The door flies open, and a girl stands there, silhouetted against the light from the room. She glances at me, then does a double take, looking at me again with narrowed eyes before peering over my shoulder into the night. And I look at her.

Long black hair. Green eyes.

She’s not an alchemist. She can’t be the one who makes the Elixir.

She peers back at me, frowning, seeming just as confused and disappointed as I am.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Errin. Errin Vastel.”

Her lips part, a strange look crossing her face. “Did someone send you here?” Her tone is brittle, crystalline. Her eyes bore into mine as she waits for my answer.

“No. Sorry.” I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. “Are you Dimia?”

She freezes, and hope rises in me that perhaps she isn’t. “Yes,” she says quietly. “I’m Dimia.”

“Oh.” I can’t disguise the sting of disappointment that pierces me, and she raises her eyebrows at me before glancing back into her home. “Wait—are you alone?”

“Am I what?” Her eyes narrow again as they return to me.

“Do you live alone?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry, I don’t mean … I’m looking for someone.” Dimia’s face remains warily puzzled and my heart sinks. “I can see you’re not her,” I say.

She shakes her head slowly. “No. I don’t believe I am.”

“It’s just … I spoke to a man in town and he said the Lormerian girl lived here.”

She hesitates. “I’m from Lormere.”

“And if I said ‘the Sisters’ or ‘the Conclave’ to you, would it mean anything?” She shakes her head. “Are there no other Lormerians here in Scarron?” I try.

Another shake of the head.

My eyes sting as tears of frustration prick at them. I should have known. I should have realized, even if she was here she’d be hiding, like Silas was. Not living in a cottage, known to everyone. It was far too easy to be simply told she was here by an old ironworker. Unless … Silas said that normal people live with the alchemists. Could this girl be lying to protect the philtersmith? Some kind of servant, or cover. “Are you sure?” I say urgently. “Are you sure you’re alone? Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

The look she gives me could freeze water. “I’m not a liar.”

“I see,” I say. “Well, if you happen upon someone who does know what I mean, tell her to find me in the tavern. She’s in danger. The Sleeping Prince is after her.”

I’m not prepared for her reaction. “What? What did you say?” she demands. She clutches the door frame. Already pale in the lantern light, she pales so much the freckles on her nose, cheeks, and forehead stand out in sharp relief. “Where is he? Does he go to Lormere? Is he there already?”

I nod, watching her carefully. “He sits on the throne of Lormere. He has done so for three moons.”

“No …” Her voice is jagged.

“The whole of Tregellan is braced for war,” I continue. “There are soldiers in all of the main towns, checkpoints on the roads and city gates. People are dying in Lormere. Hundreds of them. He’s targeting the religious in the hope of finding the Sisters. And the girl.”

“I told you, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know any Sisters. I’ve been here since before harvest—” She stares beyond me, into the night. A flash of lightning makes both of us jump, bringing her back to herself. “Three moons,” she says. I can barely hear her words over the growl of thunder that rolls across the sky. “What of the queen? Has she allied with the Sleeping Prince? What news of the prince—the king—of Lormere? Does he hide? Is he rallying his men? Are they fighting? Is he in this Conclave?”

“He’s dead. The king is dead. He was killed the night Lormere fell.”

“Liar.” Dimia looks at me, her eyes burning into mine.

I’m about to rage at her when I realize that she’s not being rude. She’s begging me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I know what real grief looks like.

She closes her eyes. Her hands clutch her arms as though she’s holding herself together. Then she turns from me, walking into her house, leaving the door open. She crosses to the fireside and picks up a goblet, draining the contents. I watch as she refills it.

“You’d better come in,” she says thickly.

As soon as the words have left her mouth the heavens open, so I do, entering her small, neat cottage and closing the door behind me. When I turn back to her, her shoulders are shaking and, without thinking, I cross the room and put my hand on her shoulder.

She jumps as if I’d stabbed her, spinning away from me with her hand extended, her face horrified beneath the tearstains.

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, holding my hands up to show I meant no harm.

A sudden loud tapping makes us both spin around; the rain has become hail and is lashing the windows, leaving streaks across the thick, greenish glass. The room lights up again, thunder rumbles, and I shiver. She turns away, leaning against the mantel, and I take the chance to look around the room. One goblet, one armchair, a book left facedown on the seat; she was reading when I arrived. The doors to the other rooms are open; from where I stand I can see a small kitchen, and a bedroom, a patchwork blanket over a narrow bed. I move as though to peer out of the window and see the last room stands empty. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. No one else lives here. Just Dimia, and she doesn’t have the Godseye or the moon hair. She’s telling the truth. I walk back to her.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, coming from a Tregellian, but I liked your king,” I say softly. “I saw him when he came here. He seemed happy here.”

“Merek liked Tregellan. He had plans to introduce some of your ways in Lormere.”

For a moment her words puzzle me and then I realize why. People don’t usually address their sovereigns by name.

“Did you know him?”

She turns to me. “Briefly.” Her cheeks turn pink and she stares into the distance. “I worked at the castle for a while. He was kind to me.”

“He looked like he’d be a good king.”

She nods, her face crumpling again. “He would have been,” she whispers, tears making silvery tracks down her face. “Forgive me.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them they fix on mine. “Tell me everything. What else do I not know of what’s happening in Lormere? You said he was hunting the religious.”

As I reel off the litany of the Sleeping Prince’s crimes, her face becomes more ashen, her posture more slumped. Lortune, Haga, Monkham. The Bringer turned Silver Knight and the sacking of the temples, the heads on spikes, the hearts on display. The slaughter of the religious, the burning of the food stores. The golems.

Then I tell her about the refugee camps. The people on the roads. The soldiers and their brutality. I feel sick as I recount it, my mind returning to that abandoned doll, that single shoe. Now I think I know why someone would leave a shoe behind.

When I’m finished she drains her goblet in one gulp, her eyes blurring with tears again. “And what is the Council of Tregellan doing to help Lormere?”

“What do you mean?”

“What aid have they offered? Men for an army? Weapons? Food? Medical supplies?”

I shake my head. “The army we have is new, it’s conscripted. The men weren’t given a choice; they were told to fight, most are still being trained. Women may have to fight as well, if it comes to it. As for food and medicine, we didn’t …” She stares at me and I feel my skin redden again. “But some people did escape, as I said. The camps—”

“Camps you described as ‘hellholes’?” She interrupts me and I fall silent. “The Sleeping Prince is killing innocents, and your people have closed their borders. Mighty Tregellan, that is so democratic and civilized, turns a blind eye to the murder of a king and his people; instead it looks to its own house until the blood splashes its doorstep? Because of the last war, I take it. Because we deserve it, for winning then?”

“No, of course not.” But even as I protest, I wonder if she’s right. Why didn’t we act earlier? Why didn’t we offer more help? I don’t say it aloud, though. “No one was ready for this. The Council has been trying to negotiate with him.”

“You can’t negotiate with monsters,” Dimia says flatly. “Believe me. You can only act.”

Suddenly I feel deeply ashamed of my country. I shake my head, unable to meet her eye. “I’m sorry, to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”

“And I’m sorry I’m not who you were looking for.”

We both lapse into silence, and I listen to the rain beating down. It’s going to be a miserable walk back to the town. “I’d better go,” I say eventually, reluctant to leave the warmth of her cottage.

She looks at me. “You’d do better to stay. It’s vile out there. You’ll be blown into the sea before you’ve left my garden.”

“That’s too … You don’t know me. I could be anyone.”

“So could I. We’re even. Sit,” she says, nodding to the chair by the fire.

Because I have nowhere else to go, and because I’m tired, and because I’m at the end of my tether, I do, lifting her book and placing it over the arm. She refills her glass and holds it to me, and I take it, sipping the contents. Wine, rich and red, tasting of smoke and dark berries, coats my tongue. I take another sip and hold it out to her, but she waves her hand, so I keep it, cupping it in my palms.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re looking for a girl from Lormere,” she says finally. “You said she was in danger. Why?”

It feels treasonous to talk of it with a Lormerian, but it’s not as if she can tell the king what I’ve said. “She’s not just a girl. She’s an alchemist. That’s why.”

“There are no alchemists in Lormere.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. But there are. They have their own kind of Conclave, hidden from the royals.” When she frowns I explain. “The Conclave is where Tregellian alchemists live. It’s hidden. The Lormerians did the same thing, except they disguised their version as a religious order. They hid in plain sight.”

“Are you an alchemist?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need to find her?”

“I was hoping she could help me. That we could help each other.” Dimia looks puzzled. “I’m in some trouble,” I add.

“What kind?”

I take another drink of wine, enjoying its warmth. Then I explain, as best I can, about the threat of evacuation, and Mama’s illness, though I don’t mention the beast. Then I tell her how Silas gave me a potion that seemed to heal her, but when he wouldn’t give me more I withheld the girl’s whereabouts until he agreed to help.

She raises her eyebrows, leaning against the mantel. “You blackmailed him?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. He said he’d help, and that he didn’t blame me for trying it. I believed him, and … and I told him she was here.” I pause. “He betrayed me. He waited until I went home to get my mother and our things, and he left without me.”

She holds her hand out for the goblet and I pass it to her. “So, he’s on his way here, too, I take it. To find a girl who isn’t.”

“I expect so. I don’t know which of us will be more disappointed. No offense meant.”

She shrugs. “Where is your mother now?”

“She’s in an asylum,” I say quietly. “While I was with Silas, soldiers came and took her away. And they found … Someone died in our cottage. I didn’t kill him,” I hasten to reassure her when her eyes widen. “A man was attacked in the woods near the cottage and Silas brought him to me. I was an apothecary apprentice, so he hoped I could save him. I tried, but he died, just after he told me the girl was here. I had to run. So I decided if I could find the girl alone, I could tell her she needed to go to the Conclave and escort her there. I hoped the alchemists would be grateful enough to help me in return.”

Dimia offers the goblet to me again and I drink. “Except she’s not here. What will you do now?”

I lick the wine from my lips. “I need to get my mother back. They think she’s depressed, and grieving, but it’s not that, it’s bigger than that, and if I don’t get her out … She’s all I have,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’ve lost my father, our home, my apprenticeship, and my brother this year. I can’t lose her, too.”

Dimia’s jaw drops, her mouth hanging open. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat as she tries to contain herself. “You lost your brother? Lief?”

I look up at her, stunned. “Did you know him?” I stare at her. “Did you meet him at the castle?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice sounding far away, her forehead drawn into a frown.

I nod, and her hands rise to cover her face, her back bent as though the weight of the world presses on her.

Mama, Lirys, Carys, Dimia. All these women who grieve for my brother so easily. Why couldn’t I?

I’m surprised I have any tears left after last night, but it seems I do. “I’m sorry,” I say when they’ve stopped, my breath still coming in shuddery gasps.

She has already composed herself and stands stiffly by the fireplace, her expression strained. “Don’t be.”

“That’s why I have to get my mother back. We’re all the other has now.”

“And he wouldn’t have left you,” Dimia says softly. “Not if he could help it.” When I look up at her, she smiles briefly. “What little I knew of your brother, I know he loved you. And your mother.”

I nod, unable to look at her. “Thank you.” The goblet appears before me and I take it gratefully.

“What if I could help you instead?” she says suddenly. “What will you give me in return?”

The words fall from her mouth so quickly it’s as if they’ve escaped rather than been spoken. “What?”

“You said you were training to be an apothecary?”

“I was. I’m not licensed, but I’m good. I can make cures. I can make poisons.” Her eyebrows shoot up at this and I shrug. “I had to,” I say.

“Good. I can use that.”

“Use it how?”

“When I fight the Sleeping Prince.”

I look her up and down. She looks like a baby deer, all thin limbs and wide eyes. She looks as though she’d snap in a high wind. “You plan to fight him?”

She pauses, apparently giving the question real thought. “Yes,” she says. “I do. Someone has to. Your people won’t, unless he brings the war to you. Merek is dead. If not me, then who? Besides, he won’t be the first monster I’ve faced.”

“What do you mean? What monsters have you fought?”

She ignores my questions, looking instead to the window. “We won’t get out of here tonight. The track will be too dangerous.”

“We?” I ask hesitantly.

She nods. “I told you, I’ll help you if you return the favor. Be my apothecary. Make cures that will heal the soldiers I muster. Make poisons we can use on his people—on this Silver Knight and the traitors that follow him.”

I stare at her. Who is she? How could she muster people? How could she save the Lormerians? How can she help me? “Your people? How are they your people?”

“The people of Lormere.” She waves her hand. “My countrymen. Seeing as yours won’t do anything to aid them, I will. For Merek. And your brother. I’ll rally whomever I can in Lormere, and anyone else that’s willing, and I’ll find a way to fight him.” In the glow of the fire there is something regal about her, something in her eyes like iron. She means it.

“Do you know how to fight a war?”

“No,” she says, flushing in the firelight. “No. I don’t. But I suppose to begin with I’ll try to find people who want to fight, or could be persuaded, and take it from there. And I’ll have you. Maybe all it will take will be poison in his wine goblet, like in the story. Isn’t that how he ended up becoming the Sleeping Prince, in your stories—your histories?”

I nod, frowning.

“Good. It’s a start, even if not the right one. So, what do you need from me to complete my end of the bargain?”

I take a deep breath. “I need to get my mother out of the asylum in Tressalyn, and I need to get her somewhere safe. And isolated. I need to get the potion for her. And I need to stay away from the Tregellian army for a while.”

She blinks rapidly. “I can’t help you with the potion. But I think I can help you get her back.” She walks over to the mantelpiece and reaches into the chimney. I hear the chinking of coins before she draws the bag into view. It’s fat with coins, bulging. A king’s ransom. “I’m assuming I’ll be able to persuade someone to release her into the care of her dear, long-lost cousin?” I nod, dumbstruck. “Good,” she continues. “As for isolated, this cottage is quite apart. And it’s by the sea. I imagine that’s useful for healing.”

My eyes widen. “You’d let us live here? In your cottage?”

“I doubt I’ll be using it while I’m at war. We’re quite far from Lormere here.” She smiles wryly. “You could use the kitchen as a workroom to create the poisons and healing potions I’ll need, while you care for your mother. Of course, once the battles begin you’ll have to be a lot closer to our base camp. But that’s some time away, yet. I’ll need time to find and organize my people. If she’s not better by the time we need to fight, you can engage a nurse for her while you’re gone. You won’t be out on the field, so you needn’t worry about that.”

“She won’t be better. She won’t ever get better. Her illness is very unusual. If anyone found out what it was …”

Dimia hefts the bag so it clinks again. “I’m sure we could find someone discreet enough for the task. You’d be surprised, I think, what people will do for money.” She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. “Or perhaps not. What do you say? Do we have an agreement?”

“Why?” I ask. “Why would you do this? I’m a stranger to you; why would you do this for me?”

She opens her mouth, staring beyond me to the rain lashing against the window. “Because you remind me a little of myself.”

Then I turn to the rain, too, watching it slide down the windowpane. “What did you do, at the castle?” I ask.

Her eyes slide to the side. “I served. I was a servant.”

I’m about to ask for specifics when I stop myself, the pieces slotting into place in my mind. A servant who calls the king by his given name. A servant with a bulging bag of coins. A servant confident she has sway over men, enough to call them to muster. To inspire them to fight. I think I understand now. I remember the knowing look on the soldiers’ faces when Kirin said I was a camp follower. I deliberately don’t think about her knowing my brother.

“Errin,” she says softly, and I look at her. Her face is solemn. “It won’t stop. The Sleeping Prince won’t stop at Lormere. Your Council knows that. He’ll come here next. And he’ll do to the people of Tregellan what he’s done to mine. Your people slaughtered. Your people’s heads mounted atop poles. Your people running.” She puts her goblet down and crosses the room, pausing, before she reaches for my hands.

“I’m not saying I can beat him. I know the odds, and as you said, he has golems as well as his human forces. But I have to try. If I can get word to Lormere that they have reason to hope, and fight … You know, in the last war, they were losing against your people? And then … they rallied. They were given cause to hope and it made them fight harder. I would give them that. Help me do it. And I’ll help you.”

Kirin said Lormere’s greatest weakness was that they didn’t try to fight back. And now here is this girl, this Lormerian servant, who wants to make it happen. Who believes that she can.

I pull my hands from hers and stand, moving past her to the window. I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching as new drops of rain merge with older ones until they become tiny rivers that run down the pane. Flashes of lightning illuminate the horizon; I can see where the cliffs must begin. Where the land ends. The philtersmith isn’t here, and without her, I have no chance of finding the Conclave or getting the Elixir. Perhaps she was never here at all; maybe Ely was wrong, delirious with pain. How could I be sure he knew what he was saying? The only way I’ll know for certain is if Silas shows up, looking for her—and then what? Do I try to follow him, reason with him, beg him again? I huff quietly, my breath fogging the pane as I imagine it. No. That bridge is well and truly burned. The one thing I’m certain of is that I have to get Mama back; she’s all I have. She’s my responsibility.

I try and sort through it all, taking quiet, deep breaths as the minutes pass, each one like a decade. What choice do I have?

“Well?” Dimia says behind me. “Will you join me?”

I turn to face her. “You’ll help me keep my mother safe? No matter what you hear about her?”

Her eyes narrow briefly, but she nods. “I swear.”

“Yes, then. I’ll be your apothecary.”

A dark look crosses her face. “I need you to swear it, too, Errin Vastel. No blackmail, no double-crossing, no betrayal.”

I blush and hold out my hand. “I swear it. I won’t betray you. I just want to keep my mother safe.”

Her eyes bore into mine for what feels like an age. Then she nods, clasping my hand between both of hers. “And so it is done.” Her words send a thrill through me, as though someone has walked over my grave. “Thank you. Tomorrow, we’ll leave, go to Tressalyn straightaway. I’ll buy your mother’s freedom and then we’ll bring her back here. But for now we should get some rest,” she says. “There is another room that could be used for sleeping, though it’s presently unfurnished. I’m afraid I’m not used to living with so much space. Before we leave tomorrow I’ll engage a carpenter to see to it for when we return with your mother. But tonight you’re welcome to take my bed.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t insist; instead she gathers blankets and cushions, trying to make a kind of bed.

“Good night, then,” she says, pausing in the doorway to what I assume is her bedroom. She looks as if she might speak, then closes the door firmly. I shed my cloak and bed down in the pile of blankets she’s created for me. In my new home. And I think that out of all of the absolutely impossible things to have happened to me in the past week, this is the strangest.

*  *  *

In the dream I’m dressed in armor, and part of me knows that it’s because of the promise I made to Dimia. I look down at myself, at the cuirass covering my chest, the vambraces on my arms. I know it should be heavy, but it’s not, and I swing my arms, raising them as though I’m holding a sword.

“What’s this?”

The man is standing behind me in the doorway, his mouth a pout, his eyes covered by his hood.

“I beat you here,” I say. “I’m with Dimia.”

“Dimia?” He smiles.

“She’s not the philtersmith. The girl you want isn’t here.”

“Really?” His tone is careful.

“Well, if she is, she’s hiding from us.”

“Clever girl. And now what will you do, with this Dimia?”

“Rescue my mother. Then we’re going to war.”

“With me?”

“With the Sleeping Prince. I’m going to help her.”

The smile falls from his face. “Are you?”

I nod.

“That changes things,” he says slowly. “That changes things a lot.”