But she came anyway, in part because of the quiet, and in part because the rest of the world was getting scary, and if something happened, Nasi wanted to be near the king’s knight, even if she was dead.

It was early morning—that time before the world woke up all the way, and she was standing beside the woman’s head, saying a prayer, for power, for strength (they were the only prayers she knew). She was running out of words when, on the table, Ojka’s fingers twitched.

Nasi startled, but even as her eyes widened and her heart skipped, she was talking herself down, the way she had done when she was little, and every little shadow had a way of becoming a monster. It could have been a trick of the light, probably was, so she reached out and tentatively touched the knight’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.

Sure enough, Ojka was still cold. Still dead.

And then, abruptly, the woman sat up.

Nasi staggered back as the black cloth tumbled away from Ojka’s face.

She didn’t blink, didn’t turn her head, or even seem to notice Nasi or the death table or the candlelit room. Her eyes were wide and flat and empty, and Nasi remembered the soldiers who used to guard Astrid and Athos Dane, hollowed out and spelled into submission.

Ojka looked like them.

She was real, and yet not real, alive and still very, very dead.

The wound at her neck was there and deep as ever, but now Ojka worked her jaw. When she tried to speak, a low hiss came from her ruined throat. The knight pursed her lips, and swallowed, and Nasi watched as tendrils of shadow and smoke wove over and around her neck, almost like a fresh bandage.

She leapt down from the table, upsetting the vines and bowls that Nasi had laid so carefully around her corpse. They fell to the floor with a clang and a crash.

Ojka had always been so graceful, but now her steps had the stilted quality of a colt, or a puppet, and Nasi backed up until her shoulder hit the pillar. The knight looked straight at the girl, shadows swimming through her pale eye. Ojka didn’t speak, only stared, the drip of spilled water tapping on the stones behind her. Her hand had begun to drift toward Nasi’s cheek when the doors swung open and two members of the Iron Guard stormed in, drawn by the crash.

They saw the dead knight standing upright and froze.

Ojka’s hand fell away from Nasi as she spun toward them with returning grace. The air around her shimmered with magic, something from the table—a dagger—sailing into Ojka’s hand.

The guards were shouting now, and Nasi should have run, should have done something, but she was frozen against the pillar, pinned by something as heavy as the strongest magic.

She didn’t want to see what happened next, didn’t want to see the king’s knight die a second time, didn’t want to see the last of Holland’s guard fall to a ghost, so she crouched, squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed her hands over her ears. The way she used to when things got bad in the castle. When Athos Dane played with people until they broke.

But even through her hands, she heard the voice that came from Ojka’s throat—not Ojka’s at all, but someone else’s, hollow and echoing and rich—and the guards must have been afraid of ghosts and monsters too, because when Nasi finally opened her eyes, there was no sign of Ojka or the men.

The room was empty.

She was all alone.

IV

The Ghost was almost back to Tanek when Lila felt the vessel drag to a sudden stop.

Not the smooth coasting of a ship losing current, but a jarring halt, unnatural at sea.

She and Kell were in their cabin when it happened, packing up their few belongings, Lila’s hand drifting repeatedly to her pocket—the absence of her watch its own strange weight—while Kell’s kept going to his chest.

“Does it still hurt?” she’d asked, and Kell had started to answer when the ship stuttered harshly, the groan of wood and sail cut off by Alucard calling them up. His voice had the peculiar lightness it took on when he was either drunk or nervous, and she was pretty sure he hadn’t been drinking at the ship’s wheel (though it wouldn’t surprise her if he had).

It was a grey day above, mist clouding the world beyond the boat. Holland was already on deck, staring out into the fog.

“Why have you stopped?” demanded Kell, a crease between his brows.

“Because we have a problem,” said Alucard, nodding ahead.

Lila scanned the horizon. The fog was heavier than it should have been given the hour, sitting like a second skin above the water. “I can’t see anything.”

“That’s the idea,” said Alucard. His hands splayed, his lips moved, and the mist he’d conjured thinned a little before them.

Lila squinted, and at first she saw nothing but sea, and then—

She went still.

It wasn’t land ahead.

It was a line of ships.

Ten hulking vessels with pale wood bodies and emerald flags that cut the fog like knives.

A Veskan fleet.

“Well,” said Lila slowly. “I guess that answers the question of who paid Jasta to kill us.”

“And Rhy,” added Kell.

“How far to land?” asked Holland.

Alucard shook his head. “Not far, but they’re standing directly between us and Tanek. The nearest coast is an hour’s sail to either side.”

“Then we go around.”

Alucard shot Kell a look. “Not in this,” he said, gesturing at the Ghost, and Lila understood. The captain had maneuvered the ship so that its narrow prow faced the fleet’s spine. As long as the fog lingered, as long as the Ghost held still, it might go unnoticed, but the moment it moved closer, it would be a target. The Ghost wasn’t flying flags, but neither were the three small vessels bobbing like buoys beside the fleet, each running the white banner of a captured boat. The Veskans were clearly holding the pass.