A witch smuggled Sartore into the woods. An arm was wrapped tight around his ribs, and he could feel bony fingers prodding at his throat. The witch fled quickly, ignorant of the forest’s hands reaching for the boy and covering his face in red cuts.

The sound of the Sacredate’s men faded—then disappeared. Maisero stopped then, slumping to the ground and crawling to the nearest tree trunk, resting his back against it. Sartore, meanwhile, tumbled to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there until his limbs felt more like his own and less like clay.

“Are you okay?” Sartore eventually asked.

“Do I look okay to you?” Maisero replied.

“Not really.”

“There you have it.”

Sartore rested his head back against the dirt with a slight frown. Maisero thought this the perfect opportunity to speak again.

“For such a sterling child you’re very ungracious.”

Sartore picked his head back up and pressed both hands against the forest floor. “About what?”

Maisero slouched forward, drawing closer. “How many times does everyone have to repeat this to you? There is an army after you. You remember them, from a few minutes ago? Killed the guard sitting next to us? Killed Anastasia? Killed everyone, I’m pretty sure, except for us two. And that’s only because I carried you out of there. And there’s no telling how much time that bought us. They’re probably coming after us now.”

“Really?”

“Obviously. You think a short trip into the woods is going to stop them? We’re going to have to run again, and soon.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Deeper, away from them. Further that way,” Maisero concluded, with a backwards jerk of his head.

“Then let’s go.”

“I can’t, I don’t have anything left in me.”

“But they’re coming for us!” Sartore jumped up. The boy’s breathing was heavy, too.

“They’re after you, not me. You need to get away, and fast.”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll catch up soon. Don’t worry. Go until you find other people, rest there and keep going. I’ll find you in no time.”

Sartore stopped, then smiled, waiting for Maisero to smile back. Maisero obliged. Sartore took a few steps, said something that sounded like see you soon, and ran off.

And Maisero was free. For a few minutes, all he could pay attention to was his breath, thick and warm in his throat, and the light falling to his feet from the trees. No noise came from the valley. It seemed he had finally been left alone.

As he collected himself, his thoughts turned haphazardly to the old library. He could envision the high walls of stone, the great panes of glass near the ceiling that unfurled curtains of light inside; the dark wooden shelves against the walls and standing back-to-back, each holding books with faded bindings, the letters rubbed off of their spines. He imagined himself sitting at the end of a long table there with a large volume opened in front of him, time winding noiselessly past him. In an hour or so, he thought, he’d head there.