Page 127 of Silvercloak

Forgive me, Mum and Dad,she thought.

Forgive me everything.

SAFFRON SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY TINKERING WITH HERnewly acquired golden hourglass, but no matter how many different ways she tapped its top and intoned the spell words, time remained resolutely steadfast. Without a companion weaverwick wand, it was essentially a mantelpiece ornament. Even Rasso, who had initially delighted at the appearance of the hourglass, lost interest after several hours of fruitless work.

The whole time, she thought about Levan pinned to that table.

Why did she care, why did she care, why did shecare?

Why, when she tried to sleep at night, did she think of him readingLost Dragonbornby candlelight as a child? Why did she think of him screaming beneath the furious heat of the scorched poker? Why did she think of him furrowing his brow as he enchanted the wooden pendant around her neck?

An hour before she was due to leave the mansion for the Jaded Saint—where she would confront Tiernan about his own scarlet rot—Saffron went to Levan’s chambers to pick up another pot of salve and his beloved copy ofLost Dragonborn.She had the vague instinct to take it to Torquil’s Tomes to be signed by the author, but forced the childish idea deep down inside.

Don’t do that.

What?

Care.

Instead, she brewed a cup of his favorite clove tea—noting with vague surprise that the loose-leaf packet readFOR THE CURING OF ANGUISH—and went to his cell with the salve pot and weathered book tucked beneath her arm, the steaming cup in her hand.

Levan sat in the same stiff position he’d been in when she’d first brought him the salve—there weren’t many other options with a hand pinned to the table. The bags under his eyes had darkened to a bruised purple. His hair was stuck up at all angles, as though he’d run his free fingers through it repeatedly, and even his scarlet cloak looked disheveled. Thick stubble covered the lower half of his face.

“Thought you could use some entertainment,” she said, resting the tea and the book on the table. “Might stop you from losing your mind.”

“Already lost.” He grimaced. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

She gestured to the book. “We never did make it to the festival.” She thought of the handmade costumes hanging in the armoire, unused, and something panged in her heart.

“Was that today?” he asked, voice bleary. “I’ve lost track.”

Saff leaned against the nearest wall, one heel kicked up. She studied Levan, the slump of his shoulders, the sheen of sweat at his temples. There was a twist of sadness in her chest at the thought that his own father, the man who was supposed to protect him from the world, had inflicted such horror on him.

“Have you slept at all?”

He shook his head. “Can’t.”

Because every time he did, his hand would jerk against the shard.

“Any ideas on how to free yourself?”

She knew—or sheshouldknow—that he would manage it, because the prophecy foretold as much.

He would live, only to be killed by her.

But there was a chance she’d knocked them onto a different path entirely after her timeweaving. Was their original fate still cast in curious white smoke? Or had it been unwritten the moment she remade the world to save herself?

How did fate and time intersect?

“None,” Levan replied. “I have a whole grimoire of spells in my head, and I’ve turned over every page, but not one of the usual spell-stripping enchantments would work on deminite. Still don’t understand how my father got the curse to take in the first place.”

“Maybe he’s bluffing.”

Levan shook his head. “Already tried pulling the shard the tiniest amount, and all the blood in my body rushed toward it.”

She took one look at his hand, and soon wished she hadn’t. A gray pallor spread from the wound outward, the color of mountain ash, his veins unnaturally stark. The deminite now had a pinkish hue from the blood it had already consumed, reminding Saffron of the ascenite cuff at her ill-fated wand pairing. She could still feel that piercing burn in her wrist—but it was nothing compared to the massive hunk jutting through Levan’s hand.

“Has your father returned since the night he …”

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