Wind whipped Jane's shoulders as she stared at the space where Nikolay had been. Slowly, she sank to the shingles, trying to avoid the pile of sick.

The roof was a tower spire which sloped at a sickening angle, leaving barely enough space for Jane and the vomit. Beyond the roof's edge, she saw the rest of the castle and its garden, an enclave of trees and a large well. The people who passed beneath her looked tiny, like toy soldiers.

She tried to catch their attention by shouting, but no one looked up. Perhaps she was too far away, or perhaps Nikolay had done magic to ensure they couldn't hear her.

She shivered against the wind. The longer she stared down the rooftop, the dizzier she felt. Her heart beat wildly with panic.

Phillip, she thought. What would Phillip do?

But she was pretty sure her older brother had never found himself on top of a roof with open air at all sides and a terrible, hundred-foot drop waiting to swallow him.

Surely, Nikolay wouldn't leave her to die up here. Would he?

Perhaps he found some other way to break his Oath, said a cold, insidious voice in her head. Maybe he only sees you as a nuisance and doesn't care if you live or die. It would be just like him to find an alternate solution, probably some dark, dangerous magic, and hide it from the tsar.

The wind beat against her, sending goosebumps up her arms. Her hands on the shingles were numb.

Warmth. She could do that much, at least. Trying not to think about falling, she pressed her back to the shingles, cupped her hands in front of her, and closed her eyes. It was not the meditative pose Casimir favored, but it worked. When she opened her eyes, magefire bathed her hands in a warm, steady glow.

She hugged it to her, trying to shield it from the wind. Her breathing eased.

If her brother Phillip had ever found himself in such a situation, he wouldn't have panicked. He would have thought of some way to get down on his own, in his cool, logical way. Perhaps he would have made a rope out of his tunic—no, that wouldn't work, there would be barely enough cloth to make it to the edge of the roof—

Magic, then. She had read about levitation the previous day, but there was no way she could levitate herself off the tower without training. Alternatively, she could try to burn a hole in the roof with magefire, but that seemed distinctly... unwise.

As she reached into her pockets, searching for something—anything—that could help her, her fingers brushed something papery.

Casimir's bird! She pulled it out and held it aloft; it fluttered in the wind. What had Casimir said? "If ever you are in need of my aid, unfold the bird, and I will find you."

She definitely needed help now. She had only started learning magic yesterday, for heaven's sake! It was ridiculous for Nikolay to abandon her on a tower and call it a lesson.

She put out her magefire, preparing to unfold the bird.

I bet the gods frown on getting outside help.

She stilled.

It was a fair bet Casimir wouldn't be able to help with her Godstests. She didn't know how the gods judged the tests, but she doubted they'd be happy if she asked for outside help.

Slowly, Jane returned the paper bird to her pocket.

As she stared off the edge of the tower, she realized she knew where she was. Her view was the same as the view from Nikolay's solar. The angle of his tower's sloped ceiling corresponded perfectly to the incline of the roof she clung to now.

She was just above Nikolay's workroom.

Did that help her?

Maybe. Nikolay's workroom was full of tall, narrow windows, which he often left open for the azdaja. If she could climb down to one of those windows... Perhaps she could use magic to support herself as she was climbing, to make it safer...

She closed her eyes and dug deep inside herself for the familiar core of energy. After some thought, she decided the best thing was to imagine her magic as a guiding hand supporting some of her weight.

She dug her feet and fingers into the shingles and descended the roof, one agonizing inch at a time. Her shoes lacked traction, so she kicked them off. They skittered over the coarse shingles, past the gutter, and out of sight. She desperately hoped no one was underneath.

It was a struggle to maintain her magic and climb at the same time. Once, despite her efforts, she lost her grip on the slippery shingles and slid down the roof. Her hands clawed uselessly at the shingles. In a panic, she threw out as much magic as she could to stop her fall.

Her slide halted.

She would have laughed wildly if her nerves weren't still singing with fear.

At the bottom of the roof, she stopped, balancing her feet on the cold stone gutter that jutted over the tower wall. Now began the more difficult task of descending from the edge of the roof to the window.

She dipped her head down to study her target. The window was two feet below her, and the gutter overhung the wall by a good six inches. Just looking at the distance and the precipitous drop sent her stomach roiling in panic.

I should just give up now, she thought. I should call Casimir up here. It's not worth dying.

Her hands shook. Phillip wouldn't have given up. Jane swallowed. He would have found a way off the rooftop by himself.

Somehow, miraculously, the magic she had called up earlier was still present. If she hung from the gutter, she could swing through the window – she could use her magic to propel herself forward –

She lowered her legs over the edge of the rooftop and curled them inward. Her feet met stone. She shoved her toes into the gaps in the masonry and lowered herself further, until she hung from the gutter by her hands. Arms trembling with fatigue, she looked down.

The window beneath her was closed.

She kicked the window, over and over. It was no use. Her toes only bounced off the thick glass.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her arms shook with the effort of clinging to the gutter. The faint threads of magic from her earlier spell still supported her weight somewhat – but for how long?

Fire, she thought frantically. Melt the glass away with fire – you can do this –

She tried calling up fire, using the now-familiar sequence of steps (reach inside, pull out a thread, make it be burning and hot). She sent the fire rushing toward the window. And then—

And then, she lost her grip.

She had never been good at multi-tasking. Trying to focus on the fire magic had drawn away her focus from the magic that supported her weight.

She fell.

Her hands scraped the wall of the tower. Skin tore off her fingers as she scrabbled for purchase –

And still, she fell.

Turrets and walls of the castle flashed in front of her—or at least, she thought they were turrets and walls—the parts flew by too fast to register as more than scant bursts of color—

She was going to die, she was actually going to die, her parents were never going to know what happened to her because her life was about to extinguish, not even in a blaze of glory but in a sick pool of blood and cracked bones—because that was what happened when she tried to be Phillip—she would never quite be good enough—she always, always failed—

Her body slowed, as though caught by a large, invisible hand.

Her bruised feet came to rest on the soft, green grass of the castle gardens. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she fell to her knees. Dazed, unsure if she was actually alive or just dreaming, she sucked in great lungfuls of air.

A low chuckle made her turn.

"Not quite as pathetic as I expected," said Nikolay. "I didn't think you would even leave the roof. But you still failed in what you set out to do. If this had been an actual Godstest, you would have died."

She stared at her bleeding hands. The skin on her right palm was almost gone; shreds of it hung from her hand like a parody of lace. Blood welled from a gash on her left hand. Every inch of her body shook, and there was a ringing in her ears. In that moment, she hated Nikolay so much she wanted to hurt him.

He laughed. "You were never actually in danger."

Adrenaline pounded through her veins, hot and wrathful. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. She could still feel herself falling, could still taste how near she'd come to death.

"I don't need to be half-petrified to learn magic." Her voice shook. "I was doing just fine studying with Casimir. If you ever do that again, I'll never give you what you need, so think about that next time you consider leaving me on a rooftop!"

She turned so he would not see her cry and found herself face-to-face with Prince Kir and Commander Olesya.

"We saw you from the practice courts –" Kir's eyes were concerned.

"You should actually hit him, you know," Olesya said, smirking.

Jane sucked in a breath, shook her head, and pushed past them. Cradling her bleeding hands, she stumbled toward the castle door. The cobbles dug into her bare toes. Blood from the scrapes on her feet mingled with the blood from her hands to scatter red splashes on the ground.

Thankfully, no one followed her.

By the time she arrived at the healing quarters, her tunic was a mess of red. The adrenaline had worn off, and every inch of her smarted and throbbed. She knocked on the large oak door. It opened.

Casimir was not alone. The tsar sat on one of the beds. He seemed much different without his imperial garb – pale and gray-faced, so thin the wind might snap him. He looked up as Jane entered, and his eyes widened as they landed on her bleeding hands.

"Your son –" she began.

But she broke off because she did not know how to finish that sentence. "Your son has some serious issues" did not begin to cover it. "Your son is a sociopath who enjoys abandoning students on rooftops and watching them suffer" seemed closer to the truth, although the tsar looked so ill, Jane wondered if the words would be like punching him in the gut.

The tsar stood. "I shall leave you two, I think." His voice was a rasp. "Thank you, Casimir."

He shuffled from the room.

"How sick is he?" Jane asked, when the tsar was out of earshot.

"Quite ill. The newest treatment is starting to take hold, and it should – gods willing – keep his illness at bay for several months. But it is only a matter of time before he deteriorates again."

Shadows pooled in the spaces beneath Casimir's eyes. Jane glanced at him, worried. "Isn't there anything else –"

"Some of the Runic Healers are studying the old texts for more spells we could try. But we're at the limits of what is known, and each new, barely-tested spell poses some degree of risk. Eventually, we will have to weigh the risks of new treatments versus their benefits. The fact that the tsar also wishes to stay alive for his son... complicates matters." Casimir fixed Jane with a stern look. "I tell you this in confidence, as your teacher, Jane. Most of the kingdom doesn't know how ill he is."

"I won't repeat – Ouch!" Jane winced as Casimir's magic darted over her bleeding hands. "What are you doing?"

"Just a simple diagnostic." His lips twitched. "Try to avoid rooftops in the future, if you can. They often prove deleterious for one's health."

"So you knew –"

"One of my duties is to ensure your safety. I knew, but I also knew Nikolay had it under control." But Casimir looked disapproving.

Jane could not bring herself to be mad. Perhaps Casimir did not dare oppose Nikolay too much. As the tsar's adopted son, Nikolay surely had more political power than Casimir. Although, by the sound of things, Casimir was helping to keep both of them alive, which had to count for something.

Casimir had a servant bring dinner to the healing rooms for both of them. It was a relief after her earlier tower descent to relax, to meditate, to practice her magic and try to forget what just happened. After Casimir healed her worst injuries and taught her how to heal the more minor cuts, Jane returned to her room. She dug out the books about the gods from the bottom of her stack and began to read. She had just finished the chapter introducing the three gods and goddesses of Somita when a knock sounded on the door.

Jane closed her book with a snap, padded to the door, and opened it.

It was Nikolay.

She fought the urge to slam the door in his face. "Why are you here?" she asked coolly. "Come to teleport me onto another tower?"

"Twice in one day? That would be... unimaginative on my part, don't you think?" He waved a hand, and the shoes she had abandoned earlier materialized on the floor. "My father has informed me that it was wrong of me to leave you on the tower roof. He said I should apologize and beg forgiveness."

Jane waited, stone-faced. So did Nikolay. They stared at each other in silence, until Nikolay said impatiently, "Well?"

"Well what? That wasn't even an apology. All you said just now was that your dad ordered you to apologize. What do you expect me to say?"

He raised his eyes skyward. "I wouldn't have allowed you to die," he said – as if that was supposed to make it all right. "There were safety spells all around the tower."

"That isn't the point. I thought I was going to die."

"Good." He smiled at her horrified stare. "You are used to thinking that if anything goes the least bit wrong, someone will step in and save you before you get hurt. That is dangerous." He rubbed his forearm. "Someday soon, you might find yourself in a situation where no one can save you except yourself. Perhaps I should have let you fall a bit harder, to drive home the lesson better."

Annoyance simmered beneath her skin. I didn't use Casimir's paper bird, she thought. I could have used it today... but I didn't.

She sucked in a breath and turned away, striding toward the bookshelf where lay the stack of books she had borrowed from the library. She replaced her book on top of the stack and lined the books up neatly, organizing her thoughts like she was organizing her books – carefully, meticulously. Perhaps it was a bad idea to turn her back on Nikolay, but he did not follow her, though she knew he watched her from across the room.

"It disgusts you, doesn't it?" she said finally, not looking at him. "You're relying on me, a pathetic, ignorant newcomer to Mir, for your continued existence. Your fate is in my hands, and you think I'm some pampered teenager from Earth, without an ounce of common sense. And you're..."

Terrified.

She glanced at Nikolay. His face was stony. That was confirmation enough. For the first time since they met, Jane felt something like triumph, as though she had just uncovered a dark secret he didn't want her to know.

"If it's any reassurance, I've never once failed a test in my life." She folded her arms. "I have no intention of failing my Godstests and being trapped in this world. I don't care how exhausted I am, how much I have to practice and fight and get beat up and do things I'd rather not. I won't fail my Godstests. I'm going to practice, and I'm going to win."

An odd expression glimmered in Nikolay's eyes. He still looked annoyed, but there was something else to his gaze, maybe a flicker – just a flicker – of what? Uncertainty? Apprehension?

She was not deluded enough to think she had earned his respect. She doubted he respected anyone, not even the tsar.

"Perhaps I have misjudged you," he said finally. "I apologize."

His insincere tone made her wary, but there was no graceful way to call him out on it. So she nodded and said, "Thank you."

It was an uneasy truce at best, and Jane wondered how long it would last.

-v-

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, don't forget to hit the little star! A huge, huge thanks to my boyfriend for proofreading, and to SheWhoLovesPineapple, DawnAshes, DomiSotto, CelticWhovian, FantasyUnlocked and xXKrisLynnXx for your super-helpful feedback!

Is there a tradition for the avtorka to marry the king or the next prince in the line of succession?

It's not exactly tradition... But there is a history of avtorkas deciding to stay on Mir for various reasons, including love. Also in YA fantasy, everyone always expects the crown prince and the main character to be an item, so I guess I wanted to poke fun at that a little :)

Still engaged? Characterizations still believable?