The world righted itself, and she allowed Emris to pull her away. His face was drained of blood but full of determination. She glanced behind her. Chatham lay on the ground, pale. His clothes were burned, his hair singed. Blood—shockingly red against his silver-pale skin—was running from his nose.

Struck by lightning.

The guards were hurrying for help. Shocked onlookers had gathered behind the glass walls of the Council. A couple of girls were screaming in the street. Others gazed up at the sky, roiling with clouds.

“Lena, listen to me.” Emris grabbed her face, forced her to meet his eyes. “Once they understand what’s happened, they’re going to say you’re a Radical and a murderer and they’re going to kill you. You need to run.”

Murderer? Lena gazed up at the sky, let the rain trickle down her cheeks. The butterfly settled in her hair, calmer now. “I’ve killed two people,” she whispered.

But Emris just pulled her hand. “Come on!”

And finally, with a jolt, she understood. They barreled down the steps together. The few white-faced guards who stood in their way toppled like tin soldiers as Emris made a sweeping gesture with his hand, the air churning under their feet.

Together, they rounded the back of the Holy Council, passing the small alleyway into Faul’s temple. She remembered running through Duke’s Forest, the dogs howling for her blood, and felt wordlessly grateful for the touch of Emris’s hand in her own. Now she could hear people following, shouts in the distance, hoofbeats.

“This way!” Emris said, tugging her around a corner. They pelted down the narrow street, quickly turned left and then right. Left again, right again. The streets were quieter, poorer, residential. Fat drops of rain were falling, heavy and hot as tears of rage, roaring on the cobblestones. They carried on down a straight road for a minute or so, the sounds of pursuit growing louder, and Emris pulled her into a side alley so tiny it was nearly invisible. The streets were slick and shiny in the semi-light. At the end of the alley was a tall wooden gate—Emris vaulted over; Lena climbed. He helped her down the other side, into a back garden, her hands stinging with splinters. Hoofbeats passed by on the street beyond the alley.

“Come on,” Emris said, urging her onward through one garden and then another. Lena’s boots were soon caked with mud from the drenched flower beds, her robes soaked through. Lights started to flicker on inside the buildings, and the small comfort of a fire and a lamp appeared to Lena like another world. The ground started to slope upward as they emerged onto a street again.