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Elide fought the limp that grew with each
step farther into the city—farther away from
Gavriel’s magic. She’d left them in the
forested foothills where they’d camped the
night before, and Lorcan had again tried to
argue against her going. But she’d rummaged
through their various packs until she’d found
what she needed: berries Gavriel had gathered
yesterday, a spare belt and dark green cape
from Rowan, a wrinkled white shirt from
Lorcan, and a tiny mirror he used for shaving.
She hadn’t said anything when she’d found
the white strips of linen at the bottom of
Lorcan’s bag. Waiting for her next cycle. She
hadn’t been able to find the words, anyway.
Not with what it would crumple in her chest to
even think them.
Elide kept her shoulders loose, though her
face remained tight as she paused at the edge
of a pretty little square around a burbling