should have lost its lure after my grace bones were dug up under Castelpont. Still . . . he is my amouré. The gods want me to give him a chance.
The gods have nothing to do with us. Bastien’s words return to me. We don’t have to play their game.
But I’ve already been sucked into one. I’ve lost my first battle of wills with Tyrus. I would have walked through his Gate if my mother hadn’t thrown her knife into Bastien’s back.
My throat tightens. I struggle to swallow the ache. The image of Bastien lying on the bridge and bleeding out is still seared in my mind. Have Jules and Marcel found a way to close his wound? I pray for the gods to spare his life, then I stop myself. I can’t pray for Bastien anymore. I won’t tempt Tyrus and Elara to make him suffer like the man my mother loved. He ended up in the Underworld, and I won’t let the gods wrap Bastien in chains.
“Will you stay?” Casimir gently takes my hand. I’m stricken with guilt, so I don’t pull it back. He doesn’t realize I can never provide him with an heir. I refuse to even try. I won’t allow myself to get close to him. He’s fated to die in eleven months, but I will kill him sooner, before our soul-bond kills me.
I catch my callous thoughts. If I kill him, it would be the same as if I’d killed Bastien’s father. How can I do that when Bastien and I clung to the hope that we could break our soul-bond—the bond I really share with Casimir?
I flex the muscles along my jawline. I won’t give up until I discover it. My leg will heal, and when it does, I’ll leave this place.
You’re not missing from me, Bastien. I’m not missing from you.
I take a breath that fills every space of my lungs. I have to believe he’s alive. I’ll find a way for us to be together again—not underground, but somewhere we can walk under the moonlight and starlight, with no more dead pursuing us, with no more curse hanging over us.
Casimir brushes his thumb across the back of my hand, awaiting my answer.
I raise my eyes.
I whisper, “Yes.”
55
Bastien
I HISS, BURYING MY HEAD in a pillow as Birdine jabs her needle into my back again. “How many stitches do I need?”
“Two more,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “Three, if you keep squirming. I’m not a seamstress, you know. I don’t have the steadiest hand.”
Jules huffs and paces near the bed. We’re in the room Birdine rents above a tavern in the brothel district. The catacombs aren’t safe anymore. “You should have let me sew you up, Bastien.”
I clench my teeth as Birdine cinches a knot in the catgut string. “I guess I wasn’t keen on getting another raging fever.” My voice is hoarse with weakness. “Or a scar matching the one on my thigh.”
“What, you don’t like puckered fish lips?” Jules smirks.
“Hilarious.”
The morning sun beats into my eyes from a small window. I squint and painstakingly shift on the lumpy mattress. I want to go back to the darkness. I’d stab Odiva before she set foot on the soul bridge. Kill that bastard that took Ailesse.
I didn’t recognize him at first, not in the soldier’s uniform he was wearing, but his identity came to me soon enough. Casimir Trencavel. I suppress a bitter laugh. Ailesse’s amouré is the damn heir to the throne.
Three knocks sound on the door. Then one. Then two.
Marcel’s code.
Birdine bounces, and my stitches pull tight. “Careful,” I groan.
She sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry, Bastien.”
Jules rolls her eyes and walks over to the door. She unlocks it, and Marcel struts inside with a satchel slung over his shoulder. He tips his head at Birdine, and her rosy cheeks blush even rosier. “Anyone hungry?” he asks cheerfully.
Jules shakes her head. “Are you ever in a bad mood?”
He purses his lips, giving it serious thought.
She sighs. “Never mind.”
He sets his satchel on a small table and starts unloading the food—two loaves of rye bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and four pears. “No, I didn’t steal this, if anyone’s asking. Birdie used her hard-earned money to provide this meal for us.”
Birdine beams and tucks a frizzy lock of ginger hair behind her ear. “Enjoy it while you can. I can’t feed four mouths for long.”
Jules ambles over and gives her a pointed look. “Go on.” She wags her thumb at Marcel. Jules is