When fresh guards popped in to check on us, we ignored them, and after a taunt or two, they left. The clock ticked onward. Every second, it brought us closer to sunset. No other shouts rose from the corridor. No second rescue attempt. Where were they? Reid shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as he paced. “I don’t remember any of this.”

“But you—I’ve seen you as you’ve started to remember. I’ve seen the pain in your expression. It hurts.”

He threw his arms in the air, growing more and more frustrated. Or perhaps flustered. Perhaps both. “Those times have been few and far between, and even then, when I try to push through—to follow the memory—it’s like I’m jumping into a void. There’s nothing there. No wall to break. No door to open or lock to pick or window to smash. The memories are just gone.”

Wretched tears gathered in my eyes. “The pattern can be reversed.”

“What pattern?” His voice rose to almost a shout as he whirled to face me, jaw clenched and cheeks flushed. “The entire world seems to think I’m a witch—and I’m about to burn at the stake, so it must be true—but I can’t—I don’t—I’ve never seen a pattern, Lou. Not a single speck of gold or white or fucking indigo. It’s like this person you know—he doesn’t exist. I’m not him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be him again.”

When the tears fell freely down my cheeks, he groaned and wiped them away, moisture glistening in his own eyes. “Please, don’t cry. I can’t stand your tears. They make me—they make me want to rend the world apart to stop them, and I can’t—” He kissed me again, fierce with abandon. “Tell me again. Tell me all of it. I’ll remember this time.”

Within the hard shield of his arms, I repeated everything. I told him the story of us: the slashed arm and spattered sheet, the book called La Vie Éphémère, the trip to the theater and the market, the temple, the troupe, the shop of curiosities. I told him of Modraniht and La Mascarade des Crânes and every moment spent together in between. Every momentous shift in our relationship. The bathtub. The attic. The funeral.

I told him of magic.

He remembered nothing.

Yes, his face twisted occasionally, but upon embracing the pain, chasing the memories, he’d find only smoke and mirrors.

We gradually realized the guards rotated in two-hour shifts—Reid could remember that—checking in every half hour. When the last set appeared, I wept openly as Reid cradled me in his lap. “Not long now,” one of them had jeered. The other hadn’t wanted to linger, however, pulling his companion from the room with a discomfited expression.

Still no one came for us.

I hoped they’d survived. I hoped they’d rescued Madame Labelle and Beau, and I hoped they’d fled the city. I couldn’t bear the thought of them watching us burn. Though it wouldn’t be their fault, they’d never forgive themselves, and Coco—she’d suffered enough. She’d lost enough, as had Madame Labelle and Beau and Célie and even Jean Luc. Perhaps we’d been stupid to dream of something more. Something better. I still hoped they’d found it.

If anyone deserved peace, it was them.

Reid rested his cheek against my hair. “I’m so sorry, Lou.” Silence stretched between us, tautly strung like a bow. I waited for it to snap. “I wish—”

“Don’t.” Slowly, I lifted my head to look at him. My heart contracted at the anguish on his familiar face. I traced the shape of his brows, his nose, his lips, staring at each feature in turn. Deep down, I’d known how this would end all along. I’d sensed it from the moment we’d first met, from the time I’d first glimpsed the Balisarda in his bandolier—two star-crossed lovers brought together by fate or providence. By life and by death. By gods, or perhaps monsters.

We would end with a stake and a match.

Waving my hand, I shielded us from any huntsman’s gaze. Magic erupted around us. “Kiss me, Reid.”

Confessional

Reid

I stared at her tearstained face, chest aching. She didn’t need to convince me. I’d do anything she asked. If kissing her would stop another tear from falling, I’d kiss her a thousand times. If we survived the night, I’d kiss away every tear for the rest of her life.

Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.

She’d whispered the words to me like a prayer. And I still felt them. I felt each one.

How could I have ever thought this emotion between us wasn’t sacred? This connection. What I felt for Lou was visceral and raw and pure. It would consume me, if I let it. Consume us both.

But I stared for too long. With fresh tears, she flung her arms around my neck and buried her head in my shoulder. Cursing my mistake, I cradled her face in both hands. Gently. So gently. I tipped her face up to look at me. And then—with deliberate care—I pressed my lips to hers.

I couldn’t soothe this ache. I couldn’t right this wrong. In all likelihood, we’d both burn at sunset.

But I could hold her.

“I love you,” she breathed, lashes fluttering as I brushed soft kisses along her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyelids. “I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you after.” My lips trailed down her throat. Toward her scar. Her head fell back in response, baring it to me. Completely vulnerable. “Before my mother slit my throat on Modraniht”—the words sounded like a confession—“I thought I’d never see you again. A witch and a witch hunter can’t have each other in the afterlife.”

I lifted my head then. “I’ll find you again, Lou.” The words came readily, as if they’d been waiting on the tip of my tongue. A confession of my own. Perhaps I’d said them before. I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Though I’d lost our past, I refused to lose our future too. Even death wouldn’t take it from me. “I promise.”

She met my eyes with languorous heat. “I know.”

Despite the urgency of our situation—the huntsmen patrolling outside, the sun setting over the city—Lou didn’t rush as she slipped her palms into my collar, as she slid them down my back. My own hands moved leisurely to the hem of her shirt. Peeling the fabric from her belly inch by inch, I lowered her to the floor. She stripped my own shirt overhead. Heat pooled between us as she traced the scar on my torso, as I eased down her body. As I tasted each curve. With every breath, every touch—sultry and slow, as if searching—the intensity built. The quiet desperation.