“Don’t worry, dear,” Elim says. “We have a bed available for you right here. Now just breathe, slow and steady, and the pain will ease again.”

Eloise doubles over and moans. Her pale skin glistens with sweat. Elim rubs her back in small, soothing motions, and then deftly transfers her patient into the bed beside mine.

The room seems infinitely smaller than it did a second ago. The air is harder to breathe. And the part of my soul reserved for the guilt I feel over Melkin’s death burns as Eloise turns her head and stares at me.

Can she see her husband’s blood on my hands? Can she look through me and find him crouched in the corner of my mind, his dark eyes accusing me of ripping his family to pieces?

Bile rises up the back of my throat, and I turn away when Elim says, “Why don’t you come sit by her and hold her hand? She could use a friend right now.”

“Quinn?” I cast a panicked look across the room, but Quinn is already pulling his blanket up over his head.

“Not a chance,” he says, his voice muffled by his bedding.

My fist grips my blanket with white knuckles. I could pretend I hadn’t heard Elim. I could lie and say I’m not strong enough to sit up yet. I could, but just like grieving Sylph, feeling guilty for Melkin is mine. I can’t run from it unless I want to lose myself.

The white carpet is soft beneath my feet as I shuffle toward Eloise, pausing to lean against the wall when the room does a slow, sickening spin. I breathe in through my nose and wait for my head to settle, and then I lower myself to Eloise’s bedside.

She groans and clutches her belly. Elim reaches out to smooth Eloise’s hair from her forehead with one hand while her other presses against Eloise’s abdomen.

“Contractions are nice and strong. I bet you’re feeling this one, aren’t you?” She smiles at Eloise.

Sudden pain shoots up my right arm, and I jerk my hand out of Eloise’s viselike grip. She pants, her face turning red, the tendons on her neck standing out like ropes as she hunches her shoulders, and then she slowly deflates back onto the mattress. Her thin hand flutters over mine.

“I’m sorry,” she says in her timid, caged-bird voice. “Forgot your injury. I wasn’t thinking.”

The burning guilt in my soul spreads through my veins until I am turning into ash from the inside out. She can’t apologize to me. Not for anything. Not when I’m to blame for the grief and loneliness in her eyes. Not when her husband will never know his child because of me.

Another contraction seizes her, and she arches her back and cries out. Her hand reaches, grasping for the man who loved her. I look at Elim and then at the exit.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say.

“Just talk her through the contractions and help her stay calm,” Elim says as she arranges herself between Eloise’s legs.

I look at the ceiling and take another deep breath. “I’m not suited . . . you really need someone else in here.”

“No time,” Elim says in the same tone of voice my father used when he pushed me to my limits as we sparred. “Do you want to hold her hand and help calm her down—”

“No.”

“—or do you want to catch the baby?”

“What? No. I . . . isn’t there another option?”

“Rachel, the baby is coming. Another few contractions will do it. Either hold her hand and coach her to push or get down here and guide the baby out.”

Guide the baby out? Absolutely not. I shudder, and Eloise comes off the bed again, her cries of agony filling the room. “Fine. I’ll hold her hand.”

“And coach her. Calm her down.”

“I’m not good at calming people down,” I mutter, but I let Eloise’s grasping hand find mine. I swallow the scream of pain that wants to tear out of me as her fingers squeeze the burned flesh at my wrist, and tell myself it’s no better than I deserve. One small piece of penance I can offer to Melkin.

When Eloise collapses against the blankets again, her eyes find my arm, and she whispers, “Your wrist. I’m sorry.”

“Please.” I choke the words out. “Don’t. Don’t ever apologize to me.”

Her weary gaze meets mine, and the hopelessness in her face hammers against my silence. Tears sting my eyes, and as the next contraction starts, I lean down and say, “Take a deep breath and hold it. There. Now push. You’re strong enough for this, Eloise. You’ve been through hell, but soon you’ll meet your child. You’ll see proof that Melkin loved you, and that you aren’t alone.”

She sobs as the contraction eases, and her fingers refuse to let go of me. “Why did he have to die? You were there. Can’t you tell me?”

A stone is lodged in my throat. Holding back my words. My tears. The truth I owe her. I make myself meet her eyes and swallow past the stone. Truth is what will make me better. I don’t know if truth will make Eloise better, too, but I can’t stomach another lie.

I’m finished with running from the things I’ve done. I help Eloise settle back against the blankets again, and say quietly, “Melkin died because I killed him.”

She lies there, stunned and silent, as Elim murmurs something about seeing the baby’s head and one more push.

“Did he try to kill you, then?” she asks, and the pain in her voice isn’t for me. It’s for Melkin. For her husband, who wasn’t a killer but who was backed into a corner by his leader. Forced to do the unthinkable or lose everything that mattered to him.