Tension drained from the tomb, the cryptling visibly relieved as he stepped away respectfully, handing the oil to the mortician, who set it aside and helped him shut the beautiful carved doors of the tomb forever.

The ceremony had ended—the golden tree whole and guarding the entrance to her father’s final place of rest. Constance knew she had to be the last to leave, even though she felt like running away. As the crypt emptied out, only one figure remained with her by the tomb: Winton, kneeling to her left.

Her knees were aching. She stood up—and Winton touched his forehead, lips, and heart one last time, rising to his feet.

“Come,” she said, “let’s talk. You’ve waited long enough.”

Together, they walked up out of the tomb, through the great hall and into the courtyard, leaving their father behind in the dark.

In her chambers, Constance was surprised to find a cat waiting on her bed. It was enormous and ginger, and it had left a dead mouse on the dressing table. Wasn’t it the same cat she’d seen that first night in the crypts?

“Whose is that?” Winton asked, hesitating on the threshold.

Constance shrugged. “Looks like I’m his. Cats like magic—he was bound to find me sooner or later. Come in, Winton,” she added, when she saw he was waiting to be invited.

Her brother stepped inside and quickly sank into the armchair in front of the fire, which someone had tended in her absence. The flames danced and flickered in the iron grate, casting a warm glow over Winton’s face. For a few moments, she leaned on the mantelpiece and watched the flames.

“You must be angry with me,” she said, when he didn’t speak.

“My mother is dead. My father is dead. Constance, you’re all I have left,” he said. “I don’t care if you’re a mage. I don’t even care that you lied.”

“You … don’t care?” His words stunned her.

“Of course not.” He gazed up at her. “Don’t you know how much I love you? I admired you even as a boy. I think I sensed you were different from everyone else, even then. I used to follow you around when I was very small.”

“I remember that,” she said, a smile quirking her lips. The Duchess had hated it.

“And I think it’s because I knew that … I’m … different as well.”

Constance blinked, uncertain of what she was hearing. “You’re a mage too?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I mean … I’m different.” He blushed. “The thing with Lord Irvine is … I … ah … I … tried to…”

And suddenly Constance understood why Winton had stopped training with the Swordmaster, with no explanation. She understood how Irvine had played along, skirting the subject, a clumsy attempt at sensitivity.