Year 850

Katrine touched her bare neck as if the necklace sat there and not tucked away in her trunk with the Edelweiss ashtray. "I didn't steal it. You gave it to me."

The maids behind Helena exchanged glances while she inspected the back of her smooth white hand for wrinkles, though she probably never went outdoors ungloved. "I'd say the circumstances were rather suspicious, wouldn't you agree?"

"No, I—"

"Silence!" Fischer's mustache trembled in righteous indignation. "You ran with scoundrels and I was right to suspect you. One attracts fleas when keeping the company of dogs. Your Highness, I shall fetch the guards at once."

"Be quiet, Fish. Katrine and I are great friends. Haven't you heard a joke before?" She smiled indulgently at Katrine, who didn't protest, and waved her hand in the air. "Leave us, all of you."

"Your Highness—"

"Fish!" Helena slumped over as if suddenly ill, silken hair fanning out behind her.

Straightening, Fischer saluted and turned to leave, not before throwing Katrine a disgusted look. She smiled and bowed her head, imagining spitting on him.

When the last maid trailed out the room and shut the door, Helena bounced to her feet. "Finally! It's too early for so much noise." She plucked a croissant from the tray and tore off a piece. "And what was Fish talking about, running with scoundrels?" she asked while shoving it in her mouth.

"I don't know. He doesn't seem to like me."

"He despises women who wear cosmetics. He'd absolutely fall over and die if he knew how much powder Mother uses to cover her wrinkles. Father, too!" Tossing the remnant of the croissant on the platter, Helena spun and walked to the room she'd entered from. "Come along."

Katrine followed her into a bedroom as large as the women's barracks in Trost, stuffed with chairs and vases of flowers along with a canopied bed that could fit both of them with room to spare. Across from the bed was a painting twice as wide as Katrine was tall, depicting a nude woman lounging on a brocade sofa, one hand draped on the edge with a rose precariously dangling from her fingers. Her expression was playful, hinting at delight and seduction, though she was rather bony.

"Oh, do you like it? She was my grandfather's mistress," Helena said proudly.

"It's, um, lovely."

"Nobody else wanted it. Father tried to burn it, but I rescued her." She threw herself onto her bed with a heaving sigh. "She was a ballerina. Right here, in the Mitras Company! She could do funny things with her legs that turned Grandpapa's brains to soup."

Katrine wandered to the vanity at the other wall, anything to not feel those eyes on her. Necklaces and tiaras spilled out of a gilded box, worth twice whatever was in the Scout's coffers and probably the MPs', too. She'd heard rumors of the long-dead former king, though girls at the Company claimed his son pursued other interests, namely the dashing young men at his gambling parlor.

"Did you know that? They're all whores? Nobody talks about it since they're so pretty on stage, but they go flying off and their clothes go too!" Helena laughed, light and sharp, like how they were taught to swing a sword in the training corps. "Half the money they make goes here, so I suppose I can't complain." She sat up, perched on her elbows. "Oh, I see you're looking for more."

Katrine clasped her hands behind her back. "No."

Helena flopped back down. "Take what you like."

"Oh, no, I couldn't—"

"Don't play coy. Take one." She kicked off her shoes, sending them clattering against the dark wooden floor. "It doesn't matter."

Katrine looked back in the box and picked a thin gold wire cuff with three tiny rubies at the center. Simple and unassuming, nearly invisible on her wrist. Helena rose from the bed to inspect her choice; her wrinkled nose revealed disappointment. "The one you stole was much more interesting. And it had matching earrings."

She fingered the bracelet. "Why did you lie? About being an opera singer from Stohess."

Helena shrugged. "Just a bit of fun before Father and the council decide on my husband. As a matter of fact, being an opera singer didn't work so well. People kept asking me to sing." She glared at Katrine. "Recently I've been an artist."

"Is it really so terrible being a princess?"

"Don't you ever want to be someone else? Even if it's just for a night? It's not like all this is any less fake." She waved her hand in the air as if to encompass the room, her voice dripping with disgust. "But you, you do interesting things. Exciting things, even dangerous things! But you threw that all away to make sure I don't choke on an olive pit." Helena sank into the chair in front of the vanity, sorting through her jewelry. "Why'd you quit, anyway?"

"The commander lost his mind. I wasn't going to let him kill me."

Helena made a dismissive noise. "Boring. People lose their minds all the time. Let's see…" She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the counter. "I think you fell in love, with the most handsome soldier. Tall and tan with a dazzling smile. You were going to run away and be married and live honest lives. But on the last expedition, a Titan cruelly plucks you out of his arms to steal you away to his lair!" Helena slapped her hands to her cheeks in horror, gaping at her reflection in the mirror. "Your lover comes to your rescue. But he's torn apart before your very eyes!" With a gasp she knocked over a cup of hairbrushes, seizing one as if it were a sword. "Your rage blinding you, you slaughter the Titan. But it's all for naught. He whispers his love for you as he bleeds in your arms. He clung to the end so the last thing he could see was you. And then..." Wiping away mock tears, she put down the brush and righted the cup. "You come here. It'd be more poetic if you swore revenge on all Titans and to never love again until the rivers run dry and mountains bow down."

If only that was how it happened. "You should tell them you're an actress next time."

"Where's the fun in that? It's already true." Helena pulled out a pair of chandelier earrings and held them to her face, the emeralds dangling at the bottom as big as her eyes. Pursing her lips, she nodded in approval. "Fetch the maids. I need to get dressed. We're going to town."

It had been only a few days with the princess and Nile was unfortunately correct when he said the job would keep her busy.

Helena spent an hour inspecting the blue brocade for her new gown, argued with the milliner over roses in a headpiece, and walked all the way to the river before deciding that she wanted to go to a different pastry shop on the other side of Mitras. She seemed not to notice that the streets were ruined, or was very good at ignoring it. She could monologue about everything and nothing, from her irritations with her mother to the validity of the theory of four temperaments, and held a strong opinion on anything she could think of. Katrine could rarely leave her sight, standing behind her at dinners with friends and card games afterward, and every night she fell exhausted into her cot, wishing she had a single ounce of energy to drag herself through the palace's dark corridors.

It wasn't all for naught. Katrine learned that King Fritz often pleaded illness to avoid royal council meetings or disregarded them altogether in favor of hunting, bolstering the theory that Fritz was no king at all but only a placeholder. A priest named Father Christopher held a position of power on that council, presumably the highest-ranking member of the Cult. But Helena ignored leading questions and brushed her off when she prodded for more information, and rather than risk inciting suspicion, Katrine held her tongue and listened to another story about her dog.

The maids, three plump brunettes with names so similar Katrine couldn't tell them apart, clucked over Helena while she wavered between eggshell and ecru for the lace on her new gown, the dressmaker hovering anxiously. They regarded Katrine with silence and lowered eyes, not quite mistrust but certainly not friendliness. She was to stand to the side and make sure no one got too close or ogled the princess, or, in this environment, threw a rock at her. No time at all to sneak off and investigate. If Erwin had anticipated this and let her go anyway, she would dip all his shirts in ink. It was stultifying. Her window for figuring out why there was a secret elite division of MPs or whatever that coded letter meant grew narrower by the minute.

Already sweating under the weight of Helena's hat box, Katrine followed the princess out of the dressmaker's shop only for her to stop again, distracted by the posters outside the door. Biting back a groan, Katrine observed the crowd gathered across the street at the courtyard of the military tribunal. Discontent rumbled through it like thunder in a dark gray cloud.

"Your Highness, we should get going. It's not safe," she said. A few of those candy-colored awnings above the shops were torn, and the jewelry shop window was boarded.

"You know him, right?" Helena pointed to a poster and Katrine came to look. "I've heard of him. The strongest soldier."

The last time she'd seen it, the wall was plastered with posters advertising the opera and the ballet, requests for apprentices and hired hands, even a few men in search of brides. Now there was only one, surrounded by torn corners and crude graffiti. Her pulse quickened. Wanted, dead or alive, for crimes against the People, the Walls, and the Royal Government. Levi, last name unknown, Captain of the Survey Corps, with all accomplices. Whoever had drawn it had clearly never seen Levi, because he was portrayed with a bulbous nose and pinprick eyes. Unfortunately, the surly glare was accurate. He looked like a bull preparing for a charge.

"Oh, dear." Helena brought a hand to her mouth. "He's rather frightening, isn't he?" The maids murmured in agreement.

"He looks better than that," Katrine muttered.

"What's he like?"

"He's an asshole."

Helena hummed, either in polite acknowledgment or mockery. "So you have run with scoundrels. I certainly hope you don't have fleas." The maids tittered.

Katrine grit her teeth and dug her fingernails into the cardboard box as she searched the poster for answers. What had he done? And why hadn't he said anything? Granted, she hadn't given him much of an opportunity to say much the last time they spoke, and she cringed at the memory of her vomiting out everything and his stunned silence. Now that he knew the truth, he wouldn't want anything to do with her. Who would?

Realizing Helena and the maids were no longer behind her, Katrine swore and dashed across the street, searching for her bright yellow gown and glossy blonde hair. The crowd had done the work for her, splitting to give the royal retinue a wide berth, and Katrine skidded to a stop beside them.

A group of men, sweat-drenched from the afternoon sun, worked constructing a gallows in the middle of the tribunal courtyard. How a few pieces of wood nailed together could be more intimidating than the concrete behemoth sitting behind it Katrine couldn't know, but her palms grew clammy nonetheless. Two MPs supervised the proceedings, hands shielding their faces from the sun. The grim structure cast a looming shadow over the crowd, sturdy beams patiently waiting to snap a neck. They'd already hung the rope from the crossbeam. The noose swayed lazily in the light breeze. Katrine thought she heard it creaking over the din of the crowd, imagining that terrible drawing of Levi below the knot.

"Too merciful," a man behind her said.

"Waste of money. They can pay me to take him out back and shoot 'em."

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The crowd hadn't come to protest. They'd come in support.

"For your commander, presumably," Helena said. "Excuse me, ex-commander."

Katrine nearly dropped the box. "What? How'd you know?"

"Fish told me. Seems he's murdered a tradesman from Trost."

"What?" Katrine asked again, dumbfounded. What did Erwin have to do with some tradesman? He'd just been in Mitras at the request of the royal council! With her being at the palace, there was no plausible way he could get a message to her. Though, he was the kind of person who could make a way. She hoped he hadn't abandoned her to waste away in Mitras, choked to death on perfumes and flowers. Or Elisabeth, trapped with the MPs, maybe forced to assist in her own brother's execution.

"Rumors say there's a priest he killed, too! He's already been detained. They've been clamoring for his head ever since Stohess." Helena tilted her head toward the crowd. "A shame he chose this path. He's quite handsome. What a waste."

"You've met him?"

"Yes, at a ball a few years ago. I didn't get to speak with him, unfortunately. I'm sure I'd be much happier if Father and Mr. Rod picked him as my husband."

Rod Reiss. That name again. If Erwin wasn't going to help, she'd have to make her own plans.

"Seems you've made the right choice, running off when you did. They're planning to arrest the rest of the Scouts, too." Helena raised an eyebrow. "Rather convenient, don't you think? Your timing is suspiciously good."

"The royal government is doing the right thing," Katrine said carefully. "I'm glad they're seeing what I saw, that Commander Smith has taken leave of his senses. Though I'm shocked it came to murder."

She burst into laughter. "Doesn't matter to me, as long as Titans don't come stomping into Mitras."

"Your Highness, we should return to the castle," one of the maids said. "There's a forgiveness ceremony tonight."

"I'd done perfectly well forgetting about that." Helena groaned.

Katrine perked up. "Forgiveness ceremony?"

"You cleaned my gown, right, Elsa?" Helena asked, ignoring the question, and walked away from the gallows.

"Yes, Your Highness." The maids followed in a straight line.

She shuddered. "It's so scratchy. Maybe I'll wear silk and ask for forgiveness."

Katrine fell back, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. This is pointless, and if everything she said is true and the Scouts are disbanded and Erwin's getting his neck snapped, then I'll be trapped here until Helena gets bored of me. And, even worse, if Erwin sat on death row, then that wanted poster meant Levi was next in line. She had to do something, but how could she escape Helena's grasp? She scowled at the hat box, wishing she could hide in it and deliver herself away from the palace, the only idea she'd had in days.

The sun had set and the first hints of stars appeared when Helena emerged from behind the gilded folding screen, her yellow satin gown replaced by a simple white shift, hair hanging loosely down her back. Makeup washed off, Helena looked like the young woman she really was, barely freed from her childhood schoolroom.

"Thank you, ladies," Helena said, and the maids bowed. "Katrine and I can make it from here."

Katrine waited for the maids to leave before she asked again, "What's a forgiveness ceremony?"

Hands resting on the back of her chair, Helena sighed at her reflection in the vanity mirror. "An awful thing we do every month."

Knowing her tendency for hyperbole, that probably meant it was insufferably boring. "Where is it?"

"Cathedral of the Three Sisters."

Finally! It must involve the Cult. If it was just some ceremony, she might have a chance to sneak off and have a look around.

Helena picked up a small porcelain jar decorated with blue painted birds. Opening it, she withdrew two small white pills. "One for me, and one for you."

She craned her neck for a better look. "What is it?"

"Coderoin. I can't make it through these things without some help."

Katrine stepped back as if the pill could fly out of Helena's hand and jump down her throat. A few girls at the Company liked to squander their stipend on the drug, claiming it eased their aching muscles and made the skies look bluer, the sun a little brighter, the pinching and prodding backstage easier to ignore. But her muscles weren't sore, the sun had set an hour ago, and no one was getting near her. "Don't you think that I should be sober, if someone tries to hurt you?"

"No one's worried about me, I'm not the important girl." Helena smiled bitterly and turned away from her reflection. "Take it. I command you. Or your punishment will be even worse than my last bodyguard's."

"I...What happened to her?"

"You don't want to know." Helena dropped her pill in her mouth and shuddered at the taste. "It was brutal. Your hand, please."

Katrine held out her hand and Helena placed the pill in the center of her palm. The innocuous little circle seemed too light to be so potent. But she couldn't refuse now, right when she'd fallen into the heart of the viper's nest, the swollen belly of the sacred beast. She was there to answer the questions that had gone unasked for too long. How bad could it be? She placed the chalky pill on her tongue. For a moment she considered trying to hide it in her cheek and spitting it out later, but it dissolved quickly.

"Thank you." Helena giggled. "I was only kidding about the last bodyguard. She actually ran off with a stable hand."

Of course she was.

Katrine and Helena made their way out of the palace and down a well-groomed path lined with shrubs, past the fountains and the statues, leading them into a small forest. There, the flowers disappeared and the path grew overgrown with weeds, visibility low. Katrine flinched at every snap of a twig or scrape of dirt, afraid of whatever the drug was releasing into her stomach.

"Here we are," Helena said.

The path opened into a clearing, and in the middle sat a building no more a cathedral than the watery slop served at the Scouts' dining hall was oatmeal. It was a small one-story wooden house she'd initially assumed was the groundskeeper's quarters, a candle burning in the single window. Two women in the same long white dress entered, a man in an MP uniform opening the door for them. After closing it behind them he returned to lounging against the wall. Another lay asleep in the grass.

"Oh, you'll have to wait outside," Helena said.

"Why?"

"'Why? Why?' Is that all you say?" Helena threw up her hands in irritation. "You squawk like a bird."

If I can't even watch then what's the point of coming? Katrine wanted to snap, but calmed herself. Time untethered from the princess was valuable.

"I'll be done in an hour." The MP opened the door for her and all Katrine could see before it closed was Helena descending a staircase right at the front of the room.

Katrine turned to him. "Excuse me. Where's the bathroom?"

The MP pointed at the trees. "All yours."

Katrine made an appropriate grimace and walked around the side of the building. Once out of sight she pressed her hands to the wood, feeling for any secret doors or windows. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw other people in white gowns gathering, a few MPs trailing, and crouched into the siding until they passed.

At the back was what appeared to be a storage shed attached to the house. Katrine tried the doorknob and grinned when it opened with no resistance. Closing the door behind her, she pressed a hand to her nose, the stale air thick and choking. Motes of dust floated in the weak light of the moon seeping through the clouded window.

The storage room, cramped by a diagonal ceiling, only held a few boxes of candles and a stack of water-damaged prayer books. With her foot, Katrine pushed aside a box only to drive up more clouds of dust. I can run back to the palace, she thought as she moved the last box in the corner. There must be other paintings, or maybe Rod Reiss has his own room. Even some scrap of information about Pastor Nick could help. I'll tell Helena I felt sick.

Light glowing at the bottom of the wooden floor caught her attention. A vent! Sinking to her knees, Katrine peered through the trellis-patterned grate.

A plain room sat beneath her, windowless gray concrete, illuminated by the weak light of the small candles held by white-clad supplicants, a crowd of at least twenty. A man stood before them, a heavy iron chain differentiating him from the rest. Face engulfed in shadows, he held up his hands, the drone of his chanting wafting up through the grate. She strained to hear, holding her breath.

"From one...became nine, and from one, three…"

The twelve—

"What's a little mouse like you doin' up here?" a voice behind her drawled.

Katrine jumped, grabbing an exposed beam to keep from toppling over. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she looked up at the silhouette of a man at the door, stretched out to inhuman proportions, a dusktime shadow that peeled itself off the ground.

"I'm— I just wanted to—"

The man stepped forward, unconcerned by the creaking wooden floor. "Didn't you ever hear curiosity killed the cat?" He knelt beside her, forcing her to press herself into the wall to make room. With a grin like tea-stained porcelain, he held a bony finger to his lips. "Secret's safe with me."

His weathered face was long, too, centered by a nose broken more than a few times. Beneath the prominent ridge of his brow were bottomless wells where there should have been eyes. But there was something familiar about him, and she didn't know if it was one of his features or the way he spoke. She'd certainly remember if she'd seen him backstage at the Company. But if she hadn't seen him there, then why was every hair standing on end screaming at her to flee, like deer knew to run and birds to scatter when they sensed a Titan?

Coderoin, just the stupid pill.

"Ah, I see. You wanna know what these folks get up to behind closed doors. Not all fur coats and diamonds, huh?" He laughed, full-throated and mirthless, but the people in the room didn't look up.

Katrine swallowed. It did nothing to alleviate her dry mouth. "Yeah."

"Hmm." The man tapped a finger against his chin. "I think I figured you out. You're the little princess's new doll, the one from the Scouts."

Be calm! It's not that hard to figure out! She nodded, wishing desperately to tug at her hair but not daring to move.

"I know a kid who joined the Scouts. Damn shame a Titan didn't eat him." His face twisted, but just as quickly turned back to a smile. "What's your name, missy?"

"Katrine," she said, the syllables fighting not to leave her throat.

The man slapped his knee so loudly her hand clenched involuntarily, the splintered wood digging into her palm. "Well, how 'bout that! My name starts with a K, too. Me and you are gonna get along great." He leaned forward, his face inches from hers, the scent of tobacco and gunpowder stinging her nose. "My name," he said, voice sandpaper against her neck, "is Kenneth Grant Roberts Ackerman. But we're pals now, so you can call me Kenny."

Suddenly she was nine years old again and Cecily stood in their bedroom in the dark, a sheet over her head and a candle under her chin. If you can't point your toes properly, then Kenny the Ripper'll come and smash them to tiny pieces! Her voice echoed behind her and Katrine whipped her head around only to find cobwebs. But that wasn't true, just a story to scare them at bedtime. Kenny the Ripper didn't exist. Cecily could have made him up herself.

"So...Kenny, what do you do? Are you a member of the Church?" she asked, praying her fear wasn't obvious in her tone.

Kenny howled like she'd told the funniest joke and her eyes darted back to the vent, but they hadn't noticed. "No way. I'm an MP, just like you."

"But you're not wearing the jacket," she said as soon as the thought formed and immediately bit her tongue.

"Perceptive! Let's just say I'm a plainclothes officer."

But there were no plainclothes MPs; they enjoyed strutting like peacocks in those unicorn-emblazoned jackets too much. It wouldn't make sense to say it to try to scare her. Unless he was part of the First Interior Squad… The thought made her turn cold as she struggled to keep her breathing even and stop her legs from shaking.

Kenny shifted, placing on his knee an engorged hand splattered with blood, thorny vines of scratches twining down his fingers to bloom at jagged black fingernails, throbbing in unison with the heartbeat thundering in her ears. Beneath translucent skin bones splintered, muscles tearing and stitching themselves back together, swelling to monstrous proportions. Swallowing back a gasp, a small strangled cry escaped her throat as she squeezed her eyes shut in terror. No! She forced them open, remembering the knife holstered at her leg.

But it was normal. Tanned, laced with wrinkles, knobbed knuckles. No blood, but a few long scratches. She blinked, then again. Nothing happened.

"You be quiet now." He pointed at the grate with the same unremarkable hand. "Show's about to start."

Katrine tore her eyes away and squinted, blood pulsing all the way down to the soles of her feet.

Ten people, also dressed in white, filed in procession and stood behind the priest in a straight line. The man dwarfed them in height. Not people, children; judging by height alone, the largest couldn't have been more than twelve. A few swayed unsteadily on their feet. The two at the end, five years old, clasped hands.

Little saints, returned to Sina.

"We bestow our sins upon you to bear as the Walls bear our need for protection, our greatest weakness," the priest said, sweeping his hand behind him. A gray-haired man at the front of the crowd, possibly King Fritz, stepped forward and crouched before the rightmost child, placing his candle in front of him. A small white object appeared in his hands and he fed it to the flame.

"Poor little bastards. Live a life in shit just to end up shouldering someone else's sins." Kenny spat on the floor.

"What are they doing?" Katrine asked.

"Just what it sounds like. Unloading their sins."

One by one, the congregates stepped forward and left candles at the children's feet, kneeling and burning the objects in their hands. Incomprehensible prayers and black smoke floated up through the grate. Paper? A small blonde woman rose after leaving her offering and stepped back into the congregation, but not after turning back to the line. Her shoulders sagged. Helena?

"To Maria, we ask you to forgive us our sins. To Rose, we ask you to bolster our strength to be as sturdy as your stone. And to Sina, we ask you to protect these children as you protect us," the priest said once every person had gone up.

The crowd murmured its assent.

Kenny fell back on his heels. "Well, worse ways to die."

Her head snapped around. "Dying? Now?" One of the pair of children at the end holding hands started to sniffle, his little knees quaking. The other yanked at his hand and nudged him with a bare foot. Katrine squinted. Red sores dotted their ankles, fingernail-crescents on their arms, dark smudges stained around their necks. Her breathing quickened again. Hands would strike out from the shadows to ensnare them and squeeze the life out of them.

Regrettably the remaining twelve...

He shrugged. "We're all dying sooner or later. Some get unlucky."

Katrine swallowed, unable to stop her chattering teeth. "I— I don't get it, what do you—"

"Where'd you get that?" The playful tone was gone, a cat grown tired of toying with its prey. He was pointing at the knife at her thigh.

Levi, he was talking about Levi. Katrine curled into herself as if Kenny could reach inside and pull him out of her, the only warmth she had. How could Levi have consumed the same air as this man and made it out alive, like breathing in the scent of a burning corpse? "A, um, a flea market."

"Is that so?" He hummed. "Sure hope you got a good deal."

The pastor cast his hand out to the children. "Go into peace." They turned in unison, trained for this one moment, and marched out of sight.

"And there's my cue." Kenny rose to his feet with a groan. "Lovely speaking with you, Miss Katrine. I'll be sure we meet again." He winked, face splintered by that yellow-toothed grin.

All she could do was nod, paralyzed by the threat.

Kenny disappeared out the door as quietly as he'd entered, and only when she'd counted sixty seconds did she dare turn back to the grate. The children were gone and the congregants filed out the room. Katrine jumped to her feet, shoved the box back over the vent, and after fruitlessly searching for Kenny through the clouded window, creeped out the door and darted back around the building, searching for his tall frame amongst the crowd.

Helena found Katrine first. Waving her along, the princess started for the palace at a fast clip, her white dress glowing in the darkness.

Katrine jogged to meet her. "How was it?"

She said nothing, only a small shake of her downturned head. Her hands were curled into fists.

Katrine tried to gently broach the subject. "How bad could a half-hour's worth of prayers be?"

Only puffs of breath.

"What were the kids there for?"

Helena whirled, scowling. "You looked! I told you to wait outside with the others." Her voice quavered, face shiny and flushed. "You disobeyed me!"

"But, Helena—"

"I am the princess and you will address me as such! Speak of it no more!"

Katrine pressed her lips together, falling back a few steps behind Helena as she followed her into the palace and down the hallway, the awkward silence weighted by the staccato slap of their feet against the marble. Later. I'll go back when she's asleep.

When they reached her bedroom, Helena hurled herself face down onto the bed, sandals still on. "Sacred ceremonies. Only for those blessed by the Walls. You're not one of us," she said into her pillow. "I envy you."

Katrine removed Helena's sandals, untying the laces as she stared at the back of Helena's head to will her to say more, and tossed them on the floor. The noise made her jump, but Helena seemed not to have heard it.

"Sit." Without lifting her head, Helena raised an arm and pointed to the empty space beside her. Katrine climbed on the bed and drew up her knees, wondering if she should take off her boots. The woman in the painting smiled at her knowingly.

"You shouldn't have looked. You're not supposed to know." Helena grabbed Katrine's hand, clammy and shaking. "I wasn't supposed to know…" She drew up a sigh from a deep well inside her. "A sacrifice. For the greater good. How can I argue with that?" She was no longer talking to Katrine but convincing herself.

"A sacrifice? What are you talking about?" The twelve, the twelve—

"Be quiet. I'm going to sleep."

Katrine looked at the clock standing beside the vanity. Nearly ten, early for Helena. She'd give it a half-hour for her to fall asleep and go back to the church. She squinted, trying to watch the clock's arms. They were moving, right, not just jerking back and forth? The painting giggled. No, just a squeaky door.

Helena snuffled into her pillow and then fell still. Her grip on Katrine's hand remained tight.

Katrine let her head fall back on the pillow, timing each breath to the tick of the clock, and waited.

Fingers twisted around her windpipe, cartilage cracking. Twelve sets of eyes glowed red in the pitch-black sludge.

Little saints, returned to Sina.

Her heart punched her ribs and jolted Katrine awake, jacket plastered to her back with sweat. Helena, curled into a ball, didn't stir.

The room was silent, the sumptuous wallpaper and rich fabrics turned dull in the night. A slice of weak moonlight illuminated a face before her. That woman, trapped in the painting, staring down at her. Her green eyes were too bright, gleaming like stars, pinning her to the bed.

Now, go now. Memories swirled and melded: the swinging noose, wrapped around those children and squeezing them together until it severed their torsos. Tears and blood streaming down Father Lucian's face, then morphing into Kenny's glinting smile. Now Katrine herself lay on the cold stone floor, flames and melting wax circling her, unknown faces floating above white bodies surrounding her like teeth. Her breath quickened.

"Get up," the woman in the painting whispered, a voice both familiar and unknown.

She jumped from the bed and raced out of the room.

Following the path they'd taken earlier that evening, Katrine darted down deserted hallways, her breath and footsteps echoing behind her. Slow down, be quiet. But her legs wouldn't stop, her muscles alight with new energy, and she burst out the back door and into the garden.

The guard posted outside, previously asleep, frantically adjusted his uniform but sighed in irritation when he realized it was only her.

"Sorry," she said. "These doors are heavier than I expected." She walked down the stairs as quickly as she could while still appearing natural and didn't start running again until she was sure she was out of his line of sight.

Weeds licked at her ankles as she made her way through the forest path, the creaking songs of frogs and crickets echoing all around her. An image of Kenny stalking her from behind flashed into her head and she sprinted, not stopping until she found the house in the clearing, the candle in the window extinguished.

After catching her breath, Katrine tried the front door. It opened with no resistance and she crept down the stairs, holding her breath and tensing the muscles in her legs as not to make a sound.

The stairs opened into a room, claustrophobic despite its emptiness and high ceiling, illuminated by a single torch at its head. A line of flesh-colored candles and lumpy wax dotted the floor before it like fungus. The faint odor of smoke and incense sent goosebumps erupting down her arms.

The congregants had entered the way she had. But the children appeared from the left, or at least from her vantage earlier. Katrine looked up and saw that the holes of the vent were nearly invisible from where she was standing, so no one could have seen her. With a sigh of relief, she dropped her head but jumped when a figure carved in the wall stared right back at her.

The depiction was at least ten feet tall, a girl with shaggy hair dressed in a ragged gown, her arms dangling at her sides as if limp from exertion. Text in the same code was written beneath her. She approached it, squinting. The First.

Katrine thought back to the letter. By the grace of Ymir, who granted us such power, bestowed first upon the daughters of King Fritz. A daughter? But why just one? She looked back up. Those eyes hadn't been staring at her; they were shadowed with shallow lines as if the artist wanted to depict her as gazing through the opposite wall, beyond the cathedral and to the end of the earth.

Sidestepping away from the carving, Katrine scooped up a sticky half-melted candle from the pile and lit it with a match from her waistband. She approached the shadowy left corner and felt along the cold concrete walls for a door. Her stomach dropped when her hand fell off a corner and into a void, revealing a dark passageway.

Continuing to scrape her hand along the wall, Katrine inched down the hallway. The weak light of her candle flickered valiantly but the darkness was thick and solid as tar, and the earthy smell of the incense faded, replaced with something metallic. Aware of her pulse pounding in her ears that must have been loud enough to hear, she took small, quiet steps.

Something flashed before her and Katrine sank into a crouch. Her hand flew to the hilt of her knife. A pale apparition materialized, floating approximately twenty feet away, emerging from the bottomless well of black. A child, a curtain of dark hair shielding her face, white sheath soiled and torn at the bottom. Her feet were dirty and bruised.

Katrine froze, holding her breath. She blinked a few times, but the girl didn't move.

"It's okay," she said, taking a step forward while holding out a placating hand. "I'm here to help you—"

Victoria, it was Victoria! Despite the slack and expressionless face she never wore even when asleep, her olive skin turned a pale green, it was her. Katrine cried out, equally overjoyed and horrified, wanting to both gather Victoria in her arms and run the other way. Her love and her shame battled in her chest, leaving her shaking and useless just like when she knelt before the altar of her dead body.

Unmoved, Victoria turned to the left and disappeared.

"Wait!" Katrine dashed after her, one hand reaching out, and slammed into a wall. Ignoring the shooting pain in her wrist she stumbled to the left, seeing nothing, until one foot met air and she tumbled down a flight of stairs. The candle fell out of her hand and bounced along the ground, extinguishing itself. Her knee screamed in agony and warm blood oozed from a scrape on the heel of her hand. Teeth chattering, Katrine pressed her cheek to the cold stone. It's not real, it can't be real. Pull yourself together. Flexing the muscles in her arms and legs to make sure nothing was broken, she counted five long breaths before pushing herself to her feet. Coderoin. When I get back I'm throwing Helena's stash in the river.

The bottom of the stairwell opened into a cramped chamber cast in the orange glow of three torches, damp air heavy with the scent of mold. Victoria hovered at the other side, her hair now swept behind her shoulders. Head high, shoulders back, like Mr. Kaiser taught them, she displayed the bruises circling her neck. In one raised hand she held a knife. It glinted in the light, the hilt white carved bone. Her knife, Levi's knife. Shaking, she felt for the sheath at her leg. It was still there.

"Wait, Victoria, please." Her voice was strained, throat dry, her eyes stinging. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Silence.

"Please! Say something!"

Victoria raised the knife to her neck.

"Don't!" Katrine took one step and Victoria vanished again, fragments of her thin legs floating in the air as the rest of her swept away like she'd summoned the wind. Katrine ran past heavy wooden doors and turned, skidding to a stop when she found a mess of black hair pooled on the floor. Crouching, she reached for it with a trembling hand. This isn't real, I know it's not. But it was. Silky strands fell through her fingers, curling in ringlets on the floor.

She looked up to find another black tunnel, a continuation of the labyrinth hiding under the cathedral. With no light to guide her, Katrine trailed her hand alongside the walls, condensation wetting her fingers, eyes peeled for Victoria. Had she been wrong this whole time? Some horrible joke Mr. Kaiser played on them as a lesson to be good, compliant girls? But those bruises and dull eyes were unmistakable, the feeling of her cold thin hand!

A faint light appeared at the end of the tunnel. Forgetting the pain in her knee and her throbbing head, Katrine ran to it and burst into another chamber.

Levi stood at the center of the room and Katrine immediately straightened, wiping her tears away before he could see. But of course he saw. He stood like he always did, self-assured and fearless like he was ten feet tall, unshakeable by anything from Titans to towering men with monstrous hands. Or her. He appeared giant in the low ceilings, his shadow stretching to the tunnel behind him. Katrine dug her nails into her palms. She turned hot, the damp kindling of her sorrow roaring to angry flames.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped. "I don't need you. I can do this myself."

He folded his arms. Those eyes, always so judgmental.

"You think you're better than me!" She jabbed a finger at him. "You always did. You think I'm a dirty used-up slut and even if you tried to drown me in bleach I still would never be clean, huh?"

He opened his mouth and she steeled herself for the barrage, the opportunity to rip into him with more fury than she had before. She was ready; she'd been ready for months.

But he only turned and walked to the tunnel at the end of the room.

"Don't you turn your back on me!" She stormed after him.

We aren't Underground anymore, he'd said. Stop acting like everyone's waiting for the opportunity to strangle you.

"How do you know that? You can't trust them. I can't even trust you! And I was stupid to think I could!"

Suddenly he was gone. Katrine thrust her hand out where he once was, waving it around to conjure him again. "Come back! You're a fucking coward!"

Nothing but a black cavern faced her.

You're selfish, and when that doesn't kill you, it'll kill someone else. His voice echoed from inside it.

Katrine stepped into the abyss without fear. "I'm not selfish! I don't want you! You're rude and arrogant and—"

She slammed a hand against the wall to stop herself from colliding with him, his skin cold marble that would make her freeze and disintegrate to dust. So perfect and unattainable, a stake punching through her ribs and puncturing her heart. She couldn't bear the pain of looking at him, as stupid as staring directly into the sun: the dark blue eyes of night just before the stars appeared, the faint white pucker of a scar on his jaw. Pale lips set in a thin line, softer than she'd expected. Untouchable, not for her dirty hands to take; inches separating them with miles to go.

You're just broken glass waiting for someone to step on you. Mr. Kaiser's words cloaked in Levi's voice. Broken glass deserved to be swept up and thrown away.

"Why wasn't I good enough? What did I do wrong?" Her voice cracked, his specter blurring with her tears. "I tried to be perfect, that's all I wanted, you can't say I didn't!"

Silence, devastating silence.

"Everyone else wanted something from me. They wouldn't leave me alone. Why didn't you?" She searched his eyes for something, a sign of recognition. She'd even take a sneer or biting remark. Nothing. The vacuum of emptiness threatened to rip her to shreds.

"Why didn't…" Her throat closed around the words. "You didn't...want me."

He raised one hand, a finger curling out of his fist.

A hand clamped around her mouth, dragging her backward, while the other wrapped around her arms and torso. Struggling, Katrine tried to kick at his shins, but the attacker hoisted her in the air. She drove her head forward and bit his fleshy palm.

Yelping, the man released her and Katrine bolted through the dark hallway, blood dripping down her chin. Heavy footsteps echoed behind her.

The tunnel spat her into an even smaller room. Three men stood waiting for her dressed in black clerical robes, their heads grazing the ceiling. She froze, one hand hovering above the knife at her thigh. One move and they'd strike. It had to count.

The man in the middle made the decision for her, rushing at her head on. Katrine feinted right and spun left, memories of sparring in the training corps resurfacing. It was never supposed to come in handy. She sliced at his face, a gash blooming at his ear, and he fell to the ground howling.

Prepared, one of the others grabbed her forearm, disabling her weapon. Katrine kicked his crotch just as the other pressed his gut to her back and snaked an arm around her waist, another hand hurtling toward her face. She elbowed his bulging stomach and twisted out of his grasp, craning her neck for an escape. Levi was gone, but the hallway he stood in remained.

There, if I can run—

A blow to the back of her head sent stars flashing in her eyes. Her ears rang like a grenade had just exploded. As soon as she fell to her knees a jab to the ribs sent her sprawling. She grabbed a foot and slashed wildly at his ankle, but another kicked her wrist and the knife flew out of her grip.

One man straddled her and she screamed. Her pitiful cry echoed around her, unable to penetrate thick concrete walls. He forced her hands behind her back. Rope scraped her wrists. She writhed fruitlessly beneath him, toes scrabbling against the floor, tears pooling at her eyes. Not again, please—

"Be careful," a voice said. A familiar voice that was colder on her skin than the stone floor. "She's smarter than she looks."

No. She stopped thrashing, her strength evaporating.

"She's tied, Father," the man on top of her said. "To the cells?"

"Yes."

The last thing she saw before a hood swallowed her head was a man in the long white gown of a priest, heavy metal chain circling his shoulders, a black patch covering the long red gash severing his right eye.