Camille is sitting next to her father, who is medium height, balding, with dark hair and eyes, and a kind face. I remember Sebastian saying that he was a mechanic, responsible for teaching Camille her wizardry with cars.

He looks at the cannoli with great interest, then takes a bite.

“My god,” he says, “I’ve never tasted anything better.”

Greta flushes with pleasure. “They’re my specialty,” she says, modestly.

“Have you ever thought of opening a bakery?” Camille’s father says. “Or a café?’

“Oh, no. I mean, I guess I thought of it once or twice, but not seriously . . .”

“You should! It would be a crime to keep these just for ourselves . . .”

Greta laughs and flaps her hand at him in embarrassment, but I notice that she sits down on the other side of him to eat her own cannoli, and that they spend the rest of the night talking together.

We’re all healing, slowly.

Sebastian has to go back to surgery himself, to get his knee fixed. He jokes that he and Nero can carpool to physiotherapy together. Nero lost his gallbladder and a piece of his liver, but should recover in full, other than six distinct and dramatic scars on various areas of his body.

Even Adrian goes home eventually, back to the mansion my father rented on Astor Street.

I hear about that through our cousin Grisha Lukin. He calls me shortly before Christmas, saying, “They sent Adrian home finally.”

“Have you seen him?” I ask, my heart fluttering against my ribs. I feel another little motion in response, down below my bellybutton—the baby kicking, as he always seems to do when I feel any strong emotion.

He is a boy, after all. Sebastian was right—the twenty-week scan proved it.

“No,” Grisha says, and I can almost hear him shaking his head over the phone. “He won’t see anyone. He’s shut up in his house with just his nurse there with him.”

“What nurse?”

“He hired the one from the hospital, I guess. Mikhail told me—some pretty blonde girl. She worked on the burn unit, and now she’s taking care of Adrian full-time. Mikhail says he thinks there’s something going on between them.”

“Romantically?” I say, in surprise.

“I dunno,” Grisha says. “That’s just what Mikhail told me. But you know he’s a fucking turnip.”

Strangely, the thought gives me comfort. I don’t want Adrian to be alone. If he has at least one person there who cares about him, that’s so much better than no one.

“Who is she?” I ask Grisha.

“Fucked if I know,” he says. “It’s all just gossip. I only called you ‘cause I always liked you best. My little Elsa.”

Now I know he’s grinning on the other end of the line. Usually I’d tell him to fuck off, but somehow the nickname doesn’t bother me as much anymore.

“Thanks, Grisha,” I say.

“Come on,” he coaxes me. “Sing just one line for me . . .”

That’s too far.

“No fucking way,” I say, and I hang up on him.

I sit there for a while, watching thick, puffy snowflakes drift down outside my window.

I can see the lights of our tree reflected on the glass. Sebastian and I picked it out together, and decorated it. Then we made popcorn and watched a movie, cuddled up on the couch that was finally delivered last week.

Such simple pleasures, and yet I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. That’s what life is made up of—tiny moments of happiness, like lights on a string, Put them all together, and there’s nothing more brilliant.

Digging through our stationery drawer, I find a blank Christmas card with a picture of a deer on the front, standing in a birch forest beneath a starry sky.

My brother changed his number, and I know he won’t let me in if I go to his house. But he might open a card.

I sit down again and I write,

Dear Adrian,

I heard you’re home now. I hope you’re doing well. Grisha told me you have a girl taking care of you, and I hope that’s true, too.

You were always good at taking care of me when I was sick. I had to do the same for you after—I don’t think there was ever a cold or flu that only one of us caught.

I miss you. I’m so sorry for what happened. I want you to know, I don’t hold anything against you, and neither does Sebastian. All of that’s over now.

I hope you’ll call me sometime.

You know I’ll always love you.

XOXO

Fasol

I close the card and slip it into its colored envelope. Then I seal it and write the address.

I don’t really expect Adrian to respond.

Sometimes you have to reach out. Even when you know you’re only reaching into empty air.

Epilogue

Yelena

18 Years Later

When I get home from the grocery store, there’s a letter laying on the table in the hall.

That’s where Seb and I keep all our mail—or at least, the mail that the other person will want to see. Fliers and ads go in the trash. Actual correspondence is placed here.

Of course, we don’t get much of that these days. It’s almost always a birthday or thank-you card. Sometimes a formal invitation to a party, or a charity event.

That’s what I’m expecting when I pick up the heavy envelope, with its expensive slate-gray stationary. It’s only when I turn it over that I see the seal.

It’s an old-fashioned crown, set inside the arch of twin olive branches. The image has been pressed into melted wax, deep crimson, the color of dried blood.

It startles me so badly that I almost drop the envelope right back down on the table. But I force myself to break the seal by sliding my thumbnail beneath the flap, lifting it open and pulling out the two sheets of paper within.

The letter is handwritten, in neat cursive.

Leo Gallo,

I am writing to inform you that you have been accepted to Kingmakers Academy. You have furthermore been granted automatic admission to the Heirs division, as is your right as the undisputed heir of the Gallo empire.

School will commence on the first of September. You are expected to report to the Grand Villa in Dubrovnik, no later than August thirtieth. From there, you will be taken to our secure campus.

As you are probably aware, admission to our campus is singular and irrevocable. If you decide to leave for any reason, you will not be permitted to return.

For that reason, please be sure to bring all items you will require for the duration of your program.

Enclosed is a list of our rules and regulations. Sign and return your acknowledgment of the contract, including your willingness to abide by our arbitration and punishment system. Your parents’ signatures and imprints are likewise required.

We look forward to meeting you. You will be joining an elite institution with a long and storied history. Perhaps someday your name will be inscribed on the wall of Dominus Scelestos.

For now, please convey my regards to your parents.

Sincerely,

Luther Hugo

Necessitas Non Habet Legem—Necessity Has No Law