any ripples that might wake the beast lying in the depths. Do you understand?
Eliana settled carefully against her pillows, pretending sleep. And then? We move slowly, you said. Toward what?
A beat of silence, and then the Prophet’s thoughts darted swift as silver minnows into the cracks of Eliana’s mind.
A second chance.
A shiver slipped down Eliana’s body. I don’t know what you mean.
Tell me about home, the Prophet suggested. About Orline.
I cannot. It hurts me. Too much death, too much sadness.
But what about the good things? Tell me about Remy. About Harkan. Past the grief, there is light still, even if only in memory. Tell me about that light.
Eliana waited several minutes before she could form a steady thought.
When Remy was very small, she began, he was terrified of storms. I would wake to find him shivering beside me in my bed. Sometimes not even stories were enough, not even songs. One night we made a tent out of my quilt, strung it across a corner of the room with lengths of twine. Inside it, we piled blankets and pillows, his books, the shells Harkan had gathered for me when his father took him to the sea. It was a fortress, and inside it, no storm could touch us.
As Eliana spoke, she settled into the embrace of the Prophet’s presence. So unlike Corien’s—firm, but never invasive. A froth brewing gently at the edges of her mind.
Very good, said the Prophet, once Eliana fell into silence. Fifteen minutes. He is coming, but this was an excellent beginning. I will return, Eliana, when it’s safe. Trust me.
How can I? Eliana whispered.
But the Prophet had already gone.
• • •
The days between the Prophet’s visits stretched on like dark roads with no end. For weeks, they met in secret, and the carefully hidden memories of their conversations gave Eliana something to hold on to as Corien wrenched apart her thoughts, searching for a thing he could not find, trying to force from her a power she refused to touch.
Forty-five minutes. An hour. Two hours, they managed, and then three, with no interference from Corien and her guards noticing nothing, until finally, one day, the Prophet said, Good. Now we move.
• • •
The first time, Eliana crept from one side of her room to the other, then bathed on her own for the first time since arriving in Elysium. She opened the doors to her rooms, her heart pounding, and peered out into the broad shadowed corridor that ran left to right. Arched white rafters soared over gleaming marble floors lined with pale carpets.
During all of this, the adatrox remained motionless and quiet. Even Jessamyn seemed oblivious. Eliana stepped outside her rooms, barefoot, and waved her hand before Jessamyn’s face. Nothing.
The Prophet guided her to an unused sitting room not far from hers, draped in fineries and hung with gold-framed paintings of angelic glory.
Inside it, shielded by the Prophet’s calm presence, her heart a frantic bird in her chest, Eliana reached for her power with deliberate intent—not letting it erupt due to anger, not allowing her fear to overtake her reason and force out her power without her permission. It was the first time she had done so since arriving in Elysium, and her mind felt clumsy as it stretched and fumbled. She concentrated on the familiar lines of her castings, slender and cool around her hands and wrists. She pushed her thoughts out along the stone floor and into the air.
A simple goal: move the air, command it to knock over the golden candlestick standing proud on its table.
Simple, and yet she could not do it. The air remained still. Her power was used to hiding and felt reluctant to emerge from that deep place into which she had shoved it. A faint hum at the back of her mind, a slow tingle along the lines of her palms—nothing more. She looked over her shoulder, mouth dry with fear, expecting Corien to come slamming through the door, but the room remained only their own.
Good, said the Prophet. Now try again. Never step out of that little river. Keep your feet cool and grounded, even as your hands begin to blaze. He cannot find you here, little one, not in these waters.
Eliana obeyed, but it was the same. Clumsy and distant, her power. Her hands itched, and there was no way to scratch them.
Quickly, now. Back to your rooms. The Prophet’s voice was urgent, but never frightened. As if they could see a hopeful future Eliana