Maeve watches her go, then follows. Her soldiers leave in her wake.

Raffaele meets my gaze and sits back down in his chair. “Your sister is growing weaker,” he says. “Our nearness to the origin of Laetes’s fall has intensified our connections to the gods, and it is ravaging our bodies. She will not last much longer.”

I stare at Violetta’s face. She furrows her brows, as if aware of my presence near her, and I find myself thinking of when we once lay side by side on identical beds, struck down by the blood fever. Somehow, it never has left us.

I glance at Magiano, then Raffaele. “Give me a moment alone with her,” I say.

I’m grateful to Magiano for his silence. He squeezes my hand once, then turns away and steps out of the tent.

Raffaele stares at me, doubt on his face. He doesn’t trust you alone with her. That is what you inspire, little wolf, a cloud of suspicion. Perhaps that’s what the expression is—or perhaps it is guilt, some lingering hint of regret for all that has happened between us, all that could have been avoided. Whatever it means, it disappears in the next breath. He tightens the clasp of his cloak and folds his hands into his sleeves, then moves toward the tent flap. Before he can step out, he turns back to me.

“Let yourself rest,” he says. “You will need it, mi Adelinetta.”

Mi Adelinetta.

My breath catches; the whispers go still. The memory rushes to me, clear as crystal, of an afternoon long ago, when I sat with him by an Estenzian canal and listened to him sing. With the memory comes a rush of wistful joy, followed by unbearable sadness. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that day. I want to tell him to wait, but he has already left. His voice seems to linger in the air, though, words I haven’t heard from him in years . . . and somewhere, deep in my chest, stirs the presence of a girl buried long ago.

On the bed, Violetta lets out a soft moan and shifts, breaking through the turmoil of my thoughts. I lean closer to her. She takes a deep, rasping breath, and then her eyes flutter open.

I hold Violetta’s hand, weaving my fingers with hers. Her skin is scalding to the touch, darkened by overlapping markings, and through it I can feel the bond of blood between us, strengthened by our Elite powers. Her eyes search the room, confused, and then wander up to my face. “Adelina,” she whispers.

“I’m here—” I start to reply, but she interrupts me and closes her eyes.

“You’re making a mistake, Adelina,” she says, her head now turned to her side. I blink, trying to understand what she means—until I realize that she is talking in a feverish state, and perhaps not even aware of where she is.

“I want to turn back,” she whispers. “But your Inquisitors—they are searching everywhere for me. They have their swords drawn. I think you may have ordered them to kill me when they find me.” Her voice cracks with dryness, hoarse and weak. “I want to help you. You’re making a mistake, Adelina.” She sighs. “I made a mistake too.”

Now I understand. She is telling me what happened after she fled the palace, after my illusions had overwhelmed me and she had turned on me—after I had turned on her. A lump rises in my throat. I take a seat in Raffaele’s chair, then lean toward her again.

“I told my soldiers to bring you back,” I murmur. “Unharmed. I searched for you for weeks, but you had already left me behind.”

Violetta’s breathing sounds shallow and uneven. “Took a ship bound for Tamoura, at first light,” she whispers. Her hand tightens around mine.

“Why did you go to the Daggers?” I sound bitter now, and my illusions spark, painting a scene around me of the days after Violetta had first left my side. How I sat on my throne, clutching my head, refusing trays of supper from servants. How I conjured blackness over the skies of Kenettra, blocking out the sun for days. How I’d burned parchments in the fire after my Inquisition patrols would write me, one after another, that they could not find her. “How could you?”

“I followed the energy of other Elites across the sea,” Violetta murmurs in a trance. Sweat drips down the side of her face as she shifts uneasily again. “I followed Raffaele, and I found him. He found me. Oh, Adelina . . .” She trails off for a moment. “I thought he could help you. I begged him on my knees, with my face pressed to the ground.” Her lashes are wet now, barely holding tears back. Beneath her lids, her eyes move restlessly. “I begged him every day, even as we heard you sent your new navy to invade Merroutas.”

My hand clenches harder around Violetta’s. Merroutas, I’d ordered my men. Domacca. Tamoura. Dumor. Cross the seas, drag the unmarked from their beds, bring them out into the streets before me. My fury seethed, day after day. “I couldn’t find you,” I snap, irritated at the tears that spring to my eye. “Why didn’t you send me a dove? Why didn’t you let me know?”

Violetta is silent for a long moment, lost in her fever world. Her eyes open again, vacant and gray, bleeding color, and find me. “Raffaele says you are lost forever. That you are beyond help. I think he’s wrong, but he sheds tears for you and shakes his head. I’m trying to convince him.” Her whispers turn urgent. “I think I’ll try again tomorrow.”

I reach up and angrily wipe my tears away. “I don’t understand you,” I whisper back. “Why do you have to keep trying?”

Violetta’s lips tremble with effort. “You cannot harden your heart to the future just because of your past. You cannot use cruelty against yourself to justify cruelty to others.” Her gray eyes slide downward, away from my face, until her gaze rests on the lantern burning low near the tent flap. “It is hard. I know you are trying.”