“There’s a party of ten of the commander’s men riding for the palace,” he told her. “You need to intercept them. You need to stop them from getting their message to Maxmillian.” He wiped his brow, which was covered with a thin sheen of sweat despite the chill in the air. “We can’t have him sending backup.”

“I’ll take care of my part. You just concentrate on yours.” She didn’t say another word, just turned on the heavy heel of her boot and, without a sound, blended into the shadows once more.

He waited there a moment longer, waited till his heartbeat settled. He hated that she still had the power to make him feel so . . . so weak. So impotent.

He’d prove otherwise if it was the last thing he did.

He was just turning when he heard the sound again, a snapping, and then a voice. “Who was that?” One of the soldiers asked, revealing himself as he stepped forward.

“I—I . . . what are you talking about? Can’t a guy have a few minutes of privacy?” he stammered, not needing to feign surprise. He hadn’t expected to rouse suspicions.

“Sure you can, if you were actually alone. But I heard you . . . talking to a girl. Who was she, because I know she wasn’t one of ours?” The man just stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

He shook his head, taking an uncertain step forward. “I can explain . . . ,” he started, and then he tripped.

Or pretended to trip.

Instead, he moved with the kind of stealth the soldier never could have expected, not from him.

His knife easily pierced the soldier’s thin tunic and burrowed into the flesh just beneath his rib cage. He shoved the blade farther, driving it in as far as he could. Even in the pale moonlight that found its way through the clouds, he could see the man’s eyes go wide, his mouth opening in shock as he bent forward, his hands reaching for the dagger in his gut. And then he let go of the handle. He lunged at the soldier, throwing one arm around the back of the man’s neck, his fingers already slick with blood as he gripped the soldier’s stubbled chin. At the same time he reached all the way across the man’s chest with his other arm, his fingers digging into the muscular shoulder.

And then he jerked the soldier’s chin. Fast and hard.

So hard that a cracking sound filled the night.

For a moment, the only thing he heard was the beating of his own heart and the blood that rushed past his ears.

As the soldier, his eyes unblinking, crumpled to the ground in front of him, he let go of the body, pulling a kerchief from his back pocket and wiping his hands on it.

He wished she’d been there to see how trustworthy he really was. How far he was willing to go to get the job done.

He stayed there a moment longer, waiting to see if anyone else was coming, if anyone had noticed that he’d slipped away. But there was nothing.

Just silence and darkness.

And then he heard it, nearby. The high-pitched whistle—her high-pitched whistle.

Just as the first snowflakes of the season began to fall.

xiii

I watched as hands that should’ve belonged to me reached for a small crystal bottle. My skin was paper thin and covered in brown spots, and even without testing them, I already knew my aged legs were useless. I uncorked the bottle with my crooked fingers and brought it to my nose. The perfume within released a floodgate of memories that I’d thought were long ago suppressed—memories that I knew, even within the confines of this dream, were best forgotten. But it didn’t stop my mind from drifting.

A memory within a dream.

The scent brought back images of blue flowers. So fragrant and lovely. So plentiful, floating atop the water along the riverbank. I’d only been a child then, I thought, a little girl. But even now, the memory was lucid and strong.

How long ago had that been? my dream self wondered.

Too long. Another lifetime.

An older girl—who I knew was my sister—had led me to the shore so she could admire the blossoms. It was blistering. The midday sun had reached its peak in the vast sky, and even children understood the perils of standing too close to the water’s edge.

But the flowers were so beautiful. My favorites, I recalled, and I was certain I could reach one—just one—before harm could find me. I’d watched the waters as the scorching sun traced a path along the sky, as I patiently calculated the shifts in the currents, searching for any sign that a predator might be waiting, just below the water’s surface. My sister waited, too, indulging her youngest sibling, certain I would never find the courage to try to pluck the flower.

But she underestimated her little sister, and I grew bolder, more confident, and soon I was standing right at the river’s edge, water lapping at my bare toes.

“Take care,” my sister called in a language I didn’t even know I still recognized, still not worried for me.

I took another step, and the slippery sediment below the water squished beneath my feet, pluming outward like smoke and making it impossible to see where I stood. But I liked it, the slick feel, and I took another step, kicking up more of the silt.

The flowers were just ahead of me, their fragrance thick around me, and I leaned forward, the water reaching my knees now. My fingertips grazed one of the petals, sending the flower drifting away from my grasp.

I looked at the still surface, trying to decide. I was already deeper than I wanted to be, deeper than I should have gone. But it was right there, one more step and I’d have it, there was no reason to think I couldn’t do it.