This is the door Samuel used when he left me. I don’t want to run into him, but I’m pretty sure this is the medical bay, and I need to bandage this arm. Some medicine for the pain would be helpful, too. The knob turns soundlessly, and I ease the door open.

The room is about the size of my old bedroom and contains two beds and an entire wall of labeled supplies stocked on metal shelves bolted to the wall. Heidi lies sleeping on one of the beds, her leg bandaged and propped up on a pillow. There’s no one else in the room.

A lantern glows softly on a small table wedged between the two beds. A closer look reveals that the lantern is also bolted down. I step quietly past Heidi and examine the shelves.

Bandages. Burn cream. Pain medicine. Antiseptic paste. Herbs for curing stomach ailments and headaches. For curing blood clots. For flushing the body of poison.

I linger for a moment on the bottle of herbal blood clot medicine. Ian injected Sylph with ground castor seeds, causing the blood to clot inside her organs while thinning the blood at her extremities. There was no cure, no nice wall of neatly labeled shelves that I could turn to for help. Instead, I lay by her side and listened to her breath leave her body. She was my best friend, and there was nothing I could do.

My hands shake as I pick up the blood clot medicine. Something hot splashes onto my collarbone, and I realize I’m crying. Tears of grief for the Sylph-shaped hole inside of me that nothing can ever fill. Tears of anger because she didn’t have to die. If Heidi or Samuel had stopped Ian, if one of them had said No, this is wrong, she’d still be alive now.

The stopper is out of the bottle before I realize I’m going to remove it. I lift the dropper and stare at Heidi. At her bandaged leg, where a bloody wound would take this medicine straight into her veins.

It isn’t poison. She wouldn’t suffer the way Sylph did, but she’d die just the same. A blood clot can kill you when it reaches your heart. Or your lungs. Or your brain. Chloe Jarbonneau’s father died of one. I remember how shocked we were because Chloe was only eight, and we had no idea our fathers could die when we were so young.

I stand over Heidi, my hands shaking. My tears falling. Blood on my hands smears across the jar’s label, and I set the jar on the table before I drop it.

Can I do this? Can I poison a woman while she sleeps, even if she deserves it? Is it justified, or would it bring me one step closer to becoming the kind of monster I’m determined to stop?

I don’t know. I wish Logan were here so I could ask him. So I could look in his eyes and see if he’d still love me once he knew what I’d done.

I reach for Heidi’s leg and pull the top of her bandage aside. The edge of her wound glares at me, crimson and angry. The dropper in my hand, filled with clear liquid, quivers as I hold it above the injury.

She deserves this. She does. Melkin’s dark eyes burn against the back of my mind, and I flinch. Maybe I’ll see Heidi’s face in my nightmares after this. But maybe it’s worth it if I’m doing it for Sylph.

For Sylph, who loved everyone with equal measure but spared extra for me. Who took the pain of her family’s death and turned it into care for others instead of letting it sour into bitterness.

Sylph, who wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t stand over a defenseless person, even a guilty one, and poison her in her sleep.

My arm falls to my side, and a single drop of liquid leaves the dropper and splashes harmlessly onto the floor.

I can’t kill Heidi in her sleep the way Ian killed Sylph, even though I believe she deserves to die for her crimes. There’s something dishonorable about it, and the few pieces of myself that I’ve managed to salvage from my inner silence would be lost if I crossed this line.

The anger that burns within me beats against my thoughts with relentless fists. I raise my hands to cradle my head as if by pressing my palms against my scalp I can somehow find peace.

Heat radiates from my forehead. I slide my fingers over the rest of my face and find that even my cheeks feel crisp with fever.

My vision blurs for a moment as I tug on the blood-soaked sleeve of my tunic until I can see my entire forearm. The jagged seam of blackened skin is stretched tight over an angry red-and-yellow swelling that leaks blood and white fluid where I’ve scratched at it. My fingers are so swollen, I can barely move them, and red streaks run beneath my skin, heading from the wound toward my shoulder.

No wonder this itched so badly. No wonder I have a fever. It’s infected. It must have happened when I went into the filthy water of the river. Turning back to the shelves of supplies, I search for something that will help me.

Moments later, I’ve smeared antiseptic and burn cream across the infection, wrapped a loose, sloppy bandage over it, and swallowed what I hope is enough painkiller to take the edge off.

My head now aches as badly as my throat, and I long to lie down, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to find a weapon and some supplies.

Leaving the medical room behind, I creep along the deck until I come to the room where I tried unsuccessfully to swallow some breakfast. This room is much bigger than the medical bay. Eight round tables with four chairs each are sprinkled around a rug of brilliant red. Lanterns are bolted to each table, though only two of them are lit. Across the room, a door on the opposite wall leads out to the other side of the deck. The one side of the room closest to me is a simple kitchen with long counters, two stoves, and a metal shelving unit half-full of food supplies.

I head for the food. My eyes ache as I read the labels on jars, crates, and canvas bags. Flour. Rice. Honey. Dried tomatoes. Salted pork. A crate of sugared orange peels. Fruit, both fresh and canned. And several barrels of water.