I remember Marcus's hands against my skull, Blackwell's scarred face, the dead raven in the center of the ritual room. Caleb and the legion of dead guards; the prowling, all-seeing lions, the vengeful, red-eyed crows.

I look away and don't reply.

"I heard you lost the Azoth, too," another boy says. He's attractive, very much so, blond, blue-eyed, and tall like Caleb and Schuyler, though this does little to endear him to me. "You went through a lot of trouble, didn't you, only to create more."

I don't reply to this, either. Instead, I look at Chime, the only one of this company I can stand to look at, and then only barely.

"I'm looking for Nicholas. Have you seen him?" The courtesy in my voice, you could choke on it.

Chime opens her mouth, but John steps forward and answers before she can. "I have. He's in the solar, but you'll need an escort to the west wing. I can do that, if you wish."

I don't wish it. But I've asked for Nicholas, John knows where he is, and at the very least it leads me away from this uncomfortable gathering.

I turn away from them without replying and make my way to the yew alley and Rochester Hall beyond. I think, for a moment, John has decided against going with me, or was talked out of it. But then a fall of footsteps and the flutter of a dark cloak beside me tells me I was mistaken.

I reach the exterior hallway and the guarded door leading to the west wing. John nods to the men; they move to let us pa.s.s. Soon enough I'm standing in the solar-a place I have no fond memories of-looking around at the settees, the fireplace, the window embrasure, and the round mahogany table set with chairs.

It's empty.

I push the hood off my face and whirl around. John steps before the door, blocking my exit. His eyes are trained on my face, watching me closely.

"What are you doing?" My confusion mingles with apprehension. "Where is Nicholas?"

"I don't know," he confesses. "But I heard you were back at camp, and I wanted to talk to you. I've been looking for you all day." John pushes his hair back in a gesture that's familiar, his dark curls longer than when I saw him last. He looks more like himself.

But he is not himself.

"I tried the tiltyard, the archery, the training meadow, and the park, which is a mistake too early in the morning. I was almost trampled by a herd of deer."

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you," I say. My words are casual, indifferent, but the tremor in my voice betrays me.

"I don't care about that." He shakes his head. "It's not what I meant. I just meant I wanted to see you."

Latent anger flares up inside me. "The last time I saw you, you said you never wanted to see me again," I fire back at him. "Do you recall that? I do. You said you wanted to put this-me-behind you. And then you told me to leave, and to never come back."

"Elizabeth-" He steps toward me.

"While I appreciate the heroic effort you went through to find me, it wasn't necessary," I go on. "You don't need to tell me not to bother you, or get in your way. You're on your own now. Just like you wanted." Then, out of spite, I add, "But from what I saw, you're not so alone, are you?" Seeing John, talking to him, it's more painful than I thought it would be. I start for the door.

"Elizabeth, please, just listen." He reaches for me, but I pull away.

"Don't touch me." My eyes begin their telltale burning; my voice cracks. I am dangerously close to tears now. "Get out of my way." I push past him for the door again.

"G.o.ddammit, listen to me!" John s.n.a.t.c.hes my arm, turns me around. I start to tear away from him again, until I see his face. Pale skin, eyes red, brows creased in an expression I know, or at least I used to: part pleading, part sadness, all misery.

"I was angry with you," he says. "I said things I wish I hadn't said. Stupid things I didn't even mean. And when I thought those would be the last words you ever heard from me-" John releases me and turns to the door. For a moment I think he's going to walk through it; I don't know if I'll stop him or let him go.

"The stigma." He turns back to me. "It does things to me. It makes me violent. Irrational. Not myself. But you know this already."

I nod, cautious.

"If I was unstable before I was put into Hexham, I was even worse after," he continues. "I got into fights with guards. Repeatedly. After you left, after you broke Malcolm and the other one out and you left, I was so angry. I injured one of them so badly they had to take him to a healer." He winces at that. "I was completely out of control. But you know this already, too."

I nod again.

"Nicholas came to release me from Hexham," John goes on. "Told me Fitzroy pet.i.tioned the council for custody of me, that he needed me to tend to his mother. It was a lie; I knew that much. I was told I'd be kept under house arrest, but that was a lie, too: Nicholas and Fitzroy had me quarantined. I was not allowed out. No visitors were allowed in, except Nicholas. I was allowed nothing but herbs and tools, books and potions. He wouldn't even give me an alembic at first; he was afraid I'd burn the house down."

John allows himself a rueful laugh, but I don't laugh at all.

"Within days, I started to feel better," he says. "I understood why they shut me away. Because the more I practiced my own magic, the magic of the stigma seemed to go away. And the more I returned to myself, the more I thought of you. I wanted to know what happened to you, if you were safe. But Nicholas wouldn't tell me anything, and I thought..." He flinches, stops. "The day he brought you back, he came to see me. And he told me everything."

"Why did he finally allow you out?"

John reaches out a hand for me, then lets it fall.

"Because he said you needed me," he says. "If you don't, tell me. I'll do my best to understand. But I need you. And I'll never stop trying to prove that to you."

With that, my resolve breaks. I take a step toward him; he closes the distance between us in three strides. I reach out and he crushes me to him. His arms around me, his hands in my hair, his lips on my face and his words in my ear: I love you, I love you, I love you.

Nicholas is silent as Schuyler and I tell him about Gareth.

The chapel is empty but for the five of us seated in the front pew: John to my right; Fifer, Schuyler, and Nicholas to my left. Light from the flickering candles set along the wall casts our blue shadows onto the marble floors.

"One week." Nicholas looks skyward, to the stars painted on the ceiling. "That will be because of the moon, of course."

I frown; everyone else nods.

Nicholas turns to me. "The day of the ritual, and of your rescue, the moon was in first quarter. Half light, half dark; in balance."

I think back to that morning-up until now I've tried not to-and I remember it as I perched on the sill of the window in my holding room, on the edge of my escape: hanging low in the still dark sky, striking in its half light.

"A moon phase is not required for his spell; the magic he is attempting is far beyond that of the sky," Nicholas continues. "But Blackwell is leaving nothing to chance, and that explains the timing. The next half-moon, the third quarter, will be in-"

"One week," Fifer says.

Nicholas nods. "It is likely Blackwell now knows John has the stigma. If not from Caleb, then from Gareth, who has no doubt pieced it together by now." A pause. "I would not have believed it was him. That Gareth would turn to Blackwell, that he would sacrifice all he held dear for what I can only a.s.sume is an elevated position in a new regime."

"He has always been ambitious," John says.

"Yes," Nicholas says. "And it will be his downfall."

Once again, I think of Caleb: of his unwavering ambition, how it drove him onward and upward until, eventually, it drove him into the ground.

"I don't understand," I say. "If Gareth has aligned himself with Blackwell, why then, at the trial, did he order me to kill him? And why did he send his scouts into Harrow? The information they were looking for, Gareth could have given him. He tipped his hand. If his men had never arrived, we wouldn't have known there was a spy within Harrow. Not until it was too late."

"When Gareth ordered you to kill Blackwell, he was no doubt following orders," Nicholas says. "Blackwell knew you would rise to the occasion; what better way to get you in his path? As for the scouts, I believe they were sent to confirm the information Gareth pa.s.sed on to him. Traitors cannot be trusted, as Blackwell himself knows."

"What do we do?" Fifer says. "Do we alert the rest of the council? Have Gareth arrested? Detained at Hexham, or somewhere else within Rochester?"

Nicholas steeples his fingers together. "I think not," he says after a moment. "I think that would only hasten Blackwell's arrival into Harrow. If Blackwell discovered we knew the truth about Gareth, he would have no cause to delay his attacks. As I say: The quarter moon is not required for his magic, simply preferred. I do not believe he would sacrifice his military advantage for it."

"You know that I would never question you," Fifer says. "But the idea of Gareth walking freely around camp, listening to our strategies, hearing our secrets-more of our secrets-I can't stand the thought of it."

Nicholas looks to Schuyler. "Will you monitor him? As closely as you can? I know you said you cannot hear him, but I wish to make certain he has not ensnared anyone else, councillor or soldier, in his plans. And I wish to know who else he meets with, and who else he allows inside Harrow, within these next seven days."

Schuyler nods. "I'll shadow his every step."

Nicholas turns back to Fifer. "I know it is difficult to imagine, but sometimes it is best to let a plot run its course until the full extent of involvement is known. On both sides." He gets to his feet. "In the meantime, all we can do is prepare. John, I ask that you tell your father; he will know to keep it silent, and he will want to know the danger you are in. I am going to find Fitzroy. He'll need to begin preparing his troops in a way that doesn't alert Gareth. The sooner, the better, I think."

ROCHESTER SPRINGS INTO ACTION. Troops begin arriving from Gaul, a thousand in the last twenty-four hours alone, another thousand due in the next twenty-four, over the safe, protected borders of neighboring Cambria and through the tunnels hewn beneath the Hall. Fitzroy leads drills. Malcolm spends dawn until dusk with his men, running them through exercises. And I've begun training again, too: mornings at the archery b.u.t.ts, drills in the afternoons, sparring with Schuyler in the evenings.

On the morning of the fourth day-three days until Blackwell's troops begin their attack-I slip from my tent and into the deep gray, cloudy morning light, eager to get started. Already I hear the trumpets in the distance, calling us to order. The sight of three thousand men marching in uniform over the hills sends a thrill through my veins.

Halfway to the training yard I spot John walking toward me. He stops before me, offers me a quick, tentative smile.

Unlike me, he's not dressed for drills. He's in brown trousers and a black cloak, the strap of his worn brown leather bag thrown over his shoulder. He takes me in, his eyes warm but also a little wary. We stand there a moment, looking at each other but saying nothing.

"How are you?" I say finally.

"I'm well," he says. "You?"

"I'm well, too." I shift a little at this awkward exchange.

I'm unused to being around John now. Unsure of how to act, what to say, or how to be with him. It was easy when he first came back to me, in the way that a crisis can charge down walls between two people. But in the days that followed, those walls were built up again, every word and every action calling attention to what raised them in the first place: the betrayal and the lies, the things he said, the things I didn't. I don't know how to knock them down again.

"Are you going somewhere?" I nod at his battered bag.

"I... yes," he says. "The apothecary. I haven't been in a while."

Of course he hasn't been in a while, because he was in prison. Because I put him there.

"What I mean to say is, my stores have run a bit low." John tries again. "So I thought I'd go in, pick some up. Do you-" He stops. Clears his throat. "I know you're busy and have things to do. But I'd love your company, if you're up for it."

I hesitate. If I don't report into drills, I'll have to answer to Fitzroy. He'll a.s.sign me to a menial task for punishment, dishes or laundry or weapons detail. But it's not just that. It's that I need to keep training. I don't have room to step back, not even a little. I start to say no, but then I see John's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the set of his jaw. The way his eyes dart around the camp, watchful and wide.

"Yes," I say. "Of course I'll come with you."

He reaches for my hand, cautious; I take it. Together, we start toward Rochester Hall, to the only entrance left open for us now, the heavily guarded and magicked front gate.

If we were trying to leave the camp unnoticed, we chose the worst time to do it. The trumpets sound their final, frantic call as men stagger from their tents, tugging on coats and tunics and boots, and leap to their feet in the meal tent, knocking over goblets and s.n.a.t.c.hing the last of the food from their trenchers, spilling into the gra.s.s around us.

I don't miss the stares leveled in our direction, or the whispered disapproval as we pa.s.s. John sees-he's far too astute not to-but he holds on to me as if he might protect me from whatever they might say or do. And when he smiles at me and squeezes my hand, I know his protection is a promise.

The wall edges down.

Until I see Chime in the courtyard, sitting on a stone bench, the brightest thing under today's dull gray sky. She's surrounded by friends: The girls in rainbow-hued gowns I recognize from that day in the meal tent when John was arrested, and some of the boys, too; the same ones he sparred with, who encouraged his violence while at the same time discouraging me. The girls are playing some sort of dice game, the boys choosing sides and placing bets. But when they see us they stop: A roll of black dice hits the stone and stays there, no one bothering to pick it up.

"John." Chime greets him, ignoring me completely. "Are you leaving camp?"

"Just for a little while," John replies. "To pick up some supplies."

Chime arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow, then looks away.

"Back to healing, are you?" the boy beside her says, the blond one who hara.s.sed me a few days ago. "If you ever get tired of nursing old women and delivering babies, you're always welcome to join us again. Well, one of you is." He glances my way, nose flaring in distaste.

John lifts his finger to the air a half second before the trumpets blast their final call. The boys scramble to their feet, yanking on cloaks and holstering weapons.

"Enjoy wash duty," John says, tugging me from the courtyard.

The apothecary lies in the center of Harrow's high street in Gallion's Reach, nestled between the cobbler and the baker. It's nearly empty today: one or two merchants pushing carts along the road, a few standing in vacant doorways, watching as we pa.s.s.

John steers me into a side street that leads to the alley behind the shops. We cut through the mud and puddles of stagnant water until we reach a narrow, una.s.suming wooden door. He fishes a key from his cloak and unlocks the latch.

"The lock on the front door is broken," he says. "I've been meaning to fix it, but never got around to it."

We enter the back of the apothecary, into what looks like a storeroom. It's dim inside, the light from the one small window set high beside the door just enough to see by. There are great wooden barrels, baskets on shelves, crates in the center of the room. Set into a nook on the other side of the room is a bed, somewhere between a cot and a pallet. It's made up with clean white linens, unruffled and smooth, as though it hasn't been slept on in some time.

"My mother put that there," John offers. "She thought it might be useful to have an infirmary. It's not terribly welcoming, but it's away from the street, and quiet. Though as far as I know, no one was actually infirm enough to make use of it." He smiles, gestures to another door. "This way."

I've never been inside an apothecary before, but it's just as I imagined. The back wall is lined with shelves, crowded with bottles in all shapes and sizes, murky gla.s.s of green, amber, and red, wrapped in labels of yellowed parchment and scrawled with John's illegible handwriting. A few jars, presumably hazardous in some way-I smile at his elaborate rendering of a skull and crossbones-sit on the topmost shelf. A single large, opaque window of ochre gla.s.s bathes the room in a golden, almost otherworldly glow, and the battered door leading to the main street is bolted shut with a beam, the broken lock hanging by its hinge.

The rafters bristle with flowers and herbs in various stages of drying. I recognize a few by scent alone: lavender and anise, rue and cypress, hazel and marigold. The shop smells exotic, a mixture of sharp spices and tangy herbs along with something softer, candles or soap. It smells like him.

"I would say have a seat, but..." John looks around. "There doesn't seem to be one, does there? I don't usually have visitors, just customers. I could bring in a crate from the back for you to sit on, if you'd like."

"That's all right." I hop onto the countertop, littered with books and tools and parchment and pens, brushing aside a few as I do. "I'm fine here. Comfortable. It's nice."

He gives me a wry smile. "It's a mess. I would say it's because I haven't been here in a while, but that's not really it. It pretty much always looks like this."

"What supplies did you come for?" I ask him. "Maybe I can help you collect them. I'm good at recognizing things; if you just give me a list I can-what?"

John's face, arranged in a careful expression of control, falls. "I didn't come here for supplies. I came here because I had to get away from camp. From the people, from training, from everything. I just... had to get away."

He crosses the room to an enormous cabinet standing beside the front door. Inside are shelves lined neatly with volumes of leather-bound books. He runs a hand along the stack, pulls one out, and walks it back to me.

"Remember how I told you that when I first came back to Rochester, Nicholas gave me books and supplies, in the hopes I would start practicing magic again?"

I nod.

"What I didn't tell you is that at first, I refused to touch any of it. I told myself I wasn't interested, but in truth, I didn't want to know just how far gone I really was. But when I finally forced myself to pick up one of the books, I saw what they were. Remedial texts. For children."

He smiles at me, but I can't bring myself to smile back.

"I went into a rage. Threw them at walls, I nearly threw them out the window. But before long, in the absence of anything else to do, I began to read them. There's not much to them, really: just pictures and descriptions of herbs, botanicals, flowering plants. It was magic I already knew, just buried inside the violence and the anger of the stigma.

"Now, when I feel it start to take hold, I go back to this." He gives the book in his hand a little shake. "Back to the beginning, to remind myself of what matters. It's starting over, I know that now. And I suppose, what I really brought you here for, is to ask if you would start over with me."

I hold out my hand. He pa.s.ses me the book; the t.i.tle written in gold on the brown leather cover: Phytologiae Aristotelicae Fragmenta. A text on botanicals.