I definitely fit in here.

I’d allowed Armand to order for us. Roasted chicken, duckling, corned beef. Jacket potatoes and rice and smelts and bread, mutton chops and meringue, potted shrimps.

We devoured it all. Then he ordered more.

“Cor, right away, luv,” said our server, completely smitten because she was plump and plain and he’d smiled at her, and even from across the table, I’d seen that it’d been blinding.

“You’re awfully cheerful,” I said, mashing up the last few grains of rice with the tines of my fork so they’d stick.

“Am I? I suppose I’m relieved, mostly. To be doing something. To be going at last.”

I understood that. There was a certain wretched tension to waiting. I’d felt it, too.

A different woman came by with fresh ales for us both, cold and topped with froth, and when Armand finished his first draw there was a line of foam tracing his upper lip. He wiped it away and looked at me and gave a much tamer version of the blinding smile, but it was still handsome and bright.

Thank you for saving her sons was Lottie’s message from her ghost.

Sons. Plural.

“Mandy,” I said slowly. “Are you still all that hungry?”

“I am, actually.”

“Did you not eat today?”

“No, I did.” He sat back and surveyed the table, picking up the last slice of bread and running it through the mutton juice. “Breakfast, at least. Some luncheon. But I had to clear out by noon if they were going to believe I was headed to London.”

That had been the story we’d agreed upon: I was to go away with Lady Clayworth to Tewkesbury, and Armand was to go alone to London, to rattle the cages of any important persons there who might have news of his brother. Both reasons might legitimately keep us away from Tranquility (and each other) for weeks. We didn’t know how long rescuing Aubrey might actually take, but we’d figured the bigger the cushion of time we gave ourselves, the better.

I watched him fold the bread in half and shove it into his mouth. “And do you feel … restless?”

He stopped chewing, looking back at me. Then he swallowed, and his next sentence came flat.

“What do you mean?”

“Like your skin doesn’t fit. Like it’s shrunken too small and you’re going to burst through.”

He said nothing. But oh, his eyes were so, so wild and blue.

“And your heart,” I went on, accusing. “It’s beating so fast now. Did you think I wouldn’t hear it?”

“It’s the same as ever, Eleanore. The same as it’s been since I met you.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t good. Not now. Not tonight.”

“Everything is fine.”

Anger was coming awake inside me, a small growing flame. “Are you going to lie to my face now, Armand Louis? Are you?”

His brows lowered. He leaned forward to reply, but right then the plain server returned, platters of food stacked up both arms all the way to her shoulders. She winked at Armand and began to sling the dishes to the wood. Someone at the table next to ours produced a noisy belch and a guffaw, and the server winked again before moving off.

“Everything will fall to pieces,” I said, biting off each word. “If the Turn comes to you now, while we’re on this journey, it will all fall to pieces.”

“You needn’t worry about me, Eleanore. I can handle myself.”

My voice began to rise. “I think we should wait until it happens. I think you’re very near to that edge, and it’s a bloody dangerous thing and we should wait.”

He pushed back his chair and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

“No. The food just—”

“To the window, Lora. That’s all.”

So I let him lead me across the pub, both of us angling through the crowded tables until we were next to the panes. He bent his head to mine.

“Look,” he said in my ear, and I didn’t even have to ask where.

The storm had broken apart. The clouds were swept into tufts, into somersaults, and the twilight sky beyond them glowed a pure, unmistakable amethyst.

And there, right there in the middle of the clearest patch of heaven, was a golden green star. The brightest star I’d ever seen.

Brighter than life, brighter than death. Brighter than comets or forgotten hopes or any of my futile dreams.

“He says we must go tonight,” Armand murmured, so near our shoulders touched and the heat of his face warmed mine. “I hear him as clear as I hear you, Lora. Clear as ever. He says it must be tonight.”

“Have you—” I had to fight against the knot in my throat. “Have you always heard him?”

“Yes.”

“You blighter.” I lowered my gaze and stared at the girl in the glass: white as a sheet, rain-bedraggled hair, a face etched with betrayal, hurt, betrayal.

The boy in the glass beside her answered the question I hadn’t asked. “I don’t know why it’s me who hears and not you. It should be you. Obviously, you. But this is how it is. And Jesse says tonight.”

He hesitated, then turned his head so his lips grazed my cheek, a kiss and not, because it was warm and soft and over before it began, and he was walking back to our table without me.

I threw a last look up at the star (green! gold! green! gold!), then went back as well.

I sat down, my hands on my thighs. Armand regarded me through half-lidded eyes and didn’t speak another word.

“Keep eating,” I said, reaching for the nearest platter.


This is what I knew about the first Turn of a drákon:

It was meant to hurt.

Not a little pain, either. A great, great deal.

Nearly everything Armand and I had discovered about our species had come from a series of letters authored by one of his ancestresses, letters that his mother had hidden before her death and that he had recently found.

In them, a woman named Rue had warned her great-great-granddaughter about the alarming facts of her impending first Turn. How it would feel as if the flesh was being flayed from her bones, her body ripped asunder, pure torture. How the agony would consume her, unbearable, and of how she wouldn’t be able to even scream because by then she’d be smoke or she’d be nothing at all.

If you didn’t manage to control the pain and rule the Turn, you’d simply float away as vapor. Dispersed. Forever.

The pain of my first Turn had come to me more slyly than Rue had implied, but that didn’t mean it would be the same for Armand.

Reckless, audacious Armand.

But he was young and male and strong. I told myself that over and over the next few days.

He was strong.

I hoped it would be enough. Because despite whatever the ghost of Reginald’s wife might have said, I didn’t believe for a moment I was going to be able to rescue both of her sons.


We registered at Bournemouth’s Sea Vista Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon, an alias so ludicrous I rolled my eyes when Armand announced us to the innkeeper. But it was too late, he’d said it, so I’d smiled and turned my eye roll into a flitting of my lashes because the innkeeper was beaming at me and congratulating us on our recent nuptials, and promising us a suite that surely would inspire our honeymoon to grand matrimonial heights.

Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening. I’d perked up when he’d mentioned sending along some champagne, until I realized I wasn’t going to be able to drink any since I’d be flying most of the night.

The “suite” was boxy and charmless but did boast a balcony with a fine view of the beach and breaking surf. We waited until the champagne arrived—fat strawberries, too—and then Armand was pressing a wad of notes into the innkeeper’s hand and spinning a short, slippery tale about how not to expect to see much of us (wink!) and we’d not require maid service or anyone’s attention for days to come, thank you very much.

I swear to God, money makes everything so much easier. When you can toss it around as easily as false compliments or blown kisses, the world becomes a wide-open place.

I sighed as the door quickly closed.

“That was embarrassing.”

“It’s fine. We’re married.” Armand began to pull at his tie. “Anyway, if you think it’s bad now, just wait until the next time he sees us.”

I flopped into a chair. “Lovely.”

“Let’s have a drink.”

“I can’t. I need my head clear.”

“One drink. One toast. That’s all.” He worked at the cork. “If someone does pop in while we’re gone, the glasses should be used and the bottle tapped. And the bed, needless to say—”

I cut him off. “Right.”

He poured the champagne, brought me a flute, and pulled me back to my feet.

“To Mrs. Pendragon, light of my life.”

“That’s enough. If we’re going to do this, give a real toast.”

“To Eleanore,” he said, instantly serious. “Light of my life.”

Would there ever come a time when I’d be able to hold his eyes when he looked at me like that? When his gaze burned with that deep blue fire, with that intensity that seemed to strip me to the core?

I didn’t know. It wasn’t tonight.

I stared at the bubbles marching in lines up the sides of my glass. “To success,” I said, and tipped the rim of my flute to his.

He didn’t echo me. I suppose he’d already given the salute he’d meant most.


The Sea Vista Inn apparently had any number of romantic couples staying on. They lingered upon the beach until long after midnight, promenading and holding hands, ladies giggling, men stealing kisses. There was a boardwalk leading to a pier lined with glassed candles, a gently glowing path of them stretching out over the sea.

But eventually the couples were fewer and fewer, until there were none, and the candles all guttered out. Then it was just Armand and me and the deep purple night.