WE MAKE OUR WAY THROUGH the woods, back in the direction of Humbert’s. I toss the torch on the ground and stamp it out: If Schuyler does come to, there’s no sense in making it easy for him to follow us.

Fifer walks beside me, swinging the Azoth back and forth. Maybe I should be thinking about Blackwell, about his wanting the sword, if it really does what Schuyler says it does. But for some reason, my mind is on the knight, still and green in his tomb.

“Why do you suppose he was so green?” I say. “The knight, I mean? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Me neither,” Fifer says. “But it was definitely a curse. Either from the sword or from the witch who entombed him. Did you see that slab on top? All the marks on it?”

“Yes,” I say, shifting my attention to the treetops ahead of us. I just saw a pair of owls shoot into the sky. Might be nothing; owls hunt at night. But birds flying out of trees are also nature’s way of telling you there are people nearby. Maybe it’s just us. “It was a curse tablet.”

Fifer nods. “You never see them disposed of that way. They’re usually thrown in wells, dumped in lakes, rivers. The ocean. You know. But to put one in a tomb—”

I feel a jolt of warning down my spine.

“Tomb?” I stop and grab Fifer’s arm. “What happens if you put one in a tomb?”

Fifer frowns. “For one, it makes for a more effective curse. The tablet draws upon the dark energy of the dead and strengthens the magic. Especially if the person died violently.”

“Violently?” I feel cold, sick.

“But it’s crazy,” Fifer continues. “I mean, it’s one thing in theory, burying a curse tablet with a corpse. Entirely another in practice.”

“Practice?” I’m starting to sound like a popinjay, those ridiculous talking birds that pirates sometimes have. They can’t really talk, of course. All they do is repeat the last few words you say to them. Stupid, useless creatures.

“Well, yes. Think about it. To do it you’d almost have to plan it all along—perform the curse, kill someone, and then bury the tablet in with the person you just killed. How would you do it otherwise? Not many people are going to run around town looking for freshly dug graves to put their curse tablet in, keeping their fingers crossed that the person buried there died a violent death. No one wants to get their hands that dirty, pardon the pun.”

My head is spinning. Inside, words float around, disjointed and nonsensical. Curse tablet. Tomb. Violent death. Plan. Corpse. Grave. Dirty hands. But then they start to weave together like a tapestry, forming a picture I wish I didn’t see.

Come third winter’s night, go underground in green. What holds him in death will lead you to thirteen.

Fifer was right, but she was also wrong. It wasn’t what the knight holds in death; it was what holds him in death. Not the sword, the tablet. The stone slab that entombed him. Just like the stone slab that nearly entombed me.

Suddenly, I know. I know where the Thirteenth Tablet is.

“Fifer,” I whisper. My mouth is dry as dirt. “The Thirteenth Tablet. I know where it is. I—”

I hear it whistle through the air before I feel it: the fist attached to the arm of the guard that just connected with my face. There’s a sickening crunch as my nose breaks and a gush of hot blood comes pouring out.

Next to me, Fifer screams.

“This was almost too easy,” the guard mutters, shoving me aside before going after Fifer. The skirt on my dress is so tight I lose my footing and stumble to the ground, sprawling face-first into a pile of leaves and dirt. My stigma fires hot against my abdomen as my nose snaps back into place. I barely feel it.

Before I can get up, two of the guards flip me over and grab my wrists while a third clamps a pair of manacles around them. I recognize them immediately: They’re the guards we ran into on the road to Humbert’s.

“Not so dangerous now, are you?” one of them mutters.

I struggle wildly, trying to get to my feet. But my hands are bound in iron, my legs in silk. The guards force me back to the ground, one of them driving his knee into my spine, hard.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Except to prison, where you belong.”

I struggle more. He slams my face into the ground; the force of it makes my head spin. “We’ll stay with her,” I hear him call out. “You go help with the other one.”

I hear a shuffle of leaves, then Fifer’s panicked scream. I turn my head to the side and see the guards circle around her, taunting and laughing.

“Get away from me!” Fifer shrieks, holding the sword in front of her. She jabs it at the two men but keeps missing.

“Look at that little girl with the big sword!”

“You know, witch, you’re lucky we caught up with you instead of Blackwell’s boys. Your pretty face would be roasting on the spit before sunrise.”

“Isn’t that going to happen anyway?” the other guard says.

They laugh some more.

I’ve got to get us out of here. I’ve got one guard on my back, the other standing next to me. I’ve got that triple dagger in my boot, but since my hands are pinned beneath my chest, what good is it? I’m almost tempted to call for Schuyler. Then I remember the necklace and realize he won’t hear me. Which means I’m on my own. I’ve got to get out of these manacles, but I don’t know how.

Then I get an idea.

Quietly, slowly, I break my own thumbs. First one, then the other, gritting my teeth against the pain. I slip my hands out of the bindings, hear a quiet crack as the bones snap back into place. Then I go still. Have the guards noticed? No, they’re too busy calling encouragement to the ones still teasing Fifer. They’re such idiots. Now they’re going to pay for it.

I flatten my hands underneath me. In a flash, I buck the guard off my back. Land in a crouch and yank the dagger from my boot. The guard who rolled off me, I grab him by the hair and stab him in the neck. He falls back to the ground, dead. Before the other one can open his mouth in protest, I pull the dagger from the dead guard’s neck and send it flying toward him. It lands directly between his eyes and he slumps to the ground. Also dead. The whole thing is over in seconds.

The sudden silence gets the other guards’ attention. Their eyes go from me to the two dead men and back to me again. They look stunned. I yank the blade from the guard’s head and start toward them.

“Fifer, get behind me.”

She stands there, dazed.

“Fifer! Now!”

Slowly, she steps around the guards, lowering the sword a little as she goes.

“Don’t!” I shout, but it’s too late. One of the guards leaps forward, grabs a hank of Fifer’s hair and punches her square in the face. Then he drives his fist into her stomach and she drops to the ground. The sword falls limply from her hand.

The other guard picks it up and rounds on me.

I lunge forward and seize his free arm, twist it behind his back and jerk it upward, hard. I’m rewarded with a loud snap as the bone breaks. Still holding his wrist, I yank him to me and drive my dagger into his gut. He falls to the ground as the other guard leaps forward and snatches the sword before I can get to it. He swipes at me with it and I pull back. He does it again, then again, missing me both times.

I drop to the ground, swinging an outstretched leg underneath his feet, swiping them out from under him. As he crumples to his knees, I jump up and smash my foot along the side of his kneecap. I hear a crunch and he screams in pain. He falls toward me and takes a final swing with the sword.

The blade slashes across my abdomen, the cold silver red hot as it sears through the silk, all the way to my flesh. Immediately, it starts gushing blood. I feel the flash of heat in my abdomen and wait for the familiar, tingling healing sensation. But it doesn’t come. Just more heat. And a lot more blood. I clutch my hand to my side and feel it spurt between my fingers.

It’s not healing.

The guard lies awkwardly on the ground, his injured limbs sprawling uselessly beneath him. I stumble to him, snatching the sword from his hand and thrusting it into his chest. He gives a muffled grunt and falls back into the grass. Dead.

I hear Fifer groaning. I stagger to her side.

“Are you okay?” Her eye is starting to swell, and even in the pale predawn sky I can see a bruise blooming under the skin.

She looks at me, her pupils dilated so large her eyes look nearly black.

“You’re hurt.”

I nod. “I guess the sword has some power after all.”

“Will you be able to make it back?”

“I think so.” The blood is flowing hot and fast now, spilling through my fingers. I’m starting to shake. Fifer wraps her arm around my shoulders and, slowly, we make our way back to Humbert’s.

I don’t speak at all. Whether from pain or terror, I don’t know. All I do know is that my stigma isn’t healing me. What does that mean? Is it just this wound that won’t heal? Or what if the Azoth has somehow undone the stigma’s power permanently? If I’ve lost my stigma, I don’t stand a chance of getting that tablet.

I may as well die right here.

Dawn breaks, weak threads of light pushing through the thick blanket of clouds that is already filling the sky. As we reach the edge of Humbert’s property, Fifer is practically carrying me. I’ve lost a lot of blood and I’m so dizzy I can hardly walk. The ground swoops in giant waves below me, and things start to blur around the edges.

Soon we see the turrets of Humbert’s house in the distance, poking up through the treetops like tiny teeth. As we draw closer, I can see servants in the courtyard, already going about their morning business. And I hear Humbert shouting.

“Keep your eyes peeled! If you find them, bring them to me, sharpish! I won’t have them ruining my roses again, climbing down the bloody wall—”

Fifer shoots me a look. For the first time since we left the party, I start to worry about what waits for us inside. This might be bad.

Bridget is in the courtyard as we walk up. She takes one look at me and screams.

“Master Pembroke! Come quickly!” She rushes over to me. “Oh my goodness, miss, what’s happened to you? So much blood…” She clucks around me like an overexcited hen.

Humbert comes barreling through the door, his plump face flushed with anger. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on last night, a bright silk doublet over a ruffled linen shirt, both now wrinkled and wilted. His spare gray hair sticks up at all angles, revealing patches of baldness underneath. He looks completely mental. I might laugh if I weren’t about to faint.

He takes one look at us and stops dead in his tracks.

“My God,” he stammers. “What—what happened? My God,” he repeats, his eyes darting back and forth between Fifer and me in horror. He seems not to notice the enormous sword she’s holding at her side.

Between the two of us, there’s a lot to be horrified by. Fifer’s red hair is matted and dirty, embedded with grass and twigs and broken leaves. Her shirt is mud-stained and her skirt hangs in tatters. But none of that compares with her face. Her eye, nearly swollen shut now, is a brilliant shade of purple. It stands out like a beacon against her pale skin.

But however bad she looks, I look a hundred times worse. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of Humbert’s many diamond-paned windows and start at the reflection. My face is coated in blood and dirt. My arms are covered in moss and mud. But my stomach is the worst. Fifer’s beautiful white dress has been torn clear open, revealing an enormous, oozing slash across my midsection. She said she’d kill me if I ruined her dress, but I’m wondering if the sword might beat her to it. My stomach lurches and the ground slides precariously under my feet.

“John!” Humbert rushes to my side. “George! Come quickly! We need help!” He and Fifer slowly lead me inside the house.

John and George run into the hallway. I lift my head to look them over. Unlike Humbert, they’ve changed into fresh clothes from yesterday, both wearing long wool coats, heavy gloves, and boots. Their faces are flushed with cold, as if they’ve been outside for a while.

“Oh,” I whisper. I’m surprised at how weak my voice sounds. “Were you out all night, too?”

“We’ve been looking for you,” George says. He can’t tear his eyes away from my stomach, from the blood that drips onto Humbert’s pristine black-and-white floors. Then he looks at Fifer, at the sword dangling from her hand. “Did you do that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps. We take another step forward and I stumble. “John, help her.”

John steps forward and scoops me up in his arms.

“Take her to the dining room,” Humbert instructs. Dimly, I hear him call out to Bridget. She rushes over, and John quickly rattles off the things he needs. I don’t really listen. Can’t he do whatever he needs to do upstairs, so I can sleep? I’m so tired. I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes. He smells like outside. Leaves and cold, crisp air.

“Bring me whatever sewing needles you have, and a spool of your strongest thread. No, I don’t care what color,” he adds. He carries me into the dining room, Fifer and George on his heels.

“You’re going to sew my dress back together?” I open one eye and squint up at him. “That’s nice of you.”

“No. I’m going to sew your skin back together.”

“What?” Fifer and I exchange a frantic glance. My injury is right above my stigma. If John tries to help me, he’ll see it. I can feel the heat of it blazing into my skin, still trying to heal me. “No. You can’t.”

“I have to,” he says.

“No, you don’t. Just put me down. I’ll be fine.” I start struggling in his arms. But the pain is so intense it makes me gasp.

“Stop moving,” he orders. “You’re making it worse.”

In the dining room, John lays me on the table, now covered in a clean white sheet, and then shrugs out of his heavy black coat. Bridget rushes around, carrying trays of things and setting them out for him. Fifer and George hover behind her, identical expressions of fear on their faces.

“No,” I say again. “You can’t do this.” I roll to my side, try to get away from him. But John pins my shoulders to the table and leans over me. His face is inches from mine.

“If you don’t let me do this, you will bleed to death,” he whispers. “Do you understand me?” I look into his dark eyes and I can see fear there, lurking just beneath the surface. And I know he’s telling the truth.

I let out a shaky breath. “Okay. But there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Tell me later.” John grabs a bottle of spirits off the table, then pulls back the frayed edges of silk from my gory midsection. “This might sting a bit,” he says. Then he dumps the clear, cold liquid all over my stomach.

The pain is sharp and penetrating. I stifle a groan, biting my lip so hard I taste blood. He presses a clean cloth to my side and begins cleaning off my skin. Any second he’s going to see my stigma.

I glance at Fifer. She holds my gaze for a moment, a look of resignation crossing her face. Then she nods.

“John.” She walks forward and touches his sleeve.

“Fifer, please. Not now.” He lifts up the cloth.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Fifer, I told you—” He glances at my stomach. Frowns. Peers in closer. Then he sucks in a sudden, sharp breath. I don’t need to look to know what he sees: a black XIII, scrawled across my abdomen, burning bright against my pale skin.

John stumbles away from the table, his eyes wide, the color draining from his face.

“That’s a… you’re a…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I start to reach for him, then think better of it.

“I’m sorry,” Fifer says softly. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

John doesn’t reply.

“None of us were,” George adds. “It was Nicholas’s order. Fifer and I only found out by accident.”

John still doesn’t reply. He just stands there, staring unseeing at the floor in front of him. An interminable silence passes, and I wonder for a moment if he’s just going to walk away. Leave the room and let me bleed to death.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Fifer says. “But she’s not like the others. She saved my life tonight.” She quickly fills them in about our run-in with the guards. “If she hadn’t been there, they would have taken me in. Or killed me. Or worse.”

I stare at her, shocked by her words, by her defense of me.

“And she knows where the tablet is,” Fifer continues.

“She does?” Humbert and George say at once.

George steps up beside me. “Where is it?”

“It’s—ah.” A bolt of pain shoots through me, making me gasp. “It’s at Blackwell’s.”

“What?” Humbert looks stunned. “How is that possible?”

I open my mouth again, groan in pain again.

“She can tell you about it later,” Fifer says. “But she can’t if she’s dead.” She looks at John. But he’s looking at me now, his jaw clenched, a flush of anger coloring his cheeks. Eyes so dark they’re almost black.

“Hand me the needle and thread.”

George lets out a small sigh of relief.

Bridget steps beside John, looking apologetic. “I tried to thread it myself but my hands were shaking too hard. I don’t take to the sight of blood too well.” She presses the needle and thread into his hand, then quickly moves away from the table, as if I’m going to jump off it and attack her.

John threads the needle without hesitation, as if he’s done it a thousand times, pulling it through and tying the ends together in a tight knot. I see the slightest tremor in his hands. If I hadn’t already seen how steady they can be, I might not have noticed. Without a word, he picks up the bottle of spirits again and offers it to me.

I take two huge swallows. The sharp, strong liquid burns my mouth and throat. I shudder as it hits my empty, roiling stomach.

John holds the needle up, a long length of thread trailing behind it. Green. The same shade as the knight in his tomb.

I close my eyes just as the sharp needle penetrates my flesh.