I set my cup down and extracted a map of the city from a pile, spreading it out smooth. “Is there room at the Bastille?”

“Putting famers and their families in a prison lousy with vermin and disease is no better.”

Frowning, I traced a finger over the map. “The opera house, then. It is easily secured, and it’s likely more comfortable than any residence these farmers have ever known.”

Sabine closed her eyes and muttered something I couldn’t make out before saying, “It will do.”

“Provide what they need,” I said to Fred. “They’re your responsibility.”

He turned and left without acknowledging the order, and Sabine gave me a black look as she sat, crossing her ankles beneath her chair.

We’d been through this earlier, her explaining that my reactions were inappropriate, hurtful, and offensive. That Cécile’s magic had wiped away not only the emotions I felt from her, but also my own. I believed her; knew, logically, that my mind was altered from its normal state. But I felt no displeasure or discomfort with the change – quite the opposite, as my ability to focus on a singular problem for hours at a time could only be an advantage.

“Is Cécile alive?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What if she’s hurt? Would you know?”

I shrugged. “Likely.”

“What if she needs your help?”

It seemed to me that Sabine was missing the logic behind why Cécile had created the seeds in the first place. “If it is dire, she can always use my name.” I refrained from adding that if there were a way to eliminate that particular avenue, I’d do it. Cécile had all but offered to promise never to use my name, but I hadn’t taken her up on it. That had been a mistake.

“I’m going up into the tower,” she said. “Are you coming?”

I shook my head. With Fred gone and Sabine lingering outside, I’d have a rare moment alone to think, and I intended to use it. Ignoring her exasperated snort, I waited until I heard the click of the door latch shutting, and then sat on a chair and let myself slip into my thoughts.

Nearly everything I knew about the fey was information I’d been told or read. Nearly all, because, for a brief moment at the height of summer, I’d been in Arcadia and met the Winter Queen. It was into that memory that I delved.

It had hurt. The moment when my heart had stopped and I’d felt the bond between Cécile and me sever almost completely, the few frayed threads doing nothing to combat the feeling of loss. The empty void in my mind where my sense of her, and all her kaleidoscope of emotions, had lived.

Darkness.