Her blue eyes were bloodshot. Weary. Resigned. She pressed a cold finger to my lips. “No, it’s smart. It’s a good plan. I hate it, but it’s a good plan. We need to function with autonomy, which is hard when we can feel what each other is feeling–” Her voice cracked.

Catching her hand with mine, I held it to my chest. There were things I should’ve said, explanations and justifications. Words to make her understand that in a perfect world, I’d never consider asking her for this. That in a perfect world, she would always come first, and I’d spend every waking moment proving it to her.

But ours was an imperfect world. Flawed and cruel.

“Will it work?” I asked.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I think it might.”

Cécile worked quickly, brow furrowed as she rummaged through Anushka’s chest, coming out with a vial filled with dried petals. “Passiflora,” she muttered. “Truthfully, I’m not sure the herbs are necessary. The iron I understand, but…” She sniffed the contents. “Might be that they are only to focus the witch on her objective. I just don’t know.”

She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t respond, instead going to the window and drawing back the shade. Dusk was settling on Trianon, the sun backlighting the mountains in shades of red and orange. The ship would soon be ready in what remained of the harbor, and in the darkest hour of the night, I’d send my wife and closest friends to kill my brother.

“I need blood, but only a little.”

Pulling back my sleeve, I sliced the back of my arm with magic. Blood dribbled down my wrist, crimson lines in contrast to veins still blackened with the scars of iron rot. As soon as Cécile withdrew the basin, I jerked my sleeve down to cover the mess, turning my gaze back to the window.

Soon, I’d feel nothing.

Cécile murmured an incantation, and I felt the invasive pull on my magic as she drew on it, shaping it to her own purpose. “It’s done,” she said, and I turned back to her.

On the palm of her hand rested three black balls the size of marbles. They fluxed and shifted like globs of oil in water, and Cécile’s fingers curled and twitched as though she desired nothing more than to fling them to the floor. “You’re supposed to eat them,” she said.

“That’s unfortunate. How long will it last?”