Watching my crewmates act as if we had to wrap up all unfinished business now, even I started to doubt whether I’d survive our last score. If I didn’t – if I died – what responsibilities did I have? What would I regret most?

The orphans would be fine – Ash and Faith had seen to that – and I could entrust Sleipnir to the Insect Kids, who loved him as much as I did, so I had no worries there.

Mylera would be annoyed at having to find a new fencing instructor on short notice, but any number of Red Sashes could step into my role. I did jot down a quick note for her that said, “Dear Mylera, It’s been my honor to know you and to work for you” and left it on my bed in the orphanage. The children would deliver it if necessary.

Who else did I care about?

My family.

I hadn’t contacted them in nearly three years, because up until now, I’d always envisioned a hazy future in which I returned home in triumph, or at least not in disgrace, and made amends in person.

What was the last thing I’d said to my parents? I couldn’t for the life of me remember, only that I’d been antsy and disagreeable on the night of the banquet as I steeled myself to run away with Grandfather. I did recall snapping, “It’s fine! Just leave it!” at my nurse when she fussed over my hair, and I remembered her hurt, pointed, “Forgive me, my lady” as she stepped back.

If Sigmund hadn’t left early so he could enter the great hall three steps behind the Patriarch, he’d have given me a quelling look.

If Sigmund hadn’t left early, I wouldn’t have been in such a bad mood to start with.

Taking out my finest writing paper, I sat down at the railcar dining table to compose a letter. “Dear Mother and Father,” I began – and then didn’t know how to continue. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad daughter”? I couldn’t write that, no matter how true it was. “Everything I did was for a good cause”? I couldn’t write that either. Not only was it questionable, but they already knew that I believed it. Why waste their time?

Very slowly, I wrote, “Soon I will be going on a dangerous score and….” Here I broke off again. And what? “I might die”? That was already implied by the “dangerous” bit. “I might not return”? Well, they’d known that for the past three years, probably better than I did, because they actually knew how many and which assassins the Patriarch had sent after me. Plus they already knew from the Hadrakin’s message that I went on dangerous scores. I struck that entire line.

After an hour, all I had was a sheet of aggressively crossed-out phrases. The only ones I’d kept were “Dear Mother and Father,” an almost illegible “I’m sorry for all the grief I’ve caused you,” and an irredeemably mushy “I love you” that I’d started to scratch out too.

This wasn’t working. I needed help.

“I don’t know what to say to them,” I whined.

After staring at my “draft” for a long moment, Sigmund said, “Well, assuming that this could not possibly be misinterpreted, what would you want to say to them?”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. Hanging my head, I muttered, “Mostly just that I’m sorry I caused them so much sadness….”

“Well, you could start with that, and – ” He cut off, as if he didn’t trust his voice.

There was another long silence.

At last, he broke it with a gentle, “I don’t know that this has to be a long letter, Signy. You could explain why, but….”

“But I think they already know,” I finished softly.

“I’m certain Mother does. I think Father does too.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though I’d guessed as much – hoped as much – it was still good to hear it confirmed.

Meanwhile, Sigmund was still staring intently at the sheet of paper, trying to reconstruct what I’d written. “You could express hopes for the future,” he suggested.

“Like?” It came out more sharply than I’d intended.

“I don’t know, Signy.” My brother sounded frustrated and exhausted, as he had in the railcar that night when he confronted both me and his own inability to kill me. “I don’t know what your hopes for the future are.”

“Well, I’m sort of hoping that I survive this score!” I snapped. “But somehow I don’t think that’s going to make them feel any better!”

From the quality of his silence, he agreed.

“Um, may I?” I pointed at his writing case.

Without a word, he handed it to me, along with his favorite fountain pen. Then he vacated his desk chair and paced around his study.

Frowning, I sat down and wrote with my best penmanship:

Dear Mother and Father,

I am sorry for all the grief I have caused you. I hope that we will see each other again, either in U’Duasha or Doskvol. I’ve found some pretty good restaurants here.

Reading over my shoulder (so much for his pretense of giving me privacy), Sigmund choked out a laugh. I signed the message, “Your loving daughter, Signy,” and sealed it.

The letter to my nurse was much easier:

Dear Nanny,

I’m really really sorry. I love you. Please take care of Starlight.

Love,

Signy

As I sealed that one too, Sigmund returned to prop a hip against the desk and offer, “Do you want me to hold onto these for you and send them if you need me to?”

“Yeah.” I nodded slowly, wondering if I owed him a letter of apology too. Probably. Not that I would or, more to the point, could write one. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“But you’re going to send them yourself,” he said, as if by making it a statement instead of a question, he could make it true.

“You would, either way,” I pointed out, misunderstanding him on purpose. At his blink, I clarified, “By diplomatic pouch.”

“Oh, that. Well, yes. Yes. That is true.” He threw up his hands. “You know what I mean! Take care of yourself!”

“I’m not planning to not come back! It’s just that Ash keeps going on and on about how dangerous this will be, and preparing the children for what happens if we die and can’t take care of them!”

Somehow, blaming my crewmate calmed my brother down a little. “Well, it’s always good to have contingencies,” he conceded. “In case.”

“Yes.”

After that, there really wasn’t anything left for him to say except, “Good luck.”

I nodded and started to leave, but at the door, I whirled and flung my arms around him. He pulled me close and held on tightly.

“I promise to come back,” I mumbled into his chest, which was definitely why I sounded choked.

“I’ll hold you to that.” His voice sounded clogged too, but he stepped back and let me go.

Fittingly, my last farewell was to Bazso, my first friend in Doskvol, who’d somehow forgiven me for betraying him so badly and continued to love me anyway. The Anixis in me still couldn’t quite wrap my mind around that much mercy, although I hoped I’d have more time to try. I wanted to have more time to try.

Because I was a coward, I picked an evening when we hadn’t made plans together, half-hoping that he’d gone to a bar or the fighting pits so I could either try again later or just write a letter. By now I’d gotten pretty good at writing letters. But he was home, reading in his armchair with his feet propped up on that ridiculous whiskey crate ottoman that I’d never gotten around to replacing because I kept putting it off and putting it off until now I was out of time…. He looked so peaceful that I almost tiptoed back out, but he glimpsed me in the doorway and smiled. I smiled back, padded across the floor, and squeezed in next to him.

He murmured, “I was feeling nostalgic.”

In his lap was a book of Skovlander folklore that he hadn’t owned before, open to the tale of the girl who caught the stars in her skirt.

“I remember this one,” I said softly, tracing the illustration with one fingertip. “Mother used to tell it.”

“It’s a very pretty story,” he replied, closing the book and laying it aside.

“It is,” I agreed, trying to figure out how to broach the topic of farewells. “I really liked it. Um – ”

But he was following his own train of thought, and he interrupted me with a determined, “I think this is all going to work out.”

“I certainly like to think so,” I said absently, leaning against his shoulder.

Although I’d never told him all the details about the Ascendent and the Demon Princes, he’d sensed for a while now that my crew was building towards a monumental score, so maybe I should start there.

“Um. You know how we’ve been working on something very high stakes?” I had his full attention now – and found that I couldn’t meet his eyes. Glancing down, I muttered, “Um, so probably in the next few weeks, we’ll enter the endgame. I’ll probably be very busy.”

He’d long since chosen not to pry into my affairs, and this time was no different. “All right,” he said, after giving me a moment to see if I’d continue. “If there’s anything you need, let me know, and, uh, do what you need to do.”

I nodded, head still bowed. “I know.” Unbidden, my fingers twisted around one another.

“You definitely look like you want to say something more.”

“You know me too well.” It was supposed to sound coquettish, but it came out too flat to ease the mood. I hesitated again, then raised my head to look him in the face. “It’s – um, there’s a chance that things can go wrong. Very wrong.”

From the flicker in his eyes, I could tell that I’d alarmed him, but he reassured both of us, “Isha. There’s always a chance that things can go very wrong. But you’re very clever and very capable, and you have a very good crew. You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. I think so. I think so too,” I babbled, then finally choked out what I’d come here to say: “I guess, if it doesn’t go well…it’s been my honor to know you.”

He actually flinched. “Oh, Isha! Don’t think that way!”

“I wasn’t!” Regretting it already, I backtracked as fast as I could. “I’m not! I’m not! I’ll come back.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.”

And he pulled me close, just as Sigmund had.

The next morning, as soon as I arrived at the orphanage, Faith called Ash and me into the conference room. There, without any frivolous comments, she laid a note on the table. In Arilyn’s handwriting, it said:

I believe that Preceptor Dunvil is planning some kind of large and drastic ritual, possibly before the end of the week. If the Wardens are going to act, they need to move quickly.