I swallowed.

His blood coursed down my throat, hot and thick as Ash pressed the gaping wound to my mouth. I drank.

I drank until my throat no longer worked. I swallowed until I could no longer feel his blood running down my throat. I…I felt nothing. Not warmth. Not coldness.

The strangest thing happened then. An unending tide of memories came at me in waves.

Me as a pale-haired child, staring at the painting of my father and finally understanding where my freckles had come from. My mother’s cold stare that used to cut so deeply and then only left me feeling nothing. But then I fell into a memory of when I was…nine or ten? It had been at night, after I’d spent the day training with Holland and eating my supper alone. I’d gone into the garden to sit near the silvery-green bushes with their purplish-blue spikes of flowers. I’d liked the way they smelled because…

They smelled of Momma.

A soft footstep against the gravel had me twisting around on the bench.

Momma walked alone under the glow of the hanging lanterns, her pale hair swept up in a twist Odetta could never force mine into.

I went completely still and as silent as a spirit, just as Sir Holland had taught me. Momma didn’t see me. She was too busy looking up at the sky, and I didn’t think I was supposed to draw her attention when we were outside of our lessons. She never seemed happy when I did.

Momma never seemed happy.

Not even after marrying King Ernald.

King Ernald seemed happy. He snuck me chocolates when he passed me in the halls.

Squeezing my legs together, I clamped my mouth shut so I didn’t breathe too loudly. I didn’t want to upset her. I wanted her to be proud of me. My chin lifted. I would make her proud, but I…I wanted her to see me. To talk with me like she did with Ezmeria and Tavius. She didn’t speak of duty to them. She talked about silly things like—

“I know you’re there, Seraphena.”

My lips came unstuck, making a popping sound as my gaze flew to her. “I’m sorry.”

“You are?” She stood a few feet back, her hands clenched over her pale blue gown, and her body as stiff as mine. “What are you sorry for?”

“I…” I wasn’t sure, exactly. I’d said it because I felt as if I should. I said things like that a lot.

“It’s of no consequence.” Her gaze shifted from mine to the flowers. The lanternlight shone off her…damp cheek. “I didn’t know you came here.”

Was she crying? I watched her come forward, her gown whispering silently over the pebbles and grass. “I like the way it smells.”

A strange laugh left her. It sounded a little mean and sad. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

I didn’t know what she meant by that, and I’d learned that if I didn’t know something, it was best if I said nothing.

“Do you know what they are called?” she asked after a few moments.

“Um.” I glanced back at the flowers. “Lavender?”

“Close, but no.” She walked past me, and I expected her to keep walking, but she sat beside me. “They are called nepeta blue.”

“Oh,” I whispered, fingers pressing into the thin linen of my nightgown.

She stared ahead. “Why are you out here so late?”

“Couldn’t—” I caught myself. Momma liked it when I spoke properly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There was no response.

“Why…why are you out here?” I tentatively asked.

“I had an ache in the temples,” she answered. “Thought the fresh air and silence would do me some good.”

“Oh,” I repeated, dragging my lip between my teeth. Then I remembered her once telling me that was unbecoming, so I stopped. “I should leave, then.” I started to rise.

“No, it’s okay.” Momma stopped me. “You’re…you’re always quiet.”

Surprise rushed through me. I didn’t know what to do or say. Momma never sat with me outside of our lessons. So, I did what she did. I looked at the pretty flowers.

I kept still and silent, every part of me aware of how close we were. I could almost feel the warmth of her body as the seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. I glanced at her. Her cheeks glimmered. Concern rose.

“Is your head making you sad?” I asked quietly.

“What?” She glanced down at me, her brows furrowing. “Oh,” she murmured, lifting a hand to wipe her cheek as if she didn’t realize she’d been crying. “No, it’s not my head.”

“Then what has made you sad?” I tipped closer to her, my hands balling.

“More like who,” she remarked, her attention focused on me. On my face. “I swear by the gods, every time I see you…”

I held my breath. How much of me could she see? Did I wash before coming out here? Sometimes I forgot, and there was always something smudged on my face.

“You have more freckles.” The corners of her lips tugged up. She smiled.

Momma smiled at me.

“Just like…” Clearing her throat, her smile faded. She turned back to the flowers. “Your father liked these.”

I didn’t know what to be more excited about. Her smile? Or that she was speaking of him.

“He also enjoyed their scent,” she continued. “Thought they had a lighter, fresher smell compared to lavender.” She shook her head. “I could never tell the difference, but he could. He thought lavender smelled like…”

I turned back to the flowers, my fingers relaxing. “Vanilla.”

“Yes,” she said, then sighed. “He said the same. Excuse me.” She rose and left the little garden nook without saying another word.

Left…me.

I slipped from the memory with a strange sense of clarity that had never been there before. Her stares and words were never just cold; they were also full of cruel agony and heartbreak for what she’d lost and the child she could never allow herself to grow close to. Care for. Love. Because if she did, how could she honor the deal my father’s ancestor made?

I fell into another memory, seeing Odetta’s silver hair and her lined face softening briefly in sympathy as she shared her suppers with me. I saw myself sitting beside her at the small table in her chambers while we ate. It was before the garden. I was younger, and I…I hadn’t remembered it correctly.

“Do you think Momma is proud she has a Maiden as a daughter?” I asked, toying with the fork.

“Silly child.” Odetta’s laugh was more of a wheeze. “Always asking silly questions.”

I didn’t think it was a silly question. I dropped the fork onto the table, pleased by the clang it made. “Never mind.”

Odetta reached over, curling her gnarled and bony fingers around my chin. She turned my head to hers. “Child, the Fates know you were touched by life and death, creating someone that should not be. How could she be anything but afraid?”

The memory shattered. She hadn’t said, “creating something that should not be.” She’d said, “creating someone.” Had she been talking about me? Or someone I would create? But I would create no one.

Holland’s soft voice rose then, overshadowing mine. “I do not fear death,” he said as he circled me. I was older, closer to seventeen. “I fear life.”

Frowning, I drew back my sword. “What?”

“Death can be a long-earned reward upon old age, but life?” Sir Holland spun, catching my arm and twisting, tossing me to the floor. “Life is vicious. When stolen, it can become the ruin of realms, a wrath that even Death will hide from.”

Ezra replaced Holland. The air was sticky with humidity as we walked the gardens, but she wore a cream, pinstriped waistcoat buttoned to the base of her throat.