—
Gregor looked back at the open door. She’s been gone too long. She’s been gone much too long.
“Don’t,” said Ofelia. “Don’t go. You don’t understand him yet.”
“Is she in danger?” he demanded. “Have you put her in peril too, Mother?”
“Stay with me,” she said. “Stay with me and…and I will help him fix you. I didn’t want you to be like you are, Gregor. It was never meant to be permanent, you must believe me.”
Gregor took a step toward the door, espringal still trained on his mother.
“Your father…” She shook her head. “You don’t remember. You don’t remember those days, and what happened to him, what he became…and then came the carriage accident, and you and Domenico…”
Gregor whirled around, espringal raised. “I will shoot you!” he said. “I will! I’ve heard enough lies, I’ve…I’ve died enough times for you, haven’t I? Maybe you ought to know what it’s like!”
She looked at him, her eyes wide and untroubled. She still seemed to be in shock. “The world is broken. It is unbalanced. It is a design, poorly planned, and poorly wrought. You know that, don’t you?”
“Those slaves, below,” said Gregor. “All the people in the plantations. In the Mountain. All dead. Yes, Mother. Yes, I know the world is broken—and that people like you are the ones who broke it.”
“If you leave me now,” she said, her voice small and brittle, “I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to put you back. Is she worth that?”
He stared down the sights of his weapon at her. How old she seemed now, how gray and lined and frail…
But then he felt a wind at his back, a curious breeze, and he remembered Sancia, lost in the darkness.
“I would rather risk a life of damnation,” said Gregor, “and save her, than abandon her and stay with those who first damned me.”
He turned and ran into the darkness.
* * *
—
Crasedes did not move as she looked upon him. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. He hung in the air so still she wondered if he was perhaps a dummy or a doll. There was no sound but the wind and the pattering of waters falling into the broken decks below.
Then he held out his arms to her beseechingly, still suspended in a moonbeam, his black mask gleaming, the atrium echoing with his deep, rich voice. She suddenly understood how ancient peoples had believed him to be a god. “This…This isn’t ideal, obviously,” he said. “None of this is ideal. My appearance…” He gestured around him. “This ship. Those poor people below. You and Gregor here…None of this is how I wanted it to go. But I am here to help. That is why I’ve come, why I’ve always been here, Sancia.” He drifted down until his toes touched the deck before her, and he stood facing her. “But I won’t be able to do it without you.”
A voice spoke up in her mind—Stop! Don’t listen to him! Stab out your ears if you need, but stop listening to him!
She felt her brow crease faintly, and she started backing away.
“You still don’t trust me?” he said. “After all I’ve said? I’m worried you’re not hearing me, Sancia.”
His words blossomed in her head, smothering out all her worries. He advanced on her, walking along the fragments of decking that ran around the gaping hole. “You should. We have much in common—or, more specifically, someone in common.” He cocked his head, his eyes dark and huge in his mask. “For I am here to do the same thing I suspect you are—to move thoughtfully, and bring freedom to others.”
Sancia froze. It was as if a bell had been rung deep inside the recesses of her thoughts.
“No,” she whispered.
“He was my friend too,” said Crasedes. “Long, long, long ago. I know you have him, Sancia, and I’ll tell you—I don’t mind. But I must ask—did he truly trust you? Did he tell you his true name? Did he tell you to call him…Clef?”
She stared