“Etta!”

Etta pulled herself free from her mother at Sophia’s bellow. Sophia was standing back to back with Li Min now, staving off two Thorns who had blades of their own. “Ironwood’s got it!”

Etta searched through the blazing fire and darkness until she found the place where the flames had eaten a hole in the side of the tent. There she saw an older man, his mask still on, rushing out into the courtyard, dodging the Shinto priests as they attempted to throw buckets of water onto the flames to stifle the fire before it jumped to the temple.

Between her and that opening, however, was Nicholas, with a Shadow clinging to his back; one clawed hand was on the verge of raking across his throat, no matter how hard Nicholas tried to buck his attacker off. His palm came up to block the next swipe of the claws, and blood instantly pooled where they cut deep into his flesh. Etta rushed toward him, but then Julian seemed to materialize out of thin air, shooting the man with what she thought must have been Sophia’s flintlock. The bullet wasn’t enough to deter the Shadow for long, but it was long enough for Nicholas to reclaim his sword from the ground.

The Shadow lunged again, but as Nicholas moved, the small leather cord he wore around his neck escaped his robe, and a large bead swung out from beneath his shirt. Etta might have imagined it—smoke was gathering heavily around them, masking them in silver—but when the Shadow stabbed at his heart, the bead caught the tip of the blade. The Shadow seemed almost enraptured by the unexpected sight, and, seizing his chance, Nicholas swung the blade back with as much strength as he had in him, bringing it down on the Shadow.

Astrolabe—Ironwood, she reminded herself.

The last sight Etta had before rushing out into the courtyard was of the Belladonna, standing where she had stood the entire night, watching the blood creep across the stones and absorb the ashes at Julian’s and Nicholas’s feet. She surveyed the fighting with the long-suffering look of a mother. Then she turned and left through a wall of fire and smoke, disappearing into the star-encrusted belly of the night.

THE MOON WAS HIGH AND BRIGHT ABOVE HER AS SHE RAN, searching for Ironwood’s figure down the path, among the trees, in any crevice the snake could have slithered into. The passage at the base of the mountain would have closed up with the first traveler’s death, but he had the astrolabe—he could create his own escape, and then seal the entrance and prevent anyone from following behind.

The air was clean and sweet in her lungs, but Etta couldn’t stop coughing, hacking up the smoke and spit and bile from deep inside her chest as she ran, her feet struggling in the soft earth.

Damn it, she thought. He couldn’t take the astrolabe now, not after everything—

“Etta! Etta, where are you?” Nicholas’s frantic voice carried down from above, but she didn’t stop—she had caught another voice on the wind.

“—face me! Face me once and for all! Let us end this!”

Etta stumbled down the weathered path, stopping just long enough to keep herself upright before picking up her pace again. Ironwood’s shouts sent birds launching from the safety of their branches.

The man had torn away his mask and robe, revealing a fine suit beneath. He was pacing up and down the path, his breathing ragged; his hand clenched at what remained of his hair, twisting it. Rivulets of sweat poured off him, along with the stench of blood.

“I know you’re out there!” he shouted—to the trees, to the darkness. “It’s mine, do you hear me? Come for it again and I’ll tear you apart, limb from limb!”

Etta had only had one real interaction with the man, but the frantic quality of his speech, the way he paced and screamed as if the words were being torn from him, made her feel like she was meeting him for the first time. His control over himself, his family, the machinations of the world, had been so tight and refined; she couldn’t reconcile that man with the knotted mess of anxiety and desperation in front of her. This was the same person who had bent time to his will? Who had subjected whole families to his cruelty?

“Do you hear me, you devil?” he shouted.

She came up short, a few feet away, but Cyrus Ironwood didn’t seem to notice. The empty box lay overturned nearby, and he was waving the astrolabe in the air, holding it up for the moon to witness, as if expecting something to swoop down and snatch it. A torch in his hand nestled him in the center of a shallow pool of light.

“Ironwood,” Etta said, walking toward him slowly. She kept the knife in her hand pressed to her side.

He spun toward her, eyes flashing. It was like looking in the face of a child, one who’d been struck once and knew he was about to be hit again. His rage was nearly choking him, polluting the cool mountain air.

She had a knife on her. He had only the torch.

And the astrolabe.

“Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s over.”

Ironwood swung around toward her, his gaze clouding. “Over? The Ancient One is dead?”

Ancient One?

Etta swallowed. Nodded. She reached out her free hand, repeating, “Give me the astrolabe….”

“It’s mine,” he told her, the rough lines of his face painted with blood and soot. His mouth twisted up in glee. “Years…years…it’s mine, finally, and mine alone—”

Her fingers curled more tightly around the knife.

She was close enough to smell his sweat now.

Without giving him a second to prepare, Etta lunged forward, grabbing for the astrolabe. With a speed she didn’t expect, his arm flew out, backhanding her sharply across the face. And suddenly, his rage had a target—a focus. Etta stumbled back, swinging her knife between them to try and keep him back. The torch dropped from his hand, but didn’t go out as it struck the path.