“Nahadoth is unhappy,” she said.

I suspected she wanted to change the subject. I sighed. “Nahadoth is overprotective.”

She stroked my hair again, then lifted the tangled mass and began to finger comb it. I closed my eyes, soothed by the rhythmic movements.

“Nahadoth loves you,” she said. “When we first found you in this … condition … he tried so hard to restore you that it damaged him. And yet …” She paused, her tension suddenly prickling the air between us.

I frowned, both at her description of Nahadoth’s behavior and at her hesitation. “What?”

She sighed. “I’m not certain you can be any more reasonable about this than Naha.”

“What, Yeine?” But then I understood, and as she had predicted, I grew unreasonably angry. “Oh gods and demons, no, no you don’t. You want to talk to Itempas.”

“Resisting change is his nature, Sieh. He may be able to do what Nahadoth could not: stabilize you until I find a cure. Or if we joined again, as Three —”

“No! You’d have to set him free for that!”

“Yes. For your sake.”

I sat up, scowling. “I. Don’t. Care.”

“I know. Neither does Nahadoth, to my surprise.”

“Naha —” I blinked. “What?”

“He is willing to do anything to save you. Anything, that is, except the one thing that might actually work.” Abruptly she was angry, too. “When I asked, he said he would rather let you die.”

“Good! He knows I would rather die than ask for that bastard’s help! Yeine” — I shook my head but forced the words out — “I understand why you’re drawn to him, even though I hate it. Love him if you must, but don’t ask the same of me!”

She glared back, but I did not back down, and after a moment, she sighed and looked away. Because I was right, and she knew it. She was still so young, so mortal. She knew the story, but she had not been there to see what Itempas had done to Nahadoth, or to the rest of us Enefadeh. She lived with the aftermath — as did we all, as would every living thing in the universe, forever and ever — but that was entirely different from knowing firsthand.

“You’re as bad as Nahadoth,” she said at lastbruaid at la, more troubled than angry. “I’m not asking you to forgive. We all know there’s no forgiving what he did, the past can’t be rewritten, but someday you’re going to have to move on. Do what’s necessary for the world, and for yourselves.”

“Staying angry is necessary for me,” I said petulantly, though I forced myself to take a deep breath. I did not want to be angry with her. “One day, maybe, I’ll move on. Not now.”

She shook her head, but then took me by the shoulders and guided me down so that my head lay in her lap again. I had no choice but to relax, which I wanted to do, anyway, so I sighed and closed my eyes.

“It’s irrelevant in any case,” she said, still sounding a bit testy. “We can’t find him.”

I did not want to talk about him, either, but I dredged up interest. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. But he’s been missing for several years now. When we seek his presence in the mortal realm, we feel nothing, find nothing. We aren’t worried … yet.”

I considered this but could offer no answer. Even together, the Three were not omniscient, and Yeine and Nahadoth alone were not the Three. If Itempas had found some scrivener to craft an obscuration for him … But why would he do that?

For the same reason he does anything else, I decided. Because he’s an ass.

“I don’t,” Yeine said softly after a while. I frowned in confusion. She sighed and stroked my hair again. “Love him, I mean.”

So many unspokens in her words. Not yet the most obvious among them, and perhaps a bit of not ever, because I am not Enefa, though I did not believe that. She was too drawn to him already. Most relevant was not until you love him, too, which I could live with.

“Right.” I sighed, weary again. “Right. I don’t love him, either.”

We both fell silent at that, for a long while. Eventually she began to touch my hair here and there, causing the excess length to fall away. I closed my eyes, grateful for her attention, and wondered how many more times I would be privileged to experience it before I died.

“Do you remember?” I asked. “The last day of your mortal life. You asked me what would happen when you died.”

Her hands went still for a moment. “You said you didn’t know. Death wasn’t something you’d thought much about.”