Elias didn't ask me what had happened, as I had assumed he would. I'd even braced myself for the bombardment of questions as soon as the coach had rattled away from the school with the two of us in it, but even then he'd been silent. I began to fear he had heard enough from Larelle and no longer trusted me to report. I couldn't blame him. I had been evasive and silent up until this point.

But if he thought I was a murderer, I needed to change his mind. I was itchy inside, desperate to scream at him that I was again being framed for something I had not done.

I was unable to speak, goaded into silence by the horror within me. If I did, I'd have to confront the truth again: that an innocent girl had died, and she would not come back.

The house was in sight of my window when Elias finally spoke. "Who was that boy?"

I bristled, no longer numb but hot with anger. "That's all you have to say to me?" It was stupid of me to expect anything more, even after I thought I'd seen compassion in his cold face when he'd come to get me. Of course I had though. At school, I was his daughter. In this coach, in that house, I was his ward, but not one he truly cared for. It was circumstantial, that was all, and momentarily I'd forgotten.

Elias blinked. "Was he with you when it happened?"

"Does it matter?" I snapped back, some of my steel returning to my voice.

It must have been sharp enough to cut him and bring back his senses because he paused. In that time, we came to a stop, the horses nickering impatiently outside. Elias sank back in his seat. "I suppose not," he muttered, but there was something in his face that told me it did. A hazy sort of recognition I didn't like.

I scoffed. "I always knew you were heartless, but this is just pitiful. I'm not your real daughter. I have more on my mind than—than being a flirt! And even if I was a flirt, it's none of your business!"

The moment the driver opened the door, I flung myself out while Elias scrambled after me. I threw his cloak on the dirty pathway for good measure. Unfortunately, it snagged on the toe of my boot, and I nearly ate dirt for the second time that day. With much stumbling, I saved myself, which only pissed me off more. I stormed inside, ignoring Elias calling out for me.

Inside, the house was dull and dark, its lanterns unlit. Yvonne was nowhere to be found, but I didn't see the maids about either. It was well enough with me. Except that I was trapped alone with Elias, worst of all.

"Celestine, wait," he called again, and I became aware that he had asked this of me many times since I'd stalked off.

I stopped at the foot of the stairs and swung to face him, absolutely seething. "What?" I snapped. "What could you possibly need me to hear right now? In case you haven't heard, I've been witness to a murder, harassed, questioned, and potentially framed, so I'm not in the mood to play house with you. Why don't you just run on back to the king and report that not only am I a thief and a murderer but also a girl who spends her time with boys. What a crime. I'm sure I'll be executed for that, too."

His jaw twitched and he squared his shoulders like he had something quite firm to say. For some reason, however, he let out a breath and the tension left him. Then he was a scruffy and pathetic version of himself. The one who had been kind to me just a few minutes earlier. "That's not what I meant—and I don't believe you killed that girl."

As quickly as it had come, my anger began to fade. It was always like that these days, eager to leave me again. "Then what did you mean?"

He started to speak, but seemed to think better of it. A furrow darkened his brow, and he closed his mouth quietly again before cursing to himself and turning elsewhere. "Just remember what you came here for."

"Are you suggesting I should suspect Bren?"

"I don't know him, Celestine. I was trying to understand the situation. That's all." He started to leave, turning a bit too quickly. Then he hesitated in the doorway of the little sitting room and looked back at me. "Get some rest while you can." Without waiting for me to reply, he left.

I held still a bit longer before I slowly made my way up the stairs, more puzzled than ever. I had learned that, with Elias, what he didn't say was often more valuable than what he did. The more I replayed his words in my mind, the more I got that sinking feeling that he so often left me with.

Try as I might, I was unable to find rest. The first thing I did when I reached my room was remove my muddy mess of a uniform and scrub the horrors of the day from my skin. I was never free of the sight of Anya's glassy eyes and my bell in her hands. It was forever seared into my memories.

Once dressed again, I lay on my bed and stared emptily up at the ceiling. After some time, I lost focus in my vision and began to imagine I saw patterns in the paneling above me. Sometimes, vaguely, I saw the sigil of the crow and the sickle, and my skin itched terribly. As a kid, it haunted me with the shadow of my father, reminding me that it would always cover me. Now, it was something far worse—a brand on everything I had ever touched and would ever touch, and it was no longer Father's.

It made sense that the distinguishing mark of the most qualified students was the sigil of Aetheria. It was as if by collecting these, the students were already inducted into the court. Naturally, it would imbue pride in the wearer and envy in those under them, but what was the purpose of painting an obvious target on the backs of students?

No wonder she became a target. If Bren was to be believed, Anya wasn't the first student, and she certainly wouldn't be the last.

I rolled over, picking at a knot in my comforter. Part of me wanted to assume she had been killed by someone desperate to get into the court by any means—someone likely to be the mole my uncle feared—but I couldn't slot the pieces together. There was, of course, the obvious: that she had been holding my bell, that I had been driven from the crowd and left alone at the exact moment she died, and that her murder coincided with my admittedly terrible attempt at forcing my ghost-target into the open.

No matter how I examined it, I always found myself circling back to Vesper. It was him who threatened me and, ultimately, he was the reason I had fled. More pressing was the fact that Bren had said he hadn't seen him at the assembly with me.

There was a possibility that Bren could have been lying, but to what end? He didn't seem like the type to lie just to mess with me, and I couldn't imagine him working with Vesper either.

Maybe it isn't that you can't imagine it but that you just don't want to.

My fingers began to curl hard against my fist. I rolled over again, letting out a sharp breath in disbelief at the annoying voice in my head. How traitorous of her to think she knew anything about me at all.

Facing this way, however, I was forced to confront the sight of my messy room. My uniform from today was still lying strewn about the floor where I'd left it. The silver chain of my earring poked out of the pants pocket. Similarly, I'd left the trinkets that normally hung from the flower at my waist in a little heap by my mud-stained vest. There, too, was the flower itself, still a striking red.

I shuddered. Pulling my magic to myself, I wove a thin veil of lies around it and brought back the old blue. It felt safer somehow, less sinister. For good measure, I put my back to the mess again and blocked it from my mind.

As I lay still, my exhaustion began to catch up to me. I was on the edge of sleep, my eyes drooping and my strength leaving me, when I realized the blue wasn't much better either. Anya's vest, bloodstained though it was, had been blue, too.

Eventually, I was roused from sleep and awoke to darkness. Yvonne was there at my bedside. A blanket covered me, but I hadn't crawled beneath one. It was difficult to see her face, but her voice wavered like she was crying, and she apologized for what I had witnessed that day as if it had been any fault of hers. In spite of myself, I did huddle in her arms simply because it felt good to be held again, and I could almost believe the hole within me was filled once more. In the dark, I let myself think she was Mother just long enough to delude me into some semblance of comfort. It was better than being a shell of Celestine.

Later that night, after my tears had dried and we had all had our supper, Elias fell again into his routine, asking me if I had anything to report on the incident. I thought about it longer than I usually did, weighing what I had seen and what I didn't wish to share against the potential consequences.

I told him nothing but what Bren had already shared—that the pins represented status at the academy, and that those with three (the top ten) often turned up dead. He mulled over my words in silence as the firelight danced across his face. The parlor was always much smaller and stuffier when the hearth was lit, but he liked it that way.

Then he stood and thanked me. He fetched his cloak from a hook by the door, shoved his boots on, and walked out into the night, leaving me and Yvonne alone. In his absence, his tea grew cold.

I waited long by the window, watching the moon rise. Elias did not return that night. I fell asleep thinking he would.