Erik pulls it from the bush and holds it out to me. I manage a small smile. My father used to bring my mother flowers, but no man has ever given me one. I take the rose and press my nose into its soft bloom, inhaling the sweet scent. The rose is snow white, and its petals velvet against my fingers. My eyes peek up at Erik, who is smiling, with his hand still outstretched. There’s a spot of blood on the top of his hand. I drop the rose and grab it.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” I say.

“Every rose has its thorns, Adelice,” he says, pulling it back from me and stooping to retrieve the rose. “It was worth it.”

“Can you show me more?” I ask, gingerly holding the rose to avoid being pricked. “What else can you do?”

“Yes.” Dante’s voice breaks the moment. “What else can you do, Erik?”

Erik’s eyes dart to mine, but I shake my head. I haven’t told Dante anything of my suspicions.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

Dante steps forward and regards me with barely concealed fury. “Why apologize to him? He lied to you, Adelice.”

“He wouldn’t be the first person to have lied to me,” I remind Dante.

“You didn’t forgive me quite so quickly if I recall,” Dante says.

“I didn’t know you.”

“And you know him?” Dante asks. “What else haven’t you told her, Erik? What have you done for the Guild? Why were they tracking you?”

“Tracking me?” Erik says. He looks from Dante to me. I give him a tiny nod to confirm it’s true.

“Dante found a tracking chip in your arm.”

“That’s what you were playing at,” Erik says. His voice pitches up an octave. “Whatever you found, I didn’t know it was there. The Guild can’t track me here. I knew you had an endgame for practicing on me.”

“And I got the information I needed,” Dante confirms. “I suspected you could see the strands. I knew you weren’t some simple Guild assistant.”

“Congratulations,” Erik says. “But I’ve already told Adelice everything. I have nothing to hide from her.”

“You’ve told her everything you’ve done?” Dante asks. “And she’s still standing beside you?”

“You told me that not all Tailors are bad,” I remind him. “We’ve all done things we’d rather forget. Who Erik is today is what matters.”

“Believe what you want,” Dante says in a low voice, “but ask him if he would have told you if you hadn’t figured it out.”

Erik stiffens next to me as though he’s bracing for this question, but I already know the answer. Erik only told me because I confronted him. He would have kept his secret his whole life. But what Dante can’t understand is that I don’t fault Erik for that. There are ghosts I would rather bury than face. I can’t blame Erik for feeling the same way.

“You’re a hypocrite,” I say to Dante. “Tell me the secrets you’re hiding.”

Dante’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t open his mouth to answer my question.

“That’s what I thought,” I say to him. “In the future, don’t give me advice that you don’t plan on following.”

I pull Erik’s arms, leading him out of the garden and back into the house. My clothes are still wet, but now I feel the heat of anger.

“I’m sorry about that,” I blurt out.

“Don’t be,” Erik says, raising a hand to stop my further apology. “He’s looking out for you. I’d be the exact same way if our positions were reversed. He’s probably trying to keep you safe.”

“By keeping me away from a friend?” I ask. “By trying to turn me against you?”

“Friend, huh?” Erik says, not quite able to keep his lips from turning up into a crooked grin.

“Don’t get cocky,” I say. “The pickings are slim here.”

“I’ll take the position however I can get it,” Erik says. “And, Ad, don’t be too upset with him. If you knew the things I know about Tailors—the things I’m sure Dante knows—maybe you wouldn’t trust me ei—”

“Stop,” I say, placing a hand on his chest to bring his attention away from his diatribe and back to me. “I trust you, and I don’t care what’s in your past.”

“That’s philanthropic of you,” he says, “but—”

“No!” I say. “Stop trying to convince me otherwise, because you won’t be able to. I know you, Erik Bell. You’ve got a good heart—whether you like it or not.”

Erik thinks on this a moment and then draws me into a hug. “Like it.”

“See?” I say, lingering in the warmth of his arms. “Your choices are getting better every day.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I TELL MYSELF I HAVE QUESTIONS ONLY she can answer, but in truth, I visit her to stem the waves of guilt that roll through me without warning, brought on by the most innocuous things. The scent of roses drifting through the garden, the sting of hot bathwater, a bite of dry pot roast—they bring her back to me. I don’t want to attach the prisoner locked securely in the bowels of the estate with my mother. But no matter how well I understand the situation, my brain is no match for my heart.

My mother’s curled up in a ball in the corner of her cell. She doesn’t move when I enter. For a moment, I think the worst: that she’s dead. And confused feelings swirl up inside me. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Relief. I wish I could lean forward and reach out to her. With her eyes closed, she looks peaceful. She’s not wearing cosmetics and her hair is clumped around her head, but it’s still her. She lifts her head, and the shift reveals a large purple scar running up her neck.