By the morning, her fever seemed to have faded slightly. The ache in her limbs was bone-deep, but the burning, delirious fog had faded to a thin, miserable ache. She could almost think again, which made things worse. In the long, dull gray before dawn, she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying not to move, trying not to remember the dream with the man who called himself King.

  The memory of that world, the garden of skulls, the arrogance of the stranger on his throne… They all echoed in her mind.

  If you want to live, kill the boy. Kill Loric.

  The words had seemed ridiculous, impossible. Less a command than a curse, or maybe a joke at her expense. She barely had the strength to breathe, much less the hatred or power to murder anyone.

  Not when she couldn’t even lift her arms. She shifted slightly, feeling the rough chafe of rope against her skin, the pulsing numbness in her hands and forearms. It was as if her body ended at the elbows. Her arms felt like foreign things, useless, heavy, already half-dead. She could wiggle her fingers, barely, but it was like moving someone else’s hand.

  When morning finally asserted itself, it did so in a rude, golden blaze that turned the dust in the air to floating sparks. When Loric woke, he stretched like a satisfied animal, his joints popping, mouth opening in a yawn that was almost a song. He beamed down at her, his boyish delight so radiant that for a split second Magnolia might have believed him harmless if she’d never felt the bruising strength in his hands.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” he cooed, voice syrupy with affection. “You survived the night, see? I told you you’d start to feel better.”

  He rolled over, pressing his lips to her forehead. His touch lingered, gentle at first, then firm, his thumb tracing a slow line down her cheek, over her chin, pausing at the gag still looped around her head.

  “Let’s get this off, shall we? I want to see your pretty mouth.” His words crawled over her skin, sticky and unwelcome.

  He loosened the gag, drawing it down carefully. The fabric left a burning stripe where it had pressed into the corners of her mouth. She gulped in air, sore and parched, and tried to turn her head away, but Loric caught her chin between his fingers, turning her face toward him.

  “What’s wrong? Shy?” Delight laced every syllable. “No need! My parents and my darling siblings have long since scampered off to their business. The estate’s ours today. Well—” he flashed a grin that curled at the edges—“ours and the servants’, but they know better than to interrupt.”

  He leaned closer, breath warm with mint and something spiced, tilting her face for a kiss meant to seal this mockery of tenderness. Sunlight framed him like a halo, the noise of the world shrank until there was nothing outside the thump of her heart and the rasp of rope fibers protesting each tiny struggle.

  If you want to live. Kill Loric.

  The refrain clanged against the inside of her skull, louder than his voice, brighter than the light. Panic rode her pulse. Her eyes screwed shut.

  Someone. Please. The plea never reached her tongue. Instead it was screamed inward. Save me.

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  Silence answered, then, like the scrape of steel on stone, a presence flickered at the edge of thought.

  Fine, it said, Just this once, I will lend you a hand.

  Her body left her.

  Weight shifted without permission. Hips squared. Shoulders rolled. Rope that had chewed her skin for hours went slack with a dry pop. She heard it before she understood it, as if the sound belonged to another room.

  Wait—

  No time. Her fingers were already in Loric’s collar. The fabric bunched under her grip. His mouth was halfway to a smile when his feet left the floor.

  “Wha—”

  The syllable never finished. Her arms heaved. It felt effortless, obscene. One instant he weighed everything, and the next, he weighed nothing at all. His feet left the floor with a startled kick. His eyes went huge and bright, two pale coins catching the morning sun.

  He arced. The wall took him like paper. Plaster burst. Daylight rushed in and carried him out to the courtyard. He hit stone hard enough to tumble pottery and scare a flock of birds into the sky. Servants screamed. A tray rang on the flagstones and kept ringing.

  Magnolia stood in the torn room with rope frills around her wrists and her hands still curled as if his collar were there. Air burned in her throat. Her skin buzzed. The strength wasn’t hers, and it was. Both truths sat side by side and made her dizzy.

  Her world shifted again.

  One breath she stood in broken plaster and screaming servants. The next, she was back in the garden. Again.

  Magnolia's knees threatened to give. Her hands were still shaking, still shaped around Loric's collar even though he was gone, thrown, by her, through a wall like he weighed nothing at all.

  Except it hadn't been her. Not really.

  "Well, well."

  The voice came from in front of her, the boy that she saw in her dream was there again, ten paces ahead, as if he'd decided to take charge. Dark hair fell past his shoulders in ink-black sheets. He stood with the kind of perfect, lazy posture that made everyone else look like they were trying too hard.

  He flexed his fingers slowly, methodically—one hand and then the other—rolling his wrists, testing the joints. Like someone shaking off a long sleep.

  "Hmm." The sound rolled out low, pleased, predatory. His mouth curved, though it was not quite a smile. Instead it was something sharper, more dangerous. "So that's what you are."

  Magnolia's throat tightened. "What—what did you—"

  "Molecular manipulation." He said it like he was tasting wine, still flexing his fingers, watching them with a jeweler's focus. "Freedom of form at the cellular level. Crude, for now. Untrained. But the potential..."

  He clenched his fist once, hard. "Interesting. Very interesting.” He seemed to be speaking to himself rather than anyone else.

  Her pulse hammered. "You—you were controlling me. You used me—"

  "You begged me," he corrected, his tone amused, almost bored. "And I was kind enough to answer." He examined his nails as if the conversation barely held his interest. "You should be grateful. That pathetic little worm was going to break you."

  He stepped forward. Shadows seemed to pool at his feet.

  “Now then.”

  His eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he flexed his fingers, knuckles popping in the quiet. “Let’s finish what we started. That insect tossed you around like a toy… I think it’s time he learned what happens when you put your hands on something that belongs to me.”

  He smirked and took another step forward.

  “Step aside, little girl. And etch the feeling of your sorcery into your very cells… don’t you dare forget it.”