61

I had seen a dozen rivers, a score of seas, a thousand miles of ocean since I had first set foot aboard the Beholder.

None of them had made my heart race like the sun on the river outside Stupka-Zamok’s walls.

My blood stuttered. And despite the aching in my lungs, I began to run.

I raced downhill, the river surging close to me, the smoke starting to clear as I neared the water. And then I saw her through the haze of gray.

My ship. Her figurehead, beautiful and dangerous and persistent despite the wear of salt and time.

Polunoshchna had led me to believe the Beholder was taken. But she was waiting for me, arms wide and eyes full of light.

I stopped, hands on my knees, panting, as Skop and Yu helped Wash up the gangplank. Yu asked questions, eyes gentle, carefully assessing the gash on her head.

The crew emerged slowly, then rushed toward us. Andersen, Will, J.J., Yasumaro, Jeanne—everyone who hadn’t joined the fray outside Baba Yaga’s house, and those who had repaired to the ship’s safety when the battle began. I embraced each of them in turn, my heart leaping every time a new old face appeared.

When Perrault ran out of the galley, I walked into his arms, and we clung to each other.

He wasn’t a traitor. I cursed every doubt that had made me fear he was.

“You found the Sidhe?” I asked him when I could speak.

He nodded. “Constantine would not send fighters. But Prince Arthur came, and brought . . . an alternative.”

I wet my lips. “And you were—never in prison?” I asked. Perhaps he had been captured—perhaps he’d simply escaped. Perrault did look different; he’d shed fine clothes for a gray uniform, his hair was cut short, and he looked soberer than I remembered.

“Prison?” A flash of the old Perrault appeared, scandalized. And despite everything, I gave a weary laugh.

“We should go farther downriver,” Yu urged. “We need to get Selah out of here.” But the thought of retreat rankled.

“She’s back?” Lang’s voice floated up the gangplank.

I whipped around, and there he was. Tanned face, ink-stained hands, dark eyes staring wildly around. Relief flooded his face like paper catching fire when he saw me, and he opened his arms as if to wrap me in them.

He stopped short at the look on my face.

“Where were you?” I asked.

Lang hadn’t been in the courtyard outside Stupka-Zamok. I hadn’t seen him anywhere. I hadn’t realized until that moment how badly it hurt that everyone had been there but him.

“Organizing the Leshii camp. They were in chaos, the Vodyanoi, the Leshii, the Rusalki, the Sidhe, Bear’s knights. We got the drengs out and were getting ready for the children.” Lang’s eyes were fixed on me, his voice distracted, as if he were only vaguely aware that he was speaking.

“I understand,” I finally said. My voice cracked. “I’ve been trying to coordinate my own rescue from inside the tsarytsya’s house. So. I can imagine the administrative challenge you must’ve faced.”

Slowly, he came closer. “You’re angry.” Lang’s eyes were weary as they assessed my burns, my ripped wedding gown, the bruises blooming on my arms. Too late.

I swallowed painfully. This near, he smelled like salt and ink.

It was so good to see him. I was so angry at him. I hated that this moment had gone sour.

“No one else could’ve done it?” I whispered. “The camp? No one could’ve handled it but you?”

“The place was in chaos,” Lang said again, sounding confused.

“I see.”

He scrubbed a hand over his cheek and his temple. “I wanted it to go perfectly.” His tone shifted, growing desperate. “No hitches. No surprises.”

“And I wanted you to be there!” I burst out. “I wanted you in that courtyard while everything went to hell and I got married because I thought I had to bargain for your life!” Tears leaked from my eyes and I swiped at them, angry, impatient.

I watched his face, waiting for the moment I could see he understood. But it never came.

Lang dragged his hands over his face. “I want to know why you only get angry with me,” he said, almost pleading. “I want to know why everyone gets a chance but me.”

Defensive. Competitive. Angry. We stared each other down, breathing hard.

These questions, the accusations, the excuses—they were the last things that should be said between two people in love after so much time apart.

I am rash, Torden had once told me. Impatient.

By all accounts, he had charged in. Torden could have wrecked any number of careful plans when he’d come in to rescue me. Perhaps I should have wanted him to behave like Lang, who’d hung back and considered, again and again. In England, in Shvartsval’d, even today.

Lang had been doing important work in the Leshii camp. But I had wanted to see his face.

Perhaps that was selfish. But I couldn’t be sacrificed again and again for the greater good, set aside for a succession of causes. No matter how urgent. No matter how noble.

“Because I cared for you—care for you,” I said brokenly. “But I want the person I love to love me selfishly.”

The river batted against the sides of the boat, and for a long time, both of us were quiet. The crew had moved away, none of them wishing to overhear this conversation.

Back in the city, the sounds of fighting seemed to have quieted, and the smoke had thinned. No explosions had shaken the ground for a while.

Every hour I waited in the Imperiya could have consequences for my father’s life. For my own safety. For my position in Potomac. But I needed to see this through.

I walked down the gangplank and back toward the burning city, casting aside my own rescue.

“Get Wash and the ones who need to be protected to safety,” I said over my shoulder. “Anyone who wants to see this witch burn should come with me.”