“I will, Your Grace.” The duke was still smiling, and Owen could imagine why.

The king knelt down on the ground and picked up the broken chain and badge that Horwath had thrown down. He rose, staring at the fine workmanship of the badge, the symbol of the rose and star made of gold. Then he looked warily at Mancini.

“For now,” the king said with almost a threat in his voice, and offered the medallion to him.

“Your Grace,” Mancini replied meekly, bowing.

Owen hurried back to his bedchamber, and his heart gave a shiver and a lurch when he found it empty. His heart was boiling inside, ready to burst with relief. He had to tell her.

“Ankarette?” Owen whispered, carefully padding to the other side of the bed. He found a bloodstain on the floor.

His heart was hammering faster and faster. “Ankarette?” he whispered again.

She was gone.

“Owen.”

Her voice was so soft, muffled, he almost didn’t hear it, but it came from under the bed. Owen dropped to his knees and looked and found her curled up under the bedframe, her head resting on her arm.

Afraid, he crawled under the bed beside her. Her face was pale, her eyelids purple and bruised. She looked so weak and tired, as though she lacked the strength to even move.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I’m very sick, Owen,” she whispered, her voice so faint that he had to bring his ear near her mouth to hear her. “I’ve been sick for months.”

“But you will get better now,” Owen said, his mouth tightening into a frown.

“No, Owen.” She sighed deeply. Very slowly, she lifted her fingers and grazed his hair. “Tell me . . . what happened.”

He swallowed some tears before they could spill. His throat was thick and tight. He burrowed himself against her. She felt cold. Her hand limply stroked his hair.

“I’m going to be a duke,” he stammered. “Duke Kiskaddon, like my father. The king is giving me Westmarch. But I’m going North first. To be with Evie and trained by her grandfather. I’m . . . I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

“Sshhh,” she soothed. “I’m going to the Deep Fathoms now. Where I can rest. Where I can sleep without pain. Sshhhh, don’t cry.”

He was crying. The tears were hot against his cheeks. “I don’t want you to go,” he moaned. “You need to keep teaching me. I can’t do this without you. I am Fountain-blessed, Ankarette. You were right about me. The king tried using his magic on me and I . . . I turned it back on him. I felt it. So did he. Someone sent Ratcliffe to kill me. I . . . I need you, Ankarette!”

She was quiet for a while, so still it felt as if she wasn’t breathing. Her hand still stroked his hair. He sobbed quietly into her, burying his face in her gown. She let him grieve, gently patting his back.

“I know about Ratcliffe’s message,” Ankarette said, her voice quiet and distant. “I put it in his pocket last night at the inn. It was hidden among his papers.” She paused, struggling for breath. “Owen, remember how I said that secrets always try to get out? Do you remember that?”

“Um-hmm,” he said, hardly able to speak through his tears. He looked up at her face, and the loving smile he saw there made his heart hurt even more.

“There’s one more . . . in my heart, trying to get out. I think it’s been . . . keeping me from dying. But I need . . . to let it out now.” She sighed, her eyes closing as if she were falling asleep. Or dying. “I was trained . . . to be a poisoner . . . from a midwife. That’s common, actually.” Her hand strokes were getting slower. “So many of the herbs . . . and medicines that can save . . . can also kill. One of my favorites . . . is nightshade. It’s used . . . in childbirth . . . when the mother has too much pain.” Her voice trailed off again.

“Ankarette?” Owen pleaded, shaking her gently.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Nightshade . . . has many purposes. I used it on Ratcliffe . . . last night. He told me his secrets. He told me about the letter. But when it . . . when it wears off . . . you can’t remember what you did . . . what you said. That’s how I tricked Ratcliffe into forgetting. That’s how I learned what was in the book. But that’s not my secret.” Her voice thickened with pain. “When you were stillborn, I was . . . the midwife . . . who helped your mother. For you. You’ve always been precious to me, Owen. I had to give you . . . some of my magic . . . for you to live. I learned . . . when you give of the magic . . . it grows stronger. Remember that. I’ve tried to help you the best . . . I could. Now you . . . now you must use your magic . . . to help others. Remember.”