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Iwait in a chamber near the ritual room under the hotel, wrapped in my white cloak with nothing beneath it. The fabric is meant to make me look pure while I prepare to cross into the profane. Stuck between the girl everyone wanted me to be and the woman waiting inside her.

A Veiled Matron pinned my hair into a bun. The neatness of it makes me feel composed. It’s small, but it gives me something to cling to.

Edwin explained that this final Trial is about connection. About proving what we have. The synergy created between us.

Over the past week, our bond has taken on a tangible shape. Rough and gentle and constant. Sometimes I swear I feel him even when he’s not in the room, like the idea of him has gotten stuck under my skin.

We should be able to pass this Trial easily.

Bridget steps into place beside me in her identical cloak. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’m meant to be here.

Her voice cuts through the quiet.

“I spoke with your mother.”

That punch to my gut sends me reeling. I look over to her, eyes wide.

“How?”

She keeps facing forward, lips curving faintly. “A luncheon the other day. Part of your father’s campaign.”

My breathing grows heavier. My mind fills with the image of Mother chatting and laughing with women whose husbands are important to my father’s success. All like nothing horrible has happened to her.

Questions jam in my throat, but Bridget is the last person I want to ask.

“Did you…”

She glances at me, her face completely unbothered.

“Tell on you? Of course not. I care about the sanctity of the Order.”

Relief hits me, and I exhale slowly. I don’t want my parents to find me. I’d rather stay hidden here forever.

“She did mention that she’s utterly heartbroken,” Bridget continues. “Over the death of her son.” She pauses to savor it. “In fact, she didn’t mention you at all.”

My lip threatens to quiver, and I hold it in place with sheer will. This isn’t news to me nor a surprise. I was the accident. Useful only when I could be traded.

Still, I kind of hoped I would be missed.

“When I’m Seraph…” I start.

She scoffs out a laugh. “When?” She turns to me now. “You have no idea what it’s like to have powerful men at your feet. You know nothing about how rough life can get. You’re practically a child.”

Heat flashes up my neck. I hate that word. Child. As if the years I spent trapped in my bedroom don’t count as time and being kept small means I am small.

I straighten more even though my hands want to curl into fists.

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Exactly. You haven’t lived. You aren’t prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice when you fail.”

The idea of failing drops into my stomach like a stone.

“I know what I’m getting into,” I insist.

She tilts her head. “Do you?”

“This isn’t a contest of who’s suffered the most.”