The woman’s eyes flashed to Bram’s bandages before turning toward the stairs. Leena realized that she was listening for her husband’s footsteps. The woman indicated a glass jar filled with a dark substance, dropping her voice to a whisper: “I’ve also packed you a poultice. Sterilize the wound first, then apply it. It will draw out any signs of infection.”

  “Thank you,” Leena whispered back. Remembering the bag of coins, she gave generously from the stash.

  The woman hid the coins in her sleeve then shut the door firmly, leaving Leena gripping the jar tightly.

  She turned to look at Bram. He was bare from the waist up, only the bandages covering him, the firelight flickering across the hard planes and hollows of his chest, his dark head bowed. Leena’s mind could not help contrasting him to the warlords of the past who had roamed these very northern moors—strong and agile, scarred, battle-worn, unconquerable.

  Bramwell Avon was the north, in all its desolation—its hunger, its jagged edges and endless ferocity, a fortress against the changing seasons. Leena fought a pang of sadness at what his body had been made to withstand and was still withstanding.

  “I’ve heard many confessions over the years from every manner of confessor,” Bram said quietly. “Lords, ladies, beggars, cutthroats—I never cared who sat in the chair in front of me. Every one of them had their own purpose for revealing their secrets.” He swallowed as if he tasted something bitter. “No one—and I mean no one—has ever told a secret for my sake. Not until you.” He kept his head bowed. “Why did you do it?”

  “Bram, we—” she started to respond, but caught herself at the last moment. He deserved more than the half lie she’d been preparing to give. “Because we are friends. Because I…”

  She couldn’t finish that last thought—she wasn’t even sure what it was—but his eyes seemed to focus on her answer and the unsaid words behind it.

  Oh, how I loathe you.

  Leena was amazed that she had once thought that, when she now felt the very opposite. That she—

  She turned away to gather both her materials and herself before kneeling in front of him. “I must change your bandages.”

  She reached around to untie the knotted fabric below his shoulder blade, and she was so absorbed by the task that she didn’t notice how close her face was to his bare chest.

  His hand formed a fist on the sheets.

  She looked up at him, surprised to find his expression taut. “Have I hurt you?”

  “No.” His voice was hoarse.

  Then, to Leena’s surprise, he leaned in even closer, dropping his forehead to rest on her shoulder. She halted, her hand hovering over his chest with the gauze caught between her thumb and forefinger. She wondered if he could feel the wild beat of the pulse in her neck, pounding against his cheek. “Continue,” he said after a short while, his voice not losing its roughness.

  Her hands now slightly shaking, Leena started unwinding the bandages again, partially impeded by their close proximity. But he did not shift, nor did Leena want him to.

  “Lavender,” he said suddenly. “You still smell of it.”

  Leena remembered how much the perfumed oil she’d worn had irritated him in the past. “I’m sorry—”

  “No, don’t be,” he said, tilting his jaw so that his face was burrowed closer into her neck. “I had never before known that I could crave a smell.”

  Leena’s eyes snapped away from the bandages and toward him.

  The maddening part was that she knew exactly what he meant. His scent as he had carried her into the cave—sandalwood and fresh linen—had embedded itself into her waking hours, disturbed her rest. The wanting of him was ceaseless—a constant cacophony, impossible to silence.

  Leena slowly pulled away once all the bandages were off and his torso was bare. The black spidery veins creeping from the wound site had lengthened. The cut was now clearly infected, the edges gaping and weepy, the skin angry and inflamed.

  Wordlessly, she reached for the alcohol bottle.

  “This will hurt,” she warned, before spilling the entire contents onto the wound. He gasped, eyes widening briefly, before he slumped back, unconscious.

  That was easier for Leena. She was inevitably going to hurt him as she cleaned the wound, scrubbing the infection from the edges, and she didn’t want him to remember the pain of it in the way Rami remembered his amputation.

  Once that horrid task was finished, she applied the black poultice the innkeeper’s wife had brought, its vinegary smell stinging her nose, then wound the gauze around it. That proved to be difficult under the heavy weight of his body, but she managed to keep the wrappings as tight and as sterile as she could before dressing him in the new shirt the innkeeper’s wife had provided.

  As Bram slept, Leena reached into his coat to ensure that the red diary had not fallen out, sighing in relief when she felt the firm outline of the cover. Tugging it out quickly, wondering why this particular book had garnered so much dangerous attention, Leena flipped through the pages.

  Bram had said that most of the pages were blank, but they were not.

  Elegantly scrawled writing crowded every page, from margin to margin, the entries marked in the darkest of ink. Had Bram been so distracted by thoughts of the duel that he’d not properly investigated the contents of the diary? Surely one of these passages must be the reason why Hargreaves was hunting them.

  Before Leena managed to delve further into this, Bram woke up again.

  He had descended further into fever, incoherent questions tumbling from his mouth. He rose from the bed several times, restlessly grabbing for his pistol, forcing Leena to hide it within the pocket of her own skirt.

  “Where’s the Duke?” he demanded, looking at her without recognition.

  “There is no Duke. It’s just me,” she said, trying to coax him back into bed.

  He blinked at her. “They’ll all die. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “It’s all right, Bram—”

  He made a sound of frustration, as if she was being deliberately obtuse. “The Fray line will end with me, do you understand? I will end their line.”

  His voice had risen in volume, and Leena glanced toward the door, afraid that the innkeeper might have heard the noise and come to investigate.

  She tried to settle him, but she could see from his eyes that he was disoriented, his consciousness filtering through realities. He grasped for the pistol hidden in her pocket, and to calm him Leena placed a hand against his cheek, the short stubble scratching her skin.

  Instantly, his entire body stilled, as if in both dread and anticipation.

  Then, a deep shudder ran through him and he clasped his own hand around hers, tilting his jaw sideways to kiss the center of her palm.

  The gesture was so uncharacteristically tender that it could only be the act of a delirious man—an insensible mind.

  Leena could not deny that a growing part of her wished that it was deliberate, that this could be the flame that burned away all that stood between them—the contract, the title, the difference in their bloodlines.

  It felt to Leena that everything up until this point had been an interlude—starting in the cave, igniting since then, catching fire now.

  But she drew away shakily, trying to smile through the pangs of her own foolish heart so as not to distress him further. “You must rest—”

  Bram’s fingers tightened over her wrist, ignoring her. His brows furrowed. “Damn the demons and damn their visions of you. This time, I am going to finish it.”

  In one powerful movement, he pulled her toward him, crushing her body against his, taking her mouth with ferocity. He swallowed her gasp, and she could feel the rapid beats of his heart against her own chest.

  It was a hard kiss, his lips bruising against hers, speaking to her of yearning, of suffering. Leena distantly felt his fingers intertwining themselves with her hair, then moving to command her face to turn just so, to open to him.

  She clenched his shirt to anchor herself, her lungs incapable of drawing in enough air to keep her heart pumping in a steady rhythm. She could not form any coherent thoughts while his hands caressed her face, her hair, her neck.

  But his next words almost undid her resolve.

  “Not enough,” he murmured against her jaw, his kiss suddenly turning gentle, trailing across her cheek to below her earlobe where her pulse thrummed, lingering there for a single incinerating moment, then back to the ache of her lips.

  In that kiss, Leena could taste all the lingering looks he’d ever given her, all the rare smiles, all the frustration—all for her.

  Against her better judgment, she felt herself meeting Bram with the same intensity—it was always going to be this way.

  For a blazing moment, Leena could not think of the consequences as she threw her arms around his neck, balancing herself on her tiptoes, kissing him back unreservedly.

  When he felt her response, whatever reserve he held over himself cracked. His embrace turned to iron, the kiss a searing possession.

  She wanted to stay beside him…against him…with him…

  She wanted—

  No.

  A spark of electricity coursed through her, and she gasped from the pain of it, jerking away. The motion was so powerful it almost caused her to fall back, and in a second the pain was gone. But it was enough to bring Leena back to her senses.

  This was not the Bram in the cave, almost kissing her, then turning away. This was an insensate Bram, half intoxicated with fever and poison. Leena could never comprehend the number of choices that had been taken away from him throughout his life.

  If he kissed her now, she wanted it to be something he had chosen.

  She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the floorboards were shifting around her, and she grabbed the bedpost to keep upright.

  Bram, too, looked stunned, a high color staining his cheeks. His breathing was ragged, and he dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. “The demons know the exact ways to drive a mind to insanity.” His voice was hoarse as he reached out to trace her lips with his thumb, his eyes losing focus as he followed the movement. Leena’s hand tightened on the post. “By far, you are the softest insanity—”

  Then he staggered suddenly, his fist clenching against his wound, his face contorted in fresh waves of pain. Leena had never seen him like this, his shoulders trembling in agony.

  “Bram,” she cried, reaching for him, but the moment her fingers touched his brow, another jolt of electricity transferred from his skin to hers. She yelped, rearing back, and instinctively brought her throbbing fingers to her lips.

  His gaze was withdrawn, as if he was being pulled inward by something that Leena could not see. Then he slumped sideways onto the bed, succumbing to unconsciousness.

  When Leena touched his forehead, it was scorching.

  The poison was eating him alive.

  Leena felt like it was mere moments before she was jerked awake by the door slamming open.

  She hadn’t meant to close her eyes, nor had she meant to fall asleep—especially as she hadn’t even had the chance to line the bed with salt yet. Leena jolted into a sitting position, still feeling the burn of Bram’s lips on her own. He lay beside her, his eyes still closed.

  Leena sighed with relief when she realized it was not a phantom that had disturbed her but the innkeeper. His large frame bustled through the door, his forehead red and blotchy.

  “Pack your belongings, m’dear. You both must leave now.”

  Leena’s foggy mind could not adjust to the sudden change in events. She looked at the innkeeper without comprehension. “Leave? We’ve paid for the night.”

  The innkeeper scattered the coins on the floor, one rolling beneath the bed. “There—I’ve refunded you the full amount. Do not dawdle.”

  Leena rose from the bed sharply. “I don’t understand.”

  The innkeeper waved a beefy hand. “Ain’t your fault. The whole town’s gone mad for revolution. No one has been down in the mines for a week. Tonight there’s been talk that your friend Martin sent for the King’s soldiers to capture those leading the protest.”

  Leena’s blood froze, forcing her to be fully awake now. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “The townspeople have gone bloodthirsty; they’re even building a damned barricade against the soldiers,” the innkeeper growled. “Once the townsmen hear of your relationship to Mr. Martin, they will tear apart my inn to get to you and your…husband.”

  By initially claiming Martin’s protection, she had successfully managed to procure shelter, but hours later this same protection had led to their eviction. She looked out the window, the glass laced with ice, the snow falling so fast that the night sky was a white haze.

  “My husband is gravely injured.” Leena drew herself up to her full height, staring at him with fierce eyes. “We’ve done nothing wrong. If we are forced out into this weather, he will not last the night.”

  The innkeeper shrugged, not bothering with false geniality anymore. “I’ll not have trouble inside my inn.”

  He made as if to walk toward Bram, but Leena stood in his way.

  “We will leave,” Leena ground out, “but we will need a moment to prepare ourselves, and you will wait downstairs until then.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he retreated, leaving the door open.

  Leena knelt down and collected the coins off the floor, even stretching her aching shoulder to reach the one beneath the bed, trying to blink the tears from her eyes.

  Dangerous as the town might be at the present, she had no choice now but to make her way to the old housekeeper’s cottage, and who was to say that the old woman would even remember or welcome her? But that was the only refuge remotely open to them.

  She was loath to shake Bram awake, not when he needed every moment of rest she could give him. His forehead still burned even beneath the cool cloth.

  He blinked at her, trying to latch on to her words, but his mind was too hazy. Finally, he gained some understanding of the urgency of their situation and stumbled out of bed before shrugging on his coat. Leena patted his pocket again to ensure that the red diary had not slipped out—she dreaded losing it after they had sacrificed so much to acquire it—and was reassured by the feel of its firm outline.

  It was jarring to see the dreaded Saint of Silence so vulnerable. Once, she’d gone to St. Silas for medication to save Rami’s life. How everything had now shifted between them—power, hierarchy, even loyalty.

  Leena took his hand, leading him down the stairs and into the lobby where the innkeeper watched them from behind the desk. She felt comforted by the heavy weight of Bram’s pistol in her pocket; her own had been lost in the crypts.

  Once more that night they were out in the bleak cold without shelter.

  Leena stood on the steps, trying to remember the directions to the housekeeper’s cottage.

  That way was Weavingshaw, its lights visible through the white mist. To the left was the town, where even from here she could hear the steady hum of discordant chanting. To the right was the country road.

  Leena struggled with herself for a moment before she led Bram toward the path that ran deeper into the maze of clustered houses. She huddled close to him to shield him from the bite of the wind, their boots struggling to grip the icy cobbled streets.

  The shouting intensified. Once they reached the town square, Leena understood why.

  It was complete chaos.

  Townsfolk ran in all directions, collecting weapons to throw down by the steps of the church. Pickaxes, scythes, helmets, rusted swords, and farming equipment were all laid down in piles.

  Chants could be heard like tidal waves, so it took Leena a moment to piece together what was being shouted: Long live the people.

  Paint-splattered letters were written everywhere, on the fences, on the wooden posts, on the doors: King Edmund will fall.

  Someone had attempted to form a barricade but had abandoned the project halfway, leaving a sad fence with a few wooden planks, a dozen chairs, and a wardrobe turned on its side. If the army was truly coming, then the entire town wouldn’t last the week.

  Leena recognized a handful of Martin’s servants in the crowd, their faces lit by a steel-can flame. Leena kept her head low. She urged Bram onward, but he struggled under her grip.

  Swerving, she saw a face in the crowd that she recognized instantly.

  Mackenzie Crane, bruiser of the Black Coats. His right earlobe was completely missing, and his hand was heavily bandaged thanks to Bram’s shot.

  His head turned at that moment.

  Leena’s breath hitched. He had seen them, and was now cutting through the crowd in their direction.

  She faltered, tugging Bram by the hand toward the first dark alleyway she encountered, quickening their strides.

  But Mackenzie had followed them.

  With a wild sort of fright, she heard hard footsteps clicking behind them on the cobblestones, steadily gaining pace.

  Leena tore into the maze of streets, guiding them deeper into the township and the clustered houses. Still, no matter where she turned, Mackenzie’s footsteps followed.

  A flicker of shadow ahead of them.

  Theodore Daye emerged, his eyes frantic, urging them forward.

  There was no other way to go but onward. Leena briefly considered going back to face Mackenzie Crane rather than follow Theodore Daye, who had already betrayed them once, but that seemed like a deadlier option.

  “Please,” Leena sobbed, staggering to a stop. “Do not lead us astray again, Theo. Please.”

  Theodore Daye halted at her words. His skin turned unearthly pale, and he averted his face. No longer did he beckon her forward. His entire body seemed to crumple in shame.