Between this conversation and Quinn’s revelation about his father teaching his children every possible way to kill someone, I now regret ever giving Quinn a hard time about refusing to carry a weapon.

“Let’s get this up to the meadow and let Nola figure out if she wants to cook it now or transport it raw, and we can go get the other trap.” I keep the lingering horror out of my voice, and swallow the pity as well. Willow wouldn’t appreciate either.

“She’d better cook it now. Few things are worse than the smell of a dead fish,” she says. We start pushing and pulling the trap up the trail, and she looks at me. “Forgot to tell you there’s a bridge just south of here.”

I stop pulling. “A bridge? A fully intact bridge?”

She shrugs. “It looked intact to me, but I didn’t swim close enough to get a good look.”

A bridge. I have a way to get my people across the river. And thanks to the jars of glycerin and acid I took with me out of Baalboden after blowing up the gate, I have a way to destroy that bridge and cut off any efforts to track us further.

For the first time in weeks, I feel a tiny shred of hope.

Chapter Thirty-Six

RACHEL

Logan conducts a funeral service on the rise of land at the north end of the meadow. The morning chill still clings to the air, and a somber mood lies over us like a blanket. I leave Sylph resting peacefully in the wagon with Smithson by her side and join the crowd of mourners. I tell Smithson I feel I should be present for the burial, and that’s partially true.

But really I need a few minutes away from the sight of Sylph’s slow deterioration and Smithson’s increasing desperation before the silent wall within me threatens to crack. I can’t grieve yet. Not while she’s still alive. Maybe not at all. If I let the depth of what she means to me hurt me, every other ghost that haunts me will demand its due, and how will I ever survive that?

So I stand at the edges of the crowd, letting Logan’s voice wash over me without leaving a single word behind, and tell myself that the scars that harden the surface of my heart are necessary for survival.

When Drake takes over to supervise the actual burial, Logan works his way around the side of the field until he’s standing beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean against him as the first shovel bites into the ground. We stand in silence as those who loved the ones we lost say their words, pick their flowers, and find their own way to let go of one more dream.

When the crowd begins to disperse under Drake’s orders to help Nola cook the fish Willow caught, pack up the rest of the supplies, and be ready to move out in an hour, I look at Logan.

“This poison . . . there must be an antidote. We just need to figure out what we’re dealing with, right?” Deep down, though, I already know the answer. If there were an antidote, if Logan knew how to stop this, he wouldn’t be standing still doing nothing. But I have to ask. I have to know I tried everything to save her.

His jaw clenches. “It’s castor seed poison. And according to Quinn, there is no antidote.”

A weak spurt of anger warms me. “How does Quinn know about poisons? You’re the scientist. If there’s an antidote, you can figure it out.”

“Quinn and Willow both know a frightening amount about poisons and weapons and every other way to kill someone.” His voice is quiet, but still I glance around to make sure no one in Frankie’s small circle of friends overheard. The last thing we need to deal with is more suspicion aimed at the Runningbrooks. None of Frankie’s friends are nearby. There’s only Ian, rolling up a few yards of canvas, and Elias, slowly packing his travel bag while he watches us like he’d love to know what we’re talking about.

Logan turns me around to face him. His eyes burn into mine. “Rachel, I’m sorry. If I could think of anything—anything—to try, I would. But I don’t know how to save her.” His voice is nothing but a whisper now. “I’m sorry.”

The hurt stabbing through me throbs once or twice and then fades into the bleak silence. I don’t try to get it back. Sylph is going to die. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. One more person stripped from me. One more ghost to haunt me while I sleep.

Feeling nothing but icy emptiness is better than sliding into the gaping pit of loss and destruction lurking somewhere inside of me. If I feel nothing, I can function. I can go back and face her. I can be strong for Smithson.

I can keep going.

“Rachel?” Logan asks, his hand reaching for me as if to offer comfort.

I step back. I don’t need comfort. Comfort doesn’t solve anything. Tears don’t either. I just need to put one foot in front of the other and pretend I can handle this. If I pretend long enough, maybe it will become real.

Logan’s hand falls to his side, and I read the guilt and regret on his face as easily as if he’d said the words aloud. He feels responsible. He thinks I blame him. I should do something. Say something. Find a way to ease his mind and heart.

I should, but any softness that once existed in me has disappeared.

Before either of us can say another word, Quinn runs up to us. “Found the highwaymen’s campsite just west of here. They had two wagons full of supplies.”

“Where are they?” Logan asks.

“Over there.” Quinn points, and I turn to see two new wagons, each pulled by a sturdy-looking horse, resting at the southern edge of the meadow. “One of the wagons has blankets and bedrolls inside. The other is full of weapons, jars of fruit, sacks of jerky, bolts of cloth, and boots. Looks like they’d just come from a successful trading mission. Which makes finding these very suspicious.”