“Really? Well, if you say so . . .” Valoria presses a hand to her forehead, but I can tell by the glint in her eyes that she’s secretly more pleased than bothered by the thought. “Think how shocked the Dead would be if they saw the Dream City!”
“But even the Dead want their loved ones to live, and your city would help keep away the black fever. It could save people. The things you’ve thought of!”
“I haven’t added half of the finer details yet . . .” She shakes her head, wringing her hands in an obvious case of nerves. “But I’m glad you like it. I’ve barely shown it to anyone. Only . . . my mother.”
Before I know what’s come over me, I grab Valoria’s callused hands. “I’m going to help you find her. I promise.”
“I’m so scared she’ll end up like Duke Bevan. I couldn’t bear it if that happened.” Valoria squeezes my hands. “But I knew I could count on you.”
The way she says those words with such confidence makes my face burn. I wish she’d put her trust in someone else, even if I do want to help her. “We’ll search the palace tomorrow, once we’ve gotten enough sleep to keep our wits about us.”
Valoria bites her lip. “Odessa. About what happened back in the garden . . .”
I hold her gaze. “I’m seeing imaginary monsters.” I don’t mention Evander. For some reason, I want to keep his silent apparition a secret for me alone. “It’s a side effect of the potion. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“But there is. You could stop taking the potion.” Valoria’s eyes glisten, making me wonder if she’s had a similar talk with someone else before. “Whatever feelings you’re avoiding can’t be as bad as what that potion’s doing to you.”
I want to reassure her, but the truth is, I’m dying for another dose at the mere mention of the potion.
Muttering an excuse about needing sleep, I leave Valoria’s tower for my cold, empty room and the bitter blue vials waiting beneath the bed.
*
I push open the door to my room, anticipating the potion’s bitter-apple taste, to find a girl with waves of dark red hair sitting on my bed. Her shirt and cloak are fur-trimmed, and the fang of some unfortunate creature hangs from her neck. I know even before glancing at the double-emerald pin gleaming on her collar that she’s a beast master.
Pausing just inside the door, I blink hard in case this is another hallucination, a trick of the flickering torchlight.
She turns toward me, and I remember Hadrien’s words about the red-haired girl who was asking after me.
“You were looking for me,” I say slowly, edging toward the sword waiting for me on my table, “at the party tonight. Why?”
The girl tilts her head slightly to one side, her face cast in shadow, though I can tell by her stillness that she’s studying me. She doesn’t utter a word or even bat an eye as I grab my sword. I’m grateful for its comforting weight in my hand, and while I keep it pointed at the ground, I know it’ll be ready at my slightest command.
“You don’t remember me.” She finally speaks in a silvery voice, though the words seem calculated, like she’s practiced at staying in control of every sound she makes, every gesture. She raises her head and locks her intense green eyes on mine.
A shiver of surprise runs through me.
The sound of my sword hitting the floor is only a distant thud.
She has Elibeth’s eyes. Lyda’s swanlike neck and ivory skin, though hers is dusted with light brown freckles, and a white scar—four jagged lines like claw marks—covers much of her left cheek. And—though it’s tight and wary and only lasts a second, I’d recognize it anywhere—she has Evander’s smile.
Meredy.
“Your hair was brown the last time we saw each other,” I murmur.
Meredy nods solemnly. “I was ten years old and had a terrible gap in my teeth the last time we saw each other, too. A lot’s changed in six years.”
I lick my dry lips, wanting to gaze past her in hope of glimpsing Shadow Evander, but something about this girl demands my entire focus. “Where have you been all this time?”
“The northernmost wilderness of Lorness.” Meredy tips her chin up as she adds, “Learning from one of the greatest beast masters of the century. But that’s finished now, and I’m a master. Like you.”
My heart’s hammering so hard I’m dizzy. “You finished training a year early?”
She arches a brow. “Is that so hard to believe? I’ve only been back in Grenwyr City for a day, and I’ve already heard they call you Sparrow because you seem to effortlessly fly between this world and the other. Yet you don’t think I could be a great beast master?”
I don’t mean to offend her, but I’ve never met anyone who finished training early. The apology that’s on the tip of my tongue dies as she gazes coolly up at me.
“You’ve got a scar that says otherwise . . .” I touch the spot on my cheek where hers is scarred. “What happened there?”
“It was a training accident,” she mutters. “What happened to your knee?”
“My own stupidity.” The moment I say the words, I regret them. I’ve made her give that tiny almost-smile again, the one that’s too sharp but still somehow an echo of Evander’s. I can’t do this. I can’t have these vivid reminders of him in my room, on my bed, reminders that can walk and talk and hurt me.
Meredy hooks her hair behind her ear. When it catches the light, it reminds me of the elderflower wine I drank at the party. “I’ll confess, I saw some of your trouble in the garden earlier. But I felt it best to give you time to collect yourself before I came around.”
“That was generous of you,” I say dryly, hoping I sound half as casual as she does. Leaning against the wall for support, I rub my temples. Surely she didn’t mean to, but she’s dredging up thoughts and memories I’ve been trying so hard to bury.
Meredy leaps to her feet, fastening her fur-trimmed burgundy cloak like she’s about to leave. But she holds my gaze and squares her shoulders. “It seems we’re starting off on the wrong note. I apologize for the lateness of my visit, but this can’t wait. I’ve come to secure your services.” She draws a lumpy bag from her cloak pocket, and the clinking sound it makes leaves no question as to what’s inside.
“I can’t raise Evander from the dead.” Each word opens a new wound as it leaves my lips. Curse Meredy Crowther for making me speak them. She looks as poised as her mother while I take a step back and accidently kick my sword across the floor.
Meredy moves forward, stepping lightly over the blade. Her voice remains low and clear. “I wasn’t asking you to.” She tosses the bag of coins onto my bed. “I’m no fool. I know necromancers can’t be raised, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.”
Do I wish I could raise Evander? To never see him, to never really touch him, to constantly fear that he could become a monster—we could never be like we used to. Not even magic can bring back what we had. Days ago, I’d have wanted to pull Evander from the Deadlands in a heartbeat, but now the idea feels somehow selfish.