about Ailesse?” What’s the matter with all of them? Why are we even talking about wars, golden jackals, and bone flutes?
Roxane presses her quivering lips in a tight line. Pernelle wipes at her eyes. Odiva looks up at the Night Heavens like she’s searching for the right words. “Ailesse is dead.”
“What?” Every muscle in my body turns to ice. “No . . . you’re wrong. That can’t be.” A gust of wind whips through the skirts of the elders’ dresses. My heart squeezes, struggling to beat.
“I am sorry, Sabine.” Odiva places a hand on my shoulder. “It might have been better for you if Ailesse had never been . . .” She shakes her head.
“Born?” My eyes narrow. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Her raven brows pinch together. Milicent hastily steps forward to prevent another outburst. “You forget yourself, Sabine. You mustn’t talk to the matrone that way. Of course she doesn’t regret Ailesse’s birth. Ailesse was her heir, the child of her amouré.”
“That does not mean I loved him,” Odiva murmurs, so quietly I wonder if any of the elders’ graced ears can hear. She brushes past me to the castle, but not before I catch her pulling out her hidden necklace. I glimpse it clearly for the first time—a bird skull with a ruby caught in its beak.
If this were any other moment, I’d question why she has another bone—she should only have five—but all I can do is gape in amazement as she walks under the archway of Château Creux. How can she be so heartless about her own daughter? How can any of this be happening?
Ailesse can’t be gone.
“Oh, Sabine.” Pernelle comes down and embraces me. My arms hang stiffly by my sides. “We did our best, but Ailesse’s amouré made the tunnel collapse, and it was Ailesse who fell. The matrone tried to save her, but it was too late. The pit was deep, you see, and . . .” Her voice hitches as her tears spill over. My eyes sting, but I hold back my own tears. None of this makes sense. Ailesse isn’t dead. I would know it. I would feel it.
“Did the boy die, too?”
Pernelle nods, her face darkening. “We can thank the gods for that. Odiva said his life ended the moment Ailesse’s did.”
I frown. “You didn’t see it happen?”
“We were already gone.” Roxane joins us. Milicent and Dolssa hover nearby. Their grief is almost palpable, pressing a great weight on my chest. “The tunnel was unstable, so Odiva commanded us to leave.”
I shake my head slightly. Everything they’re saying hinges on Odiva’s word alone. It isn’t enough for me.
“Go inside and rest.” Pernelle rubs my arm. “You can join the hunt tomorrow.”
She means the hunt for the golden jackal. Ridiculous. “No, I’ll go today. I’ll go now.” I shrug away from them, but I still feel their worried eyes bore into the back of my skull.
“What about your bird?” Dolssa asks.
Dazed, I glance down to see my nighthawk limply dangling from my hand. Oh.
On wooden legs, I walk to the ruins of the garden wall. Flop the bird onto a stone. Withdraw Ailesse’s bone knife.
Thwack.
I take the severed leg. Cut my palm with the sharp bone so it meets my blood. There. The ceremony is finished. I close my fist around the leg, its claw still attached. The elders watch in strained silence.
I cast the nighthawk aside on the stone. I leave the elders, the overgrown garden, the rocky grounds of the Château Creux. I run. Away from the sea cliffs, across the plateau, into the forestland, past webbing streams and rivers, across bridge after bridge after bridge. I keep going, pushing myself past my limits, until I’m numb to the burning in my lungs and the cramping in my side. Until the cut in my palm stops stinging and my eyes run dry.
I’m almost to the catacombs entrance. I have every intention of blazing inside, but when I near the edge of the ravine, I come to an abrupt stop.
All my breath leaves my lungs. My heart shoots up my throat. I waver on my feet.
The beautiful and knowing eyes of the silver owl are staring back at me.
She’s here. Under the stark moonlight. On the ground, not in a tree. She’s perched on the cusp of the ravine.
She’s a sign I was right.
Ailesse is alive.
I move another step closer, and the silver owl spreads her wings and points them downward in a defensive stance. She doesn’t