“That’s personal,” Raze says tightly, a little bit of the teasing tone drained from his voice.

“What?” I jump, suddenly afraid that he’s a mind reader, too.

Behind me, he tenses. “I mean...all of it. How would you feel if I asked you what a changeling’s doing out on the road with her human counterpart?”

Defensiveness washes over me before understanding, and then I’m relieved and embarrassed all at once. “Oh, Fate,” I mumble. “How much of that did I say out loud?”

Raze snorts. “Sorry, did I interrupt your conversation with yourself? I was waiting to see how long you’d go. It’s like I wasn’t even here.”

I wish he wasn’t even here, but I shut up after that, concentrating on keeping my thoughts from bubbling up into a mindless monologue. It’s hard to focus on any of my questions about him, given that my mind feels like a half-frozen river, numb and sluggish and pierced with ice. Drawn out by my racing heartbeat, magic prickles at my fingertips.

Even though Raze is too close to me for comfort, and Isolde is practically within arm’s reach, I feel like my only real company is the pain in my head and my muscles and my skin.

And, of course, the rain.

Tears build pressure in my throat. None of this is how today was supposed to go. I’m hurt and so overwhelmed and lost and confused and maybe a little bit broken.

Not now. Not yet.

It’ll all have to come out eventually. I can’t shove it down forever—but I can for right now, and I am not about to let this cursed boy see me cry.

I’ve never ridden a horse for longer than half an hour before, and let me tell you, moments after being struck by lightning is not an ideal time to start learning horsemanship. It’s hours of trial, precarious balance, and awkward squeezing as Raze struggles to keep both of us on the horse. He tries to rekindle conversation a few times, but I pretend I don’t hear. Even if I wanted to talk to him, my mind isn’t putting thoughts together into words anymore.

By the time we reach the outskirts of the nearest town, sore, tired, soaked through, burned, and bloodied, I’m starting to rethink my stance on not crying.

The town—Farpoint, a chipped sign proudly proclaims—isn’t one we’ve visited before. It’s larger than the village where Isolde and I grew up but much smaller than the cities I’ve gotten used to, clinging dangerously close to the edge of a cliff to peer curiously down at the sea. It feels new, without any centuries-old shadows clinging to its heels. Goats and chickens wander freely among a respectable collection of shops and tidy homes, a few open-air market stalls, and far more people looking at me than I’m comfortable with.

Not that any part of me is comfortable by now.

Besides, I can’t really blame them. We must be quite a sight.

I’m pretty sure I only imagine the horse breathing a sigh of relief when we finally dismount at the only stable in town, next door to the only inn. The rain has finally let up, and the clouds part tentatively to reveal a faint orange smudge of sunset. The air is rinsed sharp and clean, tinged with a hint of salt. I can hear the distant crashing of waves as the strong sea breeze cuts through me.