But she doesn't know how it can all change when you get back to civilization. And I won't hold her to promises she can't keep.

She takes her time over preparations in the morning. At least this much was true-she does seem to know what she's doing when it comes to blowing things up. No wonder they kept this side of her under wraps-this is hardly an acceptable hobby for the well-bred.

She has me stack the fuel tanks six different ways, she paces out distances, tries different fuses. She dumps out some of the fuel-to leave room in the tanks for vapors, she says. I spend my time clearing anything that might cause damage if it flies through the air, until I'm combing the area for twigs and pebbles and even I have to admit none of them could so much as bruise her. After that I sit at the foot of a tree and watch her.

She's incredible. She's so composed, so determined, twitching the fuse with two fingers to change the angle a little. There are moments like this when I can actually imagine her at my parents' cottage. I can see her hauling wood with the rest of us, chopping vegetables, going for long walks and calling it entertainment. I think my parents would like her.

I can see her happy there. I just wish I knew whether I'm only seeing what I want so badly to see.

Crouched by the end of the fuse, she looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, and I smile back, helpless.

Then I realize that she's bending her head to strike a match, and something clicks together in my head. She can't. She mustn't. My daydreams scatter and I scramble to my feet, too slow, helpless-I don't know how I know, but every instinct I have is screaming at me as she leans down to touch the flame to the fuse.

The little spark races up the string fuse, too fast. The wind picks up, and the fuse burns quicker, leaping up toward the barrels.

She spots it as I do, and she whirls away from it. I stand helplessly by the tree. I can't move.

She makes it seven steps before the fuel tanks explode.

The flames blossom out behind her, and the boom comes an instant later. The building's tearing open like a tin can, and Lilac's thrown through the air like she weighs nothing at all. She hits the ground with a thud, rolling over and over as debris rains down around her. My body fails me, locking in place and keeping me from her. I rip my foot from where I'm rooted to the ground and finally start moving. She's facedown, unmoving, lying amid a dozen tiny gra.s.s fires as the last light particles fall around us.

I throw myself down beside her, turn her over with a hand at her shoulder and one at her hip. My throat is frozen, unable to even whisper her name. She lets me move her without protest, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other reaching weakly up for me.

Her face is white, but apart from the dirt smudges and the bruise across her cheek, she looks unscathed. For the first time since the explosion, I feel myself take a full breath.

"That was exciting," she murmurs, her eyes still closed. "Did it work?"

"I think they saw it from s.p.a.ce," I whisper, leaning down over her to press my forehead to hers. "Are you all right?"

"Shh." Her voice is almost inaudible. "Tarver, I need you to-" She breaks off to groan softly, her mouth tightening, eyes squeezing tighter shut, pinched with pain.

My heart contracts. "Lilac, tell me what hurts."

Her hand curls around my sleeve, the way she usually summons me for a kiss. She opens her eyes with a visible effort, blinking until she can focus on me. "Just listen, okay? When you get inside-should be a generator. You have to-to get enough power for a signal."

"Lilac, stop, that doesn't matter." She's in pain somewhere, though I can't see where. My hands are shaking as I start unb.u.t.toning her shirt. "We'll handle that when we get inside."

"Don't think we will," she whispers, hoa.r.s.e. Then she lifts her hand away from where it's wrapped around her middle, and shows me what she's hiding, what she's holding together. A tangle of bloodstained shirt and skin, the glint of metal embedded deep.

I can't hear, can't see, can't think.

My body knows what to do, though. "Put the pressure back on, keep your hand on it." My voice snaps orders like I'm out in the field. I scramble across to our pack to haul out the first-aid supplies she salvaged from the Icarus, sending bottles and bandages flying in every direction as I dig for the one vial that matters. "Keep your hand on it, we have a coagulant."

"Don't." Her voice is weak, though she presses her hand back over the wound. "You'll need it later, until help comes."

"I need it now." Finally I find it, tearing the wrapper off a needle and scrambling back to her on hands and knees. Breathe in-one, two. Breathe out-one, two. My hand steadies. I fit the bottle to the needle, watching as it fills, lifting it, tapping it free of bubbles.

It's not enough. I know that as I slide the needle into her skin. It can't stop this kind of bleeding. The shrapnel went straight through her gut. This injection can't sew her back together.

"Please," she whispers, flinching.

I throw the empty needle aside and haul my shirt off over my head, lifting her hand and pressing the fabric against her abdomen. "I'm here, Lilac, I'm here. I promise. I'm right beside you."

She pushes weakly at my arm, shock overtaking sense as her gaze slides past me to the sky beyond. "This is why it's better. I'd be in pieces, if it were you."

I am in pieces, Lilac.

But my body keeps moving, my mouth keeps talking. "Stop it, I've seen this before. We can fix this." I press down on the wound and reach out with my other hand to touch her cheek, trying to guide her gaze back to my face. I want her to look at me.

She whimpers, and the sound breaks my heart. "Tarver, it's okay. Don't start lying to me again. I'm not afraid." But she's crying, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes and running down her temples, leaving pale tracks in the dirt.

I don't know what to say. Words abandon me.

"Tell my daddy-" She breaks off to cough, and blood trickles down from the corner of her mouth. I see the confusion start to take her. I've seen this before, too.

No. Please, no.

Her hand lifts to grab at me, finding my arm and clutching tight. "Tarver." Her whisper's a gurgle, the blood in her throat now. "I lied. I'm-I don't want to die." Her blue eyes are wide and terrified as she gazes past me.

I'm shaking as I ease down to stretch out beside her, pressing my forehead to her temple, whispering my words against her skin. "I'm here." I can barely make myself loud enough, but I think she hears me. "I promise, I'm right here, Lilac. I won't go anywhere. I won't leave."

She struggles for another breath, reaching across to touch my face, her fingertips trailing across my cheek. "I thought..."

Her hand goes limp, and I feel the moment the life goes out of her. For a moment we lie perfectly still together, neither of us breathing. And then my treacherous lungs contract, and send me gasping for air no matter how I try to stop.

She remains still, silent. Her eyes, like reflecting pools, show me the trees, the leaves, the sky.

"Are you all right, Major? Your throat seems a little dry."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"

THIRTY-TWO.

TARVER.

THIS IS SHOCK. I know that from my field training. my mouth is dry, and my hands are starting to tremble. I'm cold.

I stare down at her face, but it's like I'm looking at her through gla.s.s, removed. I find myself noticing trivial things-the length of her eyelashes, the new freckles that stand out on her pale cheeks. She never knew about those.

But I saw them, and I loved them, I loved- I should close her eyes, I know that. There are steps to be followed. My body's trying to move, trying to do what it's done before, but I can't stop shaking. I observe the tiny cuts and blackened fingernails on my hand, and wait for it to stop trembling so I can brush her eyelids, but it won't. It worsens, and I stare at it, fascinated.

The brain places importance on these small nothings to distract itself from overwhelming trauma. Instinct causes it to start memorizing details feverishly when it's in danger. I've been trained for this.

No. No one trained me for this.

I know there's this other thing I should be thinking about, this other thing I know, but every time I try to approach it my mind reels away, shuddering. I can't think it. I can't know it.

The bile rises up my throat in a rush, and I wheel away from her to plant my hands in the gra.s.s as I cough, gag, then swallow hard. I'm panting, but I keep from throwing up. My elbows start to bend, and I lock them in place.

I know with utter certainty that if I let myself fold to the ground beside her, I'll stay there forever. The lessons they've drilled into me forbid it.

I stagger to my feet, movements clumsy. I'm swaying when I stand, looking around the clearing for something-anything-that will tell me what to do. The small fires from the explosion are burning out. Time must have pa.s.sed. I don't remember.

And I don't know what to do. There's nothing here. No protocol, no notification, no debriefing, no-anything. Just me, standing in the middle of the clearing, Lilac at my feet.

The building is still smoking, one wall blown inward, debris scattered and metal twisted. The trees around the edge of the clearing bow inward, the forest beyond utterly silent. The tiny details of the scene clog my thoughts, dragging my attention away from this thing I can't understand.

I try again to push past the great wall of resistance in my mind.

Lilac is dead.

Nothing.

Lilac took shrapnel. Lilac bled out.

Nothing. I can say it to myself, I can push the words around in my mind, but there's not even a twitch of a response. They're just words. Stupid, impossible words-so ridiculous that I ignore them.

I try again, something smaller, like worrying at a loose tooth or picking at a scab.

Lilac won't talk to me again.

There's a tremor.

Lilac won't kiss me again. I won't hear her laugh.

My lungs constrict.

Why am I doing this to myself?

I don't know how to grieve. I've seen death before. I've seen it at close quarters, felt the heat of it on my skin. I've seen it from a safe, clinical distance, in the statistics on my intelligence reports. I've seen whole platoons die, too many to meaningfully understand.

I've seen my friends die, witnessed their final moments and accepted last messages to loved ones they never truly believed they'd leave.

When it was Alec, my mother needed me, and so I refused to succ.u.mb-but that didn't mean I stopped trying to grapple with what had happened. Soul of a poet, she always said. But I worked through it quietly, holding the grief inside myself, somewhere secure. Emotion had no place at my briefings. In the field, it was simply dangerous. You shut it away, mourned later, silently.

This is different. This is deafening, consuming. There is no next task. There are no other soldiers to see to. No parents who need me.

Just my Lilac, blood still seeping out across her shirt, even with her heartbeat stopped. Her skin, still warm, eyes open, face slack.

This is beyond comprehension. This is too much. I can still hear her voice.

If something did go wrong, if something happened to you, I'd last a grand total of ten seconds out here by myself. But if something happened to me, you'd be just fine.

I answered her. I remember that, too. I would be anything but fine.

In fact, I'm nothing. I don't exist. I'm lost.

I drop to one knee to gather her up in my arms, and she lolls horribly against me, head tipping back, arm slipping to hang down limply. Her skin feels different already.

I gather her in closer, so her head tips in against my shoulder. Her blood stains my skin. I carry her down the path to the cave.

I can't bury her today. I'm not strong enough to dig the hole. Some horrible, practical part of me knows that I'll dig until I'm exhausted, and it won't be deep enough. It will have to be tomorrow.

And I'm not ready to let her out of my sight yet.

I lay her down on our bed, carefully straightening her neck and folding her hands. I settle the pillow under her head.

I lie down beside her on the stone floor of the cave, rolling over on my back to stare up at the daylight coming in through the c.h.i.n.k in the stone that serves as our chimney. I curl my hand around her cold one.

Sometime later, I realize there's no more light coming in through the crack in the ceiling.

I'll bury her in the morning. Not yet.

I feel like I'm observing these events taking place, without revealing myself or partic.i.p.ating. I'm watching a boy lie on the floor of a cave beside a girl. In the darkness, they look like they're asleep.

The idea of the building drifts into my head eventually. I can picture the wall, forced in by the explosion. My memory of it is obscured by smoke and dust, so I can't see inside. I know, in a dull, uncaring way, that I should go and explore it tomorrow. Except that I can't imagine bringing myself to walk through the broken doorway.

A few minutes later, or a few hours, I notice the Gleidel digging into my back. I angle an arm to retrieve it, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip, sliding into place. I lift it and position the barrel underneath my chin. I nudge the barrel to the left so it sits in just the right spot.

The compulsion creeps up through me, starting somewhere in my belly. It travels up my spine, tingling down the length of my arm, until my finger tightens a fraction. It would be so easy to let it tighten just a fraction further. n.o.body's coming. n.o.body would find us. They think we're dead already.

n.o.body would ever know what I chose.

It's dark when I wake, and cold. My bones ache, and I'm on stone, not blanket. Where the h.e.l.l is Lilac? Has she pushed me away and stolen the blankets?

I smile faintly to myself. Unlikely. She's so insistent at night, snuggling in against me and teasing me that she'll steal all my warmth, leach it out of me. She presses her back in against my front, and I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, then- The memory hits me like a body blow. My throat closes, muscles tensing, mind reeling. I can't remember how to move-my limbs are numb. Then, slowly, unwillingly, I reinhabit my body.

I push up onto one elbow, my back screaming a protest after lying on the cold ground for so long.

My eyelids are heavy and reluctant, but I blink to clear my vision.

Lilac's sitting in front of me, cross-legged, smiling.

My breath jams in my throat, and I roll onto one side, coughing, gasping for breath.

Lilac lies beside me, dead.

It only takes a moment to realize that the body beside me is barely visible, a silhouette to my night vision. The girl sitting cross-legged before me is sunlit, vivid, impossible. Shaking, choking on the metallic taste the vision brings to the back of my mouth, I drag myself upright. As I watch her, an image blossoms across the wall of the cave. My parents' house springs to life: white walls, green leaves, and the purple flowers that share Lilac's name.

I see the wooden front door, the windows and window boxes, filled to overflowing with herbs and yellow flowers. As I watch, a pathway appears, gra.s.s swaying on either side of it. It threads its way down to where she sits, curling past her so now she's relaxing in my mother's garden.