Celia was so nice, Call thought. It never even occurred to her that Alastair might want to hurt Havoc himself. Which was impressive considering that the only time she’d seen Alastair, at the Iron Trial, he’d been wild-eyed and waving a knife around. Reflexively, Call touched Miri’s hilt where it stuck up above the inside pocket of his jacket.

“That was your mom’s knife, right?” Celia asked shyly.

“Yeah,” Call said. “She made it when she was a mage at school here.” He swallowed around the hard lump in his throat. He tried not to think about his mother too much, about whether she would have been kinder to Havoc, whether she would have loved him no matter what fingerprints were on his soul.

“I know she died at the Cold Massacre,” Celia said. “I’m so sorry.”

Call cleared his throat. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago. I never really knew her.”

“I never knew my aunt, either,” she said. “I was a baby when she was killed at the Cold Massacre. But if I ever got a chance to take revenge, I’d —”

She broke off, looking embarrassed. Havoc had freed himself from the leaves and was trotting up the hill, twigs caught in his fur.

“You’d what?” Call said.

“I’d kill the Enemy of Death myself,” she told him with finality. “I hate him so much.”

Call felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. Celia was looking down at the leaves in her hands, letting them scatter over the ground like confetti. He could tell that her lips were trembling, that she was a second away from crying. Someone else, a better friend, would have stepped forward to put an arm around her, maybe pat her shoulder. But Call stood paralyzed. How could he offer to comfort Celia over something he’d done himself?

If she found out the truth, she’d hate him.

That night, Call had a dream. In it, he was skateboarding around his old town with Havoc, who had his own green-and-gold skateboard with spiky wheels. They were both wearing sunglasses, and whenever they passed someone on the street, that person broke into spontaneous applause and threw handfuls of candy to them, as though they were in a Halloween parade.

“Hello, Call,” Master Joseph said, appearing suddenly in the middle of the street. Call tried to skate past him when everything went white, as though they were standing on a blank sheet of paper. Havoc was gone.

Master Joseph smiled at Call. He wore long Assembly robes and clasped his hands behind his back.

Call began to back away. “Get out of my dream,” he said, looking around wildly for something, anything he could use as a weapon. “Get out of my head!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Master Joseph said. There was a dark stain across the front of his robes. It looked like dirty water. Call remembered him cradling the dead body of his son, Drew, how water had gotten all over Master Joseph and how he had cried with ugly sobs.

After, he’d gotten to his feet and called Call “Master.” He’d said it was all right that Drew was dead, because Call was Constantine Madden, and if Constantine Madden wanted Drew dead, then he must have a good reason.

“This isn’t real,” Call insisted, pointing to his leg, which wasn’t scarred or thin and didn’t hurt at all. “Which means you’re not real.”

“Oh, but I am,” said Master Joseph. He snapped his fingers and snow began to fall, dusting Call’s hair and catching in his lashes. “As real as this. As real as the terrible choice Alastair Hunt must make.”

“What? What choice?” Call asked, drawn into the argument despite himself.

Master Joseph went on as if Call hadn’t spoken. “Why do you remain at the Magisterium, where they will only despise you? You could be with the man who has raised you and with me, your loyal friend. You could be safe. We could begin to rebuild your empire. If you agreed, I could take you tonight.”