“I’m so glad you’re safe,” I tell him, bringing a hand up to run over his patchily shaved head.

He doesn’t reply at first, keeping his face buried in my neck.

“Let me see it,” he says, his voice muffled against my skin.

“See what?”

He tugs at the shoulder of my dress and I swallow, realizing what he means. My wounds. Erik must have told him. I turn my back to Søren and lower the shoulder of my chiton so he can see the tops of the fresh wounds. His breath hitches. He reaches out to touch my shoulder where the whip didn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Thora,” he says under his breath. “If I hadn’t failed…” He trails off and shakes his head.

I turn back to face him fully and take his hand in mine. I don’t have the patience to make him feel better about my pain, and I certainly don’t have the time. I think of the Theyn and Crescentia sitting down for dessert and wine before bed and how they will not get up again.

“Take me away from here, please,” I say. “Let’s go for a sail, just for a few hours.”

Søren nods, but the haunted look hasn’t left his eyes. “I’ll bring her back by sunrise,” he says to my Shadows.

There’s no response. They’re long gone.

“Let’s go,” I tell him, pulling him toward the wardrobe. The time is now and the urgency of what I need to do is suddenly pushing me forward. My edges are fraying like a worn blanket, but I will hold it together for just a little while longer. And then I’ll be free.

He doesn’t protest, instead following me into the wardrobe and through the tunnel entrance as he did before. I don’t stop, but continue down the tunnel path, this time pressing forward in tense silence.

When the tunnel becomes tall enough to walk upright, I get to my feet and brush my dirty hands over the skirt of my dress. I hear him behind me, but as soon as I turn to face him, his mouth falls on mine and I’m caught between him and the tunnel wall. He kisses me with a desperation I’ve never felt, like a man dying of thirst. I struggle between pulling him closer and shoving him away.

He must feel my hesitation, because he pulls back after a few seconds, resting his forehead against mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I just needed to do that one more time.”

Panic shoots down my spine. “One more time?” I ask, resting my hand on the back of his neck and tugging him an inch closer. “But we have until sunrise, Søren.”

I start to pull him into another kiss but he stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I can’t, Thora,” he says quietly. “There are things you don’t know, and once you do, you aren’t going to want to see me again. I won’t even blame you.”

“The whipping wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “There was nothing you could have done.”

He drops his eyes. “It isn’t that,” he admits.

My hands fall away from him. “Then what is it?” I press.

He tries to rake a hand through his hair, forgetting it’s all but gone. He paces a few steps away from me before turning back.

“I love you,” he says after a deep breath. “I just want you to know that first. I love you and I would never want to do anything to hurt you.”

“I love you, too,” I say, careful to keep my voice even. My mother once told me it was a sin to lie to a dying man, but I don’t know if that’s true. Søren will be dead soon enough and my lies will die with him.

“At the mines,” he starts, forcing the words out. “The slaves working in them, we had physicians observing them. Running tests. Experimenting.”

No. I want to cover his mouth, stop him from talking, suffocate him with his own words. He doesn’t get to do this; he doesn’t get to confess to a crime I’ve already hanged him for. I have no use for his guilt and I am not here to make him feel better. But there are so many things I want to say to him, and it’s almost a relief to get the chance, to stop acting for a moment and let my rage loose.

“What are you saying?” I force my voice into shock. “You’ve been experimenting on my people?”

“They aren’t your people,” he replies. “And you know better than to say that out loud.”

“To anyone else, yes,” I say, my anger finally able to rise to the surface. “But I didn’t think I had to lie to you.”

In the dark, I can barely make out his expression falling. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s just…this is hard to talk about.”

“Not nearly as hard as I would imagine it is to endure,” I reply, struggling not to raise my voice.

He has the good sense to look chastened, and I can feel a fraction of my steeled heart soften ever so slightly. I ball my hands into fists at my sides, to keep from reaching out. He does not get to be the wronged hero.

“What were they looking for?” I press.

He hesitates another second before continuing. “Prolonged exposure in the mines…it does something to a person, it imbues them with qualities of the gems they mine, somehow. Some people can stand it, most can’t. We knew this. You knew this. What we didn’t know was why. But my father thought it was something that could be useful if it could be understood. And it turned out it was. The physicians have been running tests and comparisons for years. Months ago they finally concluded the cause. The magic in the mines is so thick that it’s in the air itself. It gives the gems their power, but it also seeps into a person’s body—into their blood, specifically. A rare few people can survive with it, but most aren’t so lucky. The magic drives them mad.

“At first, we killed off anyone who showed signs of it, because we feared they were lethal. But my father decided that was wasteful. Maybe they were a danger to us, he said, but wouldn’t that also make them a danger to others? He thought he could weaponize them, send them into battle on the front lines to do as much damage as possible and limit loss of life.”

“But that doesn’t limit loss of life at all,” I say, struggling not to yell.

He flinches anyway. “I know. I know.”

“And you used them in Vecturia,” I continue. I’m no longer playing a part. My anger has bubbled to the surface, and it makes me dangerous. With so much at risk, I know I need to keep my temper, but it feels impossible. I realize that I don’t know Søren any better than he knows me. “How many?”

He doesn’t answer at first. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “Hundreds, I think. My father gave the order.”