My chest feels flat. My eyes struggle to open, feeling like sandpaper. Fighting waves of panic, I struggle to figure out where I am. Then I recognize the antique enameled lamp hanging from the ceiling above me, and I realize I’m in Jules’s room.

My room.

La Maison.

Glancing around, I realize that I am lying on my bed, dressed in a soft, clean pair of sweatpants, T-shirt and hoodie. No more blood-stained fighting gear.

Someone saw me naked, I think. Then I realize how stupid it is to be embarrassed. This must happen all the time in La Maison. Everyone will have seen everyone else naked. Wounded...dead.

I fill my lungs, which sends me into a coughing fit. The door flies open, and a halo of inky hair appears. It’s Gaspard. At least it’s not Ambrose or Charlotte or someone else who would make a scene.

He turns into the hallway, “He’s awake!”

Bran pushes past him, rushing toward me.

Gaspard follows and, picks up my hand, pressing a finger to my wrist. “Good pulse. Slow, but strong.”

“How are you feeling?” Bran inspects my face.

“I’m,” I croak, and launch into another coughing fit.

Gaspard hands me a glass of water from a tray sitting next to the bed. I drink it down in one.

That’s when it dawns on me.

It happened.

I’m a bardia.

Because I died saving...

My death scene flashes before my eyes.

Siaka bleeding out on the ground. Me shoving Liv to safety inside the mouth of the cave. Maurice looming over me with a look of pure, unadulterated fury as he plunged his sword into my chest.

I pull up my shirt and see the smooth skin on my chest. My body healed itself while I was dormant. I’m alive. But Siaka...

Suddenly I’m scrambling out of bed, but Bran and Gaspard block my way.

“Don’t get up yet,” Gaspard says. “You’ll be too weak to walk for several hours.”

“Where’s Siaka?” I demand. That’s the first thing I can think about.

Immediately, Bran turns his gaze away.

Gaspard can barely look me in the face. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

It feels as though Maurice is thrusting his sword into my chest all over again. The searing pain is no less. Siaka. Dead. I fought Maurice. I gave it my all. But I couldn’t save Siaka.

“Have another drink of water.” Gaspard refills my glass and presses it to my lips. “Fig?” he asks. He plucks one from a fruit bowl and pops it into my mouth. I chew twice before realizing that I’m ravenous and, pulling the bowl from the bedside table onto my lap, start devouring walnuts and grapes and cherries.

Gaspard looks encouraged. “Without sustenance you won’t regain your strength.”

“Tell me,” I say between mouthfuls. “Please. What happened?”