“You.” She pushes the word at me. “Brave . . . always . . . braver . . . than anyone.”

I’m not brave. Not anymore. I’m a broken girl too terrified of losing herself to name her fears and fight against them. But I can’t tell her that. I can’t stop pretending strength when she needs me. I swallow the words with all their jagged edges, and lean down to kiss her feverish cheek.

The wagon lurches to the left as someone jumps onto the back step. I look up as Frankie eases his large frame through the canvas flap and carefully makes his way toward us. His face is pale, and his eyes are swollen.

Quinn goes still, his fingers freezing in the act of checking Willow’s brow for fever. “What are you doing in here?” he asks.

Frankie looks at Sylph, and then turns his attention to Willow. He clears his throat, and then says quietly, “I owe you two an apology.”

A muscle along Quinn’s jaw leaps, but he says nothing.

“Is she awake? Can she hear me?” Frankie asks. “I can come back if this is a bad time.”

Quinn is silent for a moment, then he gently taps Willow’s cheek. “Wake up, Willow.”

Her eyes flutter, and then slowly open. She frowns at Quinn. “Why is my head all fuzzy? What did you give me?”

“Something to help you rest.”

“Don’t do it again. It’s bad enough when I have to see one of you hovering over me. Seeing two of you is more than I should have to deal with.” She flashes a quick grin at her brother, but is instantly sober again when he doesn’t respond in kind.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and struggles to sit up. Swearing, she grabs her lower back and glares at Quinn as if it’s his fault she’s wounded.

“Please don’t try to get up yet,” Frankie says.

Willow looks past Quinn, her gaze sweeping the rest of the wagon before coming to rest on Frankie. “Why are you here?”

“I came to apologize.” His voice is rough with emotion. “I’ve been hard on you. Both of you. Never did understand someone who’d choose to live in the trees instead of the safety of a city-state. Figured you were nothing better than highwaymen.”

Willow’s brow arches toward her hairline. “I’m a whole lot better than a highwayman.”

Frankie crouches down beside her, keeping plenty of distance between himself and Quinn. “Thom was my best friend. Been my friend for over forty years.” His voice thickens, and he clears his throat sharply. “He was dead as soon as that bridge exploded. I knew it. You knew it. Everybody knew it.” He looks at his boots. “You didn’t have to try. You didn’t have to risk yourself like that, but you did it without a second thought.”

Raising his head, he faces her. “I wouldn’t have done the same for you or your brother. You knew that, too. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for your gratitude.”

“No, you didn’t. But you’ve earned it anyway. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you ask me, and I’ll do it.”

Willow stares in silence for a moment, and then looks toward her brother. Quinn shifts his position and faces Frankie.

“Willow and I both thank you. And I owe you an apology as well,” Quinn says.

Frankie holds up a hand, palm out. “Didn’t appreciate being near choked to death, but I understand why you were angry.”

“It’s no excuse for losing control like that,” Quinn says.

Frankie offers his hand, and Quinn shakes it without hesitation.

As Frankie carefully makes his way out of the wagon, I turn back to Sylph and have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Smithson leans over her, his wide palms tangled in her hair. She looks at him, pink tears slowly sliding down her face, while blood pours from her nose.

Chapter Forty

RACHEL

“Oh, Sylph.” I breathe her name out and the pain rushes in. A knot in my chest sends bright shards of hurt into my veins with every heartbeat. My hands shake as I grab another rag and try to capture the blood as it spills out of her nostrils, curves around her lips, and streams toward her jaw.

“Please,” Smithson whispers, and Sylph tries to smile.

The rag can’t contain the blood. It gushes from Sylph and coats my hands.

Blood pouring from the sky. Puddling at my feet. Biting into my skin.

A shudder works its way up my spine, and I barely keep myself from screaming.

I can’t stay here, confined in this wagon while another person I love bleeds to death in front of me. I can’t stay here, confronted with my impotence and helplessness. I can’t, but somehow I have to. Sylph deserves to be surrounded by those who love her.

The shudder seizes my arms, my legs, and my teeth, shaking me with merciless fingers until I drop the rag and wrap my arms around myself to keep from flying into a million little pieces.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Smithson chants the words softly, rocking back and forth while Sylph grows pale and begins to tremble.

I slowly slide onto the wagon bed and curve my body next to hers the way we used to when we’d spend the night gossiping about our dreams. Hers were simple and sweet. She wanted a home of her own with blue curtains and white walls. Children and family dinners. A husband who wanted nothing more than what she could bring to him.

My dreams were bold and bright and impossible to articulate beneath the shadow of Baalboden’s Wall. I wanted freedom. A place to live where I could wear what I wanted, say what I wanted, and challenge everyone as my equal. A crusade to lead if that was what my freedom cost.