I watched him pack it last evening, when we snuck to his rooms to discuss the plan as he shoved thick sweaters and wool socks into the satchel.

The words had lingered on my lips, the truth that there was no use in packing for me.

But Nox is just now swimming to the surface from where the death of Gunter plunged him under, and I cannot bear to tell him.

It’s not right of me to let him kill me without realizing what he’s doing.

But it’s not right to let him refuse to extract the parasite, either. It’s not right to make him choose between me and his twin sister.

It’s not right that somewhere, high in a turret of the palace, a girl sleeps and does not know it. That she dreams and believes it to be real.

I don’t care what the queen claims about Zora’s dreams being true, that she lives a thousand lives, walks a million realms.

When she wakes, it will be to that dreadful haze that one experiences when stirring from a blissful dream: reaching out with the mind’s claws, desperately groping for that which is slipping away.

But dreams are spilled water, and our minds are not equipped to hold on to them.

Still. We can’t help but try, can we?

So I watch Nox preparing the potion that will be the end of me, and I let myself drift far away from this horrid dungeon, this nightmare from which I can’t seem to wake.

When he slices Fates-know-what until its juice soaks into the counter, I imagine he’s dicing carrots from our garden. The one we tend out back with the help of Nox’s mother, who’s training me in which seeds to plant in the autumn versus the spring, whose hands somehow remain beautiful when caked with the moist earth, whose voice is tender and kind.

I let myself tuck my hands into my chest, and as I grasp hold of my fingers, I’m holding our child—my third, Nox’s second, while a little boy that strikingly resembles my father chases Theo around our cottage.

But the sun is shining through the window, highlighting the line that cuts Nox’s forearms laid bare by his rolled sleeves, and the sun is the worst of all, because it’s a reminder that none of this is real.

None of it ever will be.

So when Nox turns toward me, a pewter dish balanced carefully between his palms, and he asks if I am ready, the lie is quite easy.

I just tell myself he’s asking about dinner.

“You’re shaking,” Nox says as he pushes a metal flask to my lips. The contents are bitter as they hit my tongue, and instantly a warm tingling caresses my jaw, my throat, my stomach.

“Is ale part of the ritual?” I ask him, pushing the flask away before I lose all semblance of control and knock the whole thing back in one go.

Nox smiles, his eyes full of mischief. “No, but you clearly needed it.”

“Forgive me if my body has a less than positive reaction to rituals involving extracting my parasite.” I say, nudging his elbow. He sways a bit, and his smile dissipates. “I’m teasing, Nox,” I say, my voice firmer this time.

His eyes wrinkle in the corners, but only barely. “I know. Do you trust me, though? To get it right this time?”

“Of course.” The words are like sandpaper against my throat.

He takes my hand and lifts me from the floor, and I fight the urge to clutch him with all my might, to carve the imprint of my fingers into his palm, to absorb the memory of his touch. When we arrive at the center of the most open space in the room, he gestures for me to sit down, and I do, tucking my knees into my chest.

“I’ll need to draw your blood,” he says, the furrow between his brows deepening. “It’s the last ingredient in the potion.”

But I’m already extending my wrist. “I know. You’ve already reminded me a dozen times. There are a multitude of binding agents in this realm, but blood is the most potent of all,” I mimic, trying my best to earn a smile.

Nox simply exhales. Then he takes my hand, running his thumb over my wrist, where blue veins paint blue rivulets against my skin.

I savor the feel of it, the burning of his touch.

“I promise not to hurt you, Blaise,” he says.

I consider my suspicion that Nox’s condition leaves him free to lie, but now doesn’t seem like the time to bring it up. Not when it might make him feel that I lack confidence in him.

“You’ve already said that quite a few times, too,” I tease. “I know I’m not the best reader, but I am capable of listening, you know.”

When he looks up at me through those long, dark eyelashes, my heart stutters. “Still. I can promise again if you’d like.”

My heart gets stuck in my throat, so I say, “That won’t be necessary. I trust you.”

“I drank three pounds of lamb blood this morning. My belly feels like it’s about to burst, but I won’t—”

“Won’t hurt me. Got it.” I flash him a teasing smile, but I’m not sure it meets my eyes.

Nox swallows, and I can tell he’s holding his breath when he slices my wrist with the scalpel. My breath hitches at the short sting. For a moment, his eyes glaze over and his throat works, but then he blinks, and the drunken aura is gone. When he turns my wrist over, blood runs in converging rivulets and drips into the pewter bowl in his lap.

When the first drop hits the milky substance, it hisses and steams. But then the red coloring disappears, and it looks as though the blood hadn’t been added at all.

Nox sets the bowl down and quickly wraps my wound, though his gaze is anywhere but on me as he does it.

When he’s done, he dips two fingers into the pasty substance and begins drawing patterns on the stone floor, ancient-looking symbols that form a circle about me. A shrine of which I am the centerpiece. It takes him what feels like an hour to create the necessary markings, and my back begins to ache.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not comfortable, but if you move, it will negate the spell,” he says, and I snipe back a slight jab that fades from my memory as soon as it flees my mouth.

I feel as though each symbol spells out death.

There’s one in front of me that looks like a sickle and a sheaf of bound flax, and I’m reminded that my life is near to being cut down. Another reminds me of a thread, and I can’t help but think of how it might fray and snap. Another depicts the full moon.

I try not to look at that one.

I watch Nox, separated from me now by the mural of symbols that surrounds me, wipe the substance off his fingers and onto his robes.

It’s then I realize I’ll never touch him again.

He’ll touch me when he realizes what he’s done. When my body collapses to the floor. But I will not feel it when he cradles my head, when he pulls me into his lap and runs his fingers through my damp hair.

“We shouldn’t have long now,” he says, and I can tell he’s nervous too, though for a completely different reason.

Or perhaps the same reason, now that I think of it.

“What are you planning to catch the parasite in when it slithers out of me?” I ask.

Nox flashes me a sheepish grin and pulls out a box that looks to be made of adamant, one with runes carved into the sides. “I actually thought of that this time.”