He then turned to Tipp, who was smiling even wider than before, as if certain Mot had given Kiva a foolproof way to survive. “Come on, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”

The two of them exited the infirmary, leaving Kiva with only her thoughts for company. Soon enough, her fears about the next day began to scream for attention. She needed a distraction, something to keep her from spiraling into panic. She had the amulet, and if the magic in it failed, she now had Mot’s protection, even if he’d warned of the mixture’s limitations. There was nothing more she could do. She needed to stop thinking about it, since that was only making it worse.

Glancing over at Tilda, Kiva made a snap decision. Aside from the guard at the door, the two of them were alone, so she walked over to the Rebel Queen’s bedside and peered down at her. She was deathly pale, even more so than when she’d first arrived, her tan having slowly faded as if all the life had leached out of her during her weeks spent in bed. Kiva again wondered how long she’d been sick before arriving, if it was a new ailment or something she’d been fighting for some time. She had so many questions, more than she’d ever be able to ask, even if Tilda were to miraculously recover.

“What are you doing here?” Kiva whispered to her. “How can I make you better?”

Tilda, of course, didn’t answer.

Kiva wondered if it was a fluke that they’d managed a semi-lucid conversation before the first Ordeal. Perhaps it had been nothing but luck and timing that she’d heard her awaken that night. She wished Tilda’s cloudy eyes would open again and that she’d say something—anything—to help Kiva remember why she was fighting so hard to keep her alive. Not that she needed the reminder, but she longed for some small comfort.

Comfort from a dying woman—a woman that Kiva was risking everything to save, and yet still failing.

Stay alive.

Don’t let her die.

We are coming.

Sighing loudly, Kiva sat beside Tilda’s bed and, being careful to remember that the guard was within hearing distance, picked up her hand, holding it gently in her own.