Uncle Whitham, quickly out of bed!
Uncle Whitham, he’s come for your head.
Hide under the stairs, hide anywhere,
Uncle Whitham, he wants you dead.
—“Uncle Whitham and the Ghost of Darby,” children’s rhyme
Adelina Amouteru
The next morning, I wake up in the Little Baths feeling strange.
I lie very still for a moment. It’s not pain, exactly. Instead, there is a faint pressure in the air all around me, making everything blurry. I close my eye and wait. Maybe I’m just dizzy. I slept poorly, haunted by nightmares of bleeding kings, and now I’m exhausted. Or maybe it’s the moisture in the air—when I glance up at the holes in the ceiling, the sky looks overcast, the clouds a dark gray. The whispers in my head are stirring again, active as usual after a night of vivid dreams. I try to understand what they’re saying, but today they are incomprehensible.
When I open my eye again, the feeling has faded. The whispers quiet down, and I pull myself up to sit. Beside me, Violetta is still asleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Magiano is nowhere to be seen.
I sit for a while, savoring the silence and the cool recesses of the bathhouse ruins.
Moments later, the leaves high above us rustle, and a figure appears through the holes in the ceiling, blocking out some of the light.
“We need to get you out of Merroutas,” Magiano calls as he hops down. Violetta stirs at his voice. She pushes herself onto her elbows. I watch him, admiring how nimbly he skips from beam to beam until he finally lands on the marble floor in a plume of dust. His hair and face are obscured behind cloth, wet with rain. “Do you know what a mess you’ve made of this city?”
He doesn’t sound very upset about it. “What’s happening?” I ask.
He just grins and shakes water out of his hair. “A wonderful mess, that’s what,” he says. “The White Wolf’s name is on everyone’s lips, and rumors of what happened at the Night King’s court have spread like fire. Everyone wants to know who managed to kill him.” Magiano hesitates here, for the slightest instant. “Not a bad start, my love, although considering that you’re now the most hunted person on this island, you might want to escape. Your stunts have forced the city to seal its port. As you can see, we may have some trouble getting out of here.”
Violetta gives me a look, and I return it without reacting. “Have you heard anything from the Night King’s former mercenaries?”
Magiano undoes the cloth shrouding his face. “I’m sure you’ve earned yourself some enemies after last night. But you’ve also attracted admirers. Look.” He tosses something at me.
It’s a small scroll. “Where did you get this?”
“You don’t think I have connections in this city?” Magiano gives me an indignant scowl, but when I keep waiting, he rolls his eyes. “A friend of mine works down at the ports. He passed it along to me this morning.” He waves impatiently at me to open the message.
I untie the scroll’s string, and the paper unfurls.
WW
I have a ship.
My heart races. I turn the paper this way and that, while Violetta looks at Magiano. “But this is useless,” she says. “What ship? Where, when?”
Magiano takes the message from me and rubs the paper between his fingers. “Not useless,” he corrects her. “Hold the paper up to the light.”
Violetta does, moving the paper until it’s directly under a sunbeam. I scoot closer for a better look. It takes me a moment to see what Magiano is talking about—under the light, the paper has a faint watermark on it. It resembles the Night King’s mark, except that the blade cutting through the crescent moon is wide, with a deep blood channel down its center.
“The Double-Edged Sword,” Magiano says. “That’s the name of the ship. It’s a narrow devil of a caravel—it actually looks like a sword, if you squint at it properly. A part of the Night King’s private fleet.”
A part of the Night King’s private fleet. That means that whoever runs that ship must have decided to turn his back on the Night King the instant he heard of his death. Or . . .
“It could be a trap,” Violetta chimes in, finishing my thought. “How do we know they don’t plan on getting Adelina aboard, only to kill her or drag her before the Night King’s loyal men?”
“We don’t,” Magiano replies. He tosses both of us a bundle of clothes. “But we don’t really have a choice. You both must realize that his loyal mercenaries and soldiers are combing the city right now. Merroutas is a small island. They will find you, if you don’t flee.”
It is only a matter of time before soldiers come searching ruins like these. I rise to my feet, take the message from Violetta, and tuck it inside my head wrap. “If we leave now, how will interested mercenaries find us? How will I round up my men?”
“You’ll figure something out. Send a dove by sea,” Magiano says, crossing his arms. “Now get ready. Think and move at the same time, my loves. I didn’t choose to come along just to get captured. Can you at least cover us in invisibility while we head to the docks?”
“No,” I reply. I’m so tired this morning. Invisibility, already difficult, is the hardest to do in chaotic crowds. There is too much to imitate, and with that image constantly shifting, we would look like moving ripples. We would also bump into others, which would just startle and draw attention. Even with Magiano’s help, we’re better off saving our strength for when we might need it most.
“Fine. Whatever you can do. Even a song and dance would be better than nothing.” Magiano pauses to grin at me. “And I’ve seen you dance, my love.”
I blush and look away. It was the first time I’d ever danced for someone other than Raffaele. “Subtle disguises,” I suggest, pushing his comment out of my mind. “I’ll weave different features across our faces.” He laughs at the color in my cheeks, but seems to decide against teasing me further and instead just motions for us to hurry.
By the time we’re ready and heading into the city, the sun has burned away the gray drizzle and the sky blazes blue.
I ride with Violetta on the same horse. She has pressed herself tightly against me, and her warm, delicate body is trembling slightly. Her attention darts from the busy streets to the buildings and roofs, where soldiers are lined up with swords drawn. The Night King’s blue-and-silver banners still hang from the balconies, but the streets are crowded with confused people and clusters of malfettos. It’s a sight I’m familiar with—people who revere the power of the Young Elites, clashing with those who are calling out about how dangerous they are. Malfettos, hiding in the corners.
I look back at Magiano. He rides with his head held high, his eyes constantly scanning the throngs. His lute sits in his lap, like he might decide to play it. He nods up at the Night King’s banners on the balconies, then leans toward me from his saddle. “I don’t know about those colors,” he murmurs. “Don’t you agree?”
“What do you mean?” I murmur back.
“Make your mark, Adelina,” he urges quietly.
It takes me a moment to understand him. I look back at the banners. The Night King’s blood still lines the inside of my nails in tiny flakes. In my mind, I see those same banners draped across the walls of his estate. If the Night King’s mercenaries have any doubts about who killed their leader, let me reinforce my presence to the entire city. I gather my energy and start to weave.
People in the crowd startle. Their faces turn up to the balconies, and they lift their hands in the air to point. Above them, the tops of the blue-and-silver banners start to turn white, as if new flags were unfurling over them. The illusion tumbles down over each flag, one after the other, until it stretches all the way down the street, covering the Night King’s emblems of the moon and crown, replacing them with solid white banners. I let the illusion of the fabric shimmer in the light, so that as the banners ripple i
n the wind, they change color from white to silver and back. The energy within me pulses, and the whispers in my mind coo with glee.
“Oh, Adelina,” Violetta says behind me. Even she sounds awed by the sight. “They’re beautiful.” And I smile to myself, wondering whether she remembers when we used to attend festivities as children, and how we’d admire the king’s banners on the buildings. They are my banners now.
Magiano doesn’t say anything. A small grin plays at the corners of his mouth. He watches the reaction of the crowd—the startled murmurs, the whisper of a name across their lips.
The White Wolf. It’s the White Wolf.
Finally, we are forced to a halt. Before us, there is a blockade of soldiers barring the width of the street, forcing people to turn around and take a new route. One of them sees me and nods apologetically. “I’m sorry, mistress,” he says, making a circular motion with one hand. “You’ll have to go back. You can’t pass through here.”
“What’s going on?” Magiano calls out to him, gesturing at the white banners.
The soldier shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s all I can say,” he replies. “Please turn around.” He raises his voice to the rest of the crowd. “Turn around!”
Magiano makes a show of grumbling under his breath, but he puts a hand on Violetta’s shoulder and steers us around. “There is always another door,” he says, quoting The Thief Who Stole the Stars with a smile.
We make our way down the street until we reach a tiny, winding canal. Here, Magiano hands several coins to a boatman, and we hurry quietly on board his cargo boat. We float down the canal, listening to the bustle above, shrouded in shadows.
The strange feeling from earlier in the morning returns. I frown, shaking my head. The world shifts, and the whispers in my mind leap forward, sensing a sudden chance at freedom.
Violetta turns to me. “Are you all right?” she whispers.
“I’m fine,” I reply.
But I’m not. This time, when I close my eye and open it again, the feeling doesn’t go away. The world takes on a strange yellow tint, and the sounds around me turn quiet, as if none of it were quite real. Am I creating an illusion? I glance at Magiano, suddenly suspicious. Is he mimicking my power?
That’s it, the whispers hiss, eager to accuse. All of this is a ruse. What if he’s betraying you, mimicking your illusions so that he can hand you over to the Night King’s men? To the Inquisition? This was all a trick all along.
But Magiano doesn’t seem to be using his power. He isn’t even paying attention to me. His focus is entirely on the direction of the canal, and he has a concentrated frown on his face. Violetta doesn’t seem to sense him doing anything, either. In fact, she’s staring at me with a concerned expression. She takes my hand.
It feels numb and very far away.
“Adelina,” Violetta whispers in my ear, “your energy feels strange. Are you . . . ?”
The rest of her words fade away, so that I can’t understand her anymore. Something else has caught my attention. At the next bend of the canal, a man is sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. He turns when we approach.
It’s my father.
He wears that dark smile that I remember all too well. Suddenly terror seizes my throat so hard that I can barely breathe. He’s here. He’s supposed to be dead.
“Heading the wrong way, Adelina?” he says. As we glide past, he gets up onto his feet and starts to walk the canal’s edge along with us.
“Go away,” I whisper up at him.
He doesn’t respond. As we sail around a corner, he follows us—and even though we should be moving faster than he can walk, he manages to stay right behind us. I grit my teeth and turn around in my seat. Beside me, Violetta looks more alarmed. She calls out something—my name, perhaps—but it doesn’t seem important to answer her. All I can do is stare at my father’s silhouette as it follows us.
“Go away,” I hiss again through my teeth. This time, I say it loud enough for both Violetta and Magiano to turn their heads.
“I beg your pardon?” I can hear Magiano say.
I ignore him. I turn away from my father’s figure and try to catch my breath. I close my eye again. The world presses down on me. “It’s just an illusion,” I say, trying not to panic. An illusion like always. But my fear only fuels it, making it stronger. The lines of reality start to blur. No, no, it’s not an illusion at all. My father has come back from the dead. When he catches up to me, he is going to kill me. I tremble all over.
When I glance behind me, my father is gone.
In his place is Enzo. The Reaper. His dark hood and silver mask cover his face, but I know it’s him, can tell by his tall, lean, lethal shape, the predatory grace of his walk. He holds a dagger in each hand, both blades glowing white hot with heat. For an instant, my heart jumps into my throat. The edges of my vision turn red, and I remember the way he used to train with me, how he’d touch my hand and mold my grip on my daggers to the correct shape. I want to run to him. I want to take his mask off and wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him that I’m sorry. But I don’t. He walks with the stride of a killer. He is hunting me.
The Reaper flicks his wrists.
Lines of fire explode from his hands and rush down the canal toward us. Above, the edges of the canal burst into flames. The roar and heat drown out everything—my skin turns scorching hot. The fire closes in all around us. It licks at the buildings, climbing higher and higher until the flames consume the rooftops. I bury my head in my hands and scream. Somewhere, my sister is calling for me, but I don’t care.
I’m back at my burning again, chained to the iron stake. Teren tosses a blazing torch onto the kindling at my feet.
I need water. I scramble to the edge of the boat. Magiano lunges for me, but I move too fast. The next moment, I feel the sudden splash of cold water and the fire crisping my skin extinguishes. All around me is darkness. Shapes glide in the depths. A haunting voice calls my name, beckoning me deeper. Claws loom in the eerie water around me.
A bony hand seizes my arm. I open my mouth to scream, but bubbles rush out instead in a torrent. Something is trying to pull me under.
Adelina.
I’m in the Underworld. The angel of Fear is calling me.
“Adelina!”
The whispers of Formidite change into my sister’s voice, and the bony hand on my arm turns into a boy’s hand. Magiano pulls me to the surface. I suck in a lungful of air. Someone lifts me back into the boat, inch by inch—I think it is the boatman and my sister. I scramble to one side. My clothes cling heavily to my skin, as if still trying to drag me into the water and give me to the Underworld. I look around frantically.
The flames are gone. The odd yellow tone of the world has faded away, and the pressure in the air has disappeared. Enzo is nowhere to be seen. Neither is my father. All I see are Magiano, Violetta, and the boatman, all staring at me in bewilderment, while a few spectators have gathered along the canal’s edge. Some of those spectators are soldiers.
Magiano acts first. He turns to the onlookers and waves his arms. “She’s fine,” he calls out. “Just afraid of dragonflies. I know. I worry for her too.”
A few mutters of disbelief come from the crowd, but it works well enough that the people start to disperse, their attention turning back to the other chaos of the city.
“We have to go,” Violetta says as she moves close to me. She puts a hand on my face. It takes me a moment to realize that the visions stopped only because she took my power away. Already, I can feel her slowly giving it back. Behind her, Magiano shoots me an irritated look as he talks to the boatman.
“You didn’t see anything?” I stammer to Violetta. “The fire on the streets? Our father watching us from the canal bridge?”
Violetta frowns. “No. But we did make a scene.”
I collapse backward against the boat and
cover my face with my hands. An illusion. It was all an illusion I must have created. But I don’t understand—no one else saw what I did. A hallucination. How is that possible? I think of the precision of the white banners I’d woven over the Night King’s dark ones. I thought I was improving in my powers. Why couldn’t I control them?
A moment later, I realize that because Violetta had to wrench my power away, I had also stopped holding the illusions over our faces. I quickly sit up.
Too late. Magiano’s having some sort of argument with the boatman, who points his oar angrily at me. He doesn’t want us on board anymore. I rise to my feet. The day had felt so hot earlier—now, the air nips at my wet clothes, chilling me.
The boatman pulls to a small dock along the canal, then ushers us off with a string of curses. Magiano skips ahead, bidding him a cheerful farewell. When the boat pulls away from us, he turns to me and holds up a purse stolen off the man.
“If he’s going to be rude about it,” Magiano says, “he might as well pay.”
I’m about to respond when I recognize a soldier in the street. It’s the same young man who had stopped us earlier and turned us onto a different route. He is now leaning over the canal’s edge, listening intently to something our former boatman is yelling up at him. Then the boatman points in our direction. The soldier’s attention turns to us.
Magiano grabs Violetta’s hand and nods. “Follow me.”
We break into a run. Behind us, soldiers shout something and start to push their way through the crowd in our direction. Magiano veers sharply onto a small side street, then darts back into a huge main square. I recognize it immediately as the square where the Night King’s estate is located. We weave through the throngs that have gathered out here. Some mourn, although I can’t tell how sincere they are. Others cheer. I don’t have time to study the scene more closely. Behind us, we can hear the soldiers’ hurried footsteps.
Magiano scowls. “An illusion would be really helpful right now.”
I try, but my strength scatters as soon as I attempt it. I’m too exhausted from my strange hallucination to even pull a shadow from the ground. I shake my head at him. He curses under his breath.