So many things had happened, and she'd managed to control the grief and anger and the overwhelming sense of being lost. Adrift and aimless.

She'd accepted the challenge of the vast, ominous responsibility ahead and was ready for it. Yes, she grieved. It seemed like only yesterday that she'd had that same hollow feeling as with the death of Phillip… but she'd managed it, just as she would manage this.

She had to. She was a Venator.

She was Ilia Gardella.

"It was a prophecy from long ago, from Lady Rosamund. Eustacia knew it well, but she did not know exactly what it meant until it happened. 'The golden age of the Venator will find rest at the foot of Rome' is the accurate translation. It makes sense now, for your aunt was truly the golden Venator, Victoria, and you will follow in her footsteps."

"I still cannot accept Max's choice. There had to have been another way!"

Wayren looked at her with easy blue-gray eyes. Her face bore an expression of compassion. "He didn't want to do it, Victoria. He did not want to. He would have done anything but that. Eustacia ordered him to do it."

Her eyes dampened. "What? How could she?"

"She did what had to be done, Victoria. If Nedas had succeeded in bringing Akvan's Obelisk to full power, there would have been destruction and death even worse than we saw in Praga. She sacrificed herself willingly to give Max the chance—the only chance—to stop Nedas. One life in exchange for many others. She trusted that he would succeed. And he did. Against all odds he did, for he had to strike the obelisk at precisely the right moment, or the opportunity would be lost."

Victoria took the handkerchief Wayren offered her. It smelled like lily of the valley and peppermint, and somehow the combination soothed her. "Max didn't expect to survive."

"I'm certain he didn't. You saved his life even when you were at your weakest, a testament to your strength and ingenuity. You are the Gardella now."

Wayren touched her with a slender, cool hand, and Victoria felt a wave of comfort. "Who do you think had the more difficult task—your aunt, going to her execution? Or Max, who had to face someone he has loved and admired and respected, and to cut her down? Is it any surprise that he would not want to live with that memory, that knowledge, day after day? It was over for your aunt in an instant; I am certain Max ensured it was fast and painless. But he…"

"He will live with his choice every day, and wonder if there was something different that could have been done." Victoria remembered that horrible time a year ago when she'd made a choice, and could have killed the man in the alley of St. Giles. Remembering her own choice. She knew how much worse it was to have to kill someone you loved.

"Indeed."

"He gave me his vis bulla." She showed it to Wayren.

"Did you not remove your own vis bulla when you feared you could no longer wear it, Victoria?"

She nodded, remembering.

"We must give him time, Victoria. And hope he will return."