Slowly, Elisabeth sat down. The pattern reminded her of something. A half-formed idea itched at the back of her mind, but it slipped away whenever she reached for it, always just outside her grasp. Her eyes traced the map over and over. Beside the Royal Library at the very center of the circle, Katrien had drawn a question mark. They had never figured out whether Ashcroft planned to target Brassbridge after Harrows.

For a moment her surroundings receded and she was back in Ashcroft Manor, raising her champagne glass in a toast. She heard her own voice alongside the other guests, reciting after Ashcroft, To progress. Ghostly laughter echoed in her ears. What was she missing? Frustrated, she dug her knuckles against her eyes until bursts of color filled her vision.

She shouldn’t be sitting safely in Nathaniel’s house. She should be out there doing something, fighting back against Ashcroft. But this wasn’t a battle she could win alone. As the minutes ticked on, all she could do was wait.

• • •

Nathaniel’s fever broke the next morning. When Silas changed his bandages, the strips of linen came away clean. The wounds beneath no longer looked raw and angry, but had healed overnight to the shiny, healthy pink of weeks-old scars.

“It is the doing of the wards,” Silas explained, seeing Elisabeth’s expression as he prepared to remove Nathaniel’s stitches. “Magic has been laid down in the house’s stones by Master Thorn’s ancestors for hundreds of years. Spells of protection and healing, intended to guard each heir.”

The snow tapered off to a fine glittering dust as the afternoon wore on, and none too soon; the drift on the windowsill was already eighteen inches deep, burying the gargoyle that had stationed itself on the roof outside. Quiet muffled the house, as though the walls had been stuffed with feather-down. Out of tasks to do, Silas transformed into a cat and slept curled up by Nathaniel’s feet, his nose tucked beneath his tail. Elisabeth watched the two of them drowsily, surprised to discover that Silas did sleep. She had always imagined him staying awake through the night polishing the silver or prowling Brassbridge’s streets on mysterious errands. Did he have his own room in the manor? She had never seen any sign of where he kept his clothes. Her eyelids drooped. One day, she would ask Nathaniel. . . .

She opened her eyes some time later to find that it had already grown dark. Flames crackled in the fireplace, and Silas had tucked a blanket over her legs. Her breath stopped when her gaze traveled to Nathaniel. He was awake. He had pulled himself up against the headboard and was staring into the shadows of the hall, one hand resting loosely on his bandaged chest, his gray eyes unreadable in the light of the candles arranged around the room. When she shifted, he looked at her and drew in a ragged breath. Anguish shone in his eyes.

“Ten years, Elisabeth.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You shouldn’t have done it. Not for me.”

She had braced herself for this moment during the long hours of waiting, trying to imagine how he would react once he regained his senses enough to recall what had happened, but she still wasn’t prepared for the intensity of his expression. She had thought he might be angry with her, or perhaps berate her for her foolishness. With his gaze upon her now so raw with despair, she saw that she couldn’t have been more wrong. One by one, her rehearsed arguments fell away.

Quietly, she asked, “Would you have done the same for me? I think you would have.”

“That is not—” But he couldn’t finish, for his stricken look plainly said, Of course; that and more. Anything Everything. He pressed his eyes shut before he could betray himself further, but she had already seen enough to leave her shaken. He continued evenly, “When Silas brought you back, I knew no good would come of an association between us. I wished daily that you would leave.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I thought—I hoped—that after the battle, you might have come to your senses. That I would wake and find you gone.”

The words were harsh. She held her breath, waiting for the rest.

“But you stayed with me. And selfishly, I was glad—I had never wanted anything more in my life. Damn you,” he said. “You unmanageable, contrary creature. You have made me believe in something at last. It feels as wretched as I imagined.”

She wiped at the wetness on her cheek. “You wouldn’t like me if I were manageable,” she said, and he laughed, a soft, tormented sound, as though she had slipped a knife between his ribs. She thought she understood what he was feeling, because she felt it too: a sort of joy and pain at once, an unbearable yearning of the heart.

“I’m sure you’re right.” He sounded hoarse. “Though I have to admit, I could have done without almost getting crushed by a bookcase the first time we met.”

“That only happened once,” she said. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

This time his laugh was louder, surprised. His eyes locked with hers, and her breath caught. His longing for her was plain, as tangible a sensation as an invisible thread drawn tight between them. He tensed and looked away, his gaze landing on the window.

“It’s been snowing?” he asked.

“You did that while you were asleep.” At his expression of horror, her heart plunged, and she added quickly, “It’s all right. You haven’t hurt anyone. It’s just snow.” She stood and took his hand. “Come look.”

Nathaniel appeared doubtful, but he stiffly climbed out of bed and allowed her to help him to the window seat. As they settled there, Silas opened one yellow eye. He regarded them for a moment, and then he leaped off the bed and padded from the room.

There was barely enough space for both her and Nathaniel on the window seat’s cushions. A frosty chill penetrated the glass, but his body was warm from bed, and close, his bent leg pressing against hers.

Snow had transformed the city. Even in the blue twilight she could see impossibly far across the rooftops, their shingles etched in white, the view luminous and clear. Chimneys sent up wisps of smoke. Clouds parted to reveal a glittering sky. Every glow was refracted: the warm burnishing shine of the streetlamps, the cold luster of the stars, banishing the darkness to almost nothing. Night would never truly fall in the presence of so much light.

She had expected the streets to be empty, and for the most part they were—of traffic, of shoppers. But people trooped nevertheless through the snow and the golden lamplight, some in groups, others in pairs holding hands, all traveling silently in the same direction. There was an almost sacred quality to the procession, like a vision of saints crossing from this life to the next.

“Where are they going?” she asked.

“To the river.” Nathaniel’s breath fogged the glass. Gradually, the tension bled from his shoulders. “When it freezes, everyone goes skating.”

“Even in the dark?”

Slowly, as if caught in a dream, he nodded. “I haven’t been in years—I used to go with my family. They light bonfires along the shore, and roast so many chestnuts you can find your way there by smell.” He paused. “If you’d like, I’ll take you there this winter.”

There were an infinite number of reasons to turn him down. It was unlikely she’d be here come winter. She might not even be alive. A mere twenty minutes away by carriage, Ashcroft was in his manor, scheming.