The strength with which Niamh squeezed her hand surprised Imogen and alarmed her. “Peace, Mother.” She bathed the woman’s sweating brow, feeling the dampness soak into her glove and wishing she might comfort her with a bare hand instead of one covered in protective shrouding. “Be still. That’s enough excitement for now.”

But Niamh refused to quiet. “Don’t patronize me, girl,” she wheezed. “I’m not dead yet.” Her dark stare threatened to burn holes in Imogen. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Cededa can give you the life you should have had. No more gloves or isolation.” Her voice faded, and her eyelids drooped as the tea’s mild narcotic effects finally took hold. “A life no longer held prisoner by death.” She said the last on a sigh and fell asleep.

Imogen held vigil for a moment before rising to dump the rest of the cup’s contents into the fire. The flame sizzled and hissed, reminding her of the enchanted pendant in the box. Her thoughts whirled in a soup of confusion and burgeoning hope. She ruthlessly crushed the second, consigning it to the deep recesses of her mind where other false dreams and dead hopes resided. No one—not even an immortal king—could rid her of this malevolence lurking beneath her skin. Imogen doubted she’d receive either aid or mercy from a man whose own people christened him The Butcher.

But Niamh believed in Cededa of Tineroth, and Imogen believed in Niamh. The hope she’d driven back into the shadows refused to go quietly and rose up to float beneath the surface of her more mundane thoughts, lingering there as she brewed a cup of tea for herself and sat at the table admiring daffodils in the guttering firelight. Could an immortal king truly help a woman who’d been born as Death’s handmaiden?

Niamh’s steady, if frail, breathing comforted her, lulling her into a waking daze where the pop of burning wood and the shifting creak of tree branches outside played a lyrical tune. In the loft, her bed lay empty, the sheets stale and cold. Imogen hadn’t slept there the past four days and her back was beginning to feel the strain of sleeping in her hard chair, but she refused to leave Niamh’s side. She yawned, folded her arms on the table and rested her head on their makeshift pillow. She was asleep in moments and dreamed of silver serpents twining about her legs and arms in a cool, metallic caress. Their scales were slippery smooth and glided over her skin in whispers, like sands shifting on an ancient shore.

A rattling gasp awakened her just as the first red streaks of dawn painted the window. She jerked upright, befuddled with sleep. Her gaze settled on the bed where Niamh’s entire body convulsed and arched beneath blankets soaked in gore from waist to knee.

Imogen raced to the bedside. “Oh gods; oh gods,” she chanted as she gripped Niamh’s thin shoulders to hold her still. Her mother heaved under her hands, eyes rolled back into her head, mouth wet with blood-flecked spittle.