Kiva swallowed, then swallowed again. It was painful, like glass working its way down her esophagus. Her own fingers shook as she took Tilda’s offered hand gently in her own, knowing it was what the woman wanted.

“What’s she talking about?” Naari asked.

Finally forcing words through her lips, Kiva said, “I told her a story, the day before the fire Ordeal. She wasn’t sleeping well—restless, groaning. I thought it might help.”

“I like s-stories,” Tipp said eagerly. “Will you t-tell it again?”

Kiva looked at the young boy and his open expression, to Naari, who appeared curious but no longer wary, and then to Tilda, who seemed near to falling back to sleep, where Kiva knew the delirium would overcome her again. Perhaps it was for the best that the Rebel Queen was unable to communicate properly, perhaps even for the best that she was ill and confined to the infirmary. Not only was she protected from any anti-rebel inmates who wished her harm, but she also couldn’t be sent to the Abyss and interrogated. Until Kiva finished the Trials, Tilda remained a prisoner, her life at risk as long as she was inside Zalindov. There was no sign that her followers were coming for her a second time. It was Kiva’s success or failure that would mean Tilda’s execution or release. And until either outcome occurred, the sick woman was in danger, all her rebellious knowledge trapped within her mind. Maybe that was why she was still so unwell—because on a subconscious level, she knew what would happen if they tried to pry those secrets from her. Maybe that was why she wanted to die, to protect her plans to take back the kingdom, and to protect all those she cared about.

But . . . Kiva also had people she cared about. And for better or worse, Tilda was one of those people. As long as Kiva remained alive, she was determined to make sure Tilda did, too.

Don’t let her die.

Kiva didn’t need the reminder from the note anymore.

She never had.

And as she pulled up a stool beside Tipp and held tight to Tilda’s hand, as she began to retell the tale of how her father met her mother, she hoped that if Tilda had comprehended the story when Kiva had first shared it, then she would have also heard Kiva’s pleas for her to remember her own loved ones. To remember that they needed her to stay alive, and to fight.

“You really c-care about her, don’t you?” Tipp asked later that night, when Kiva was feeding yet more samples to the rats. The young boy was trying to help, but was more of a hindrance than anything, preferring to play with the vermin than settle them.

“About who?” Kiva asked, distracted.