sank to my knees and sobbed. The last time I’d cried like this, my mother had been blowing away on the reckoning wind. I’d vowed I’d never care about anyone enough to experience this kind of pain again. But here I was, shattering. I well and truly broke when I saw what rested on the mantlepiece above the fire. Nimerelle. The tarnished black sword sat amidst melted puddles of wax and the jars full of paintbrushes, sunlight flaring in a starburst at its tip. He hadn’t taken it with him. I knew why. If Malcolm killed Fisher and laid his hand on a god sword, there was a chance he might find a way
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