A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

No one asked about Nesta’s change of heart when she and Cassian entered the study in the river house late the next afternoon and found Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, and Amren waiting before a giant map of the faerie realms. A bowl of stones and bones sat beside it.

They all stared, weighed and judged her. But her eyes went to Feyre, who stood across the room, a hand resting idly on the slight swell of her belly.

Nesta refused to let anything show on her face as she offered her sister a small nod of greeting. She hated herself when Feyre’s eyes softened—hated the raw emotion there as Feyre nodded back, smiling tentatively.

She couldn’t stand the relief and happiness in Feyre’s eyes. That merely acknowledging her sister politely had caused it. Unable to stomach it, Nesta glanced to where Rhysand stood at Feyre’s side. One look into his eyes and Nesta allowed her mind to open—just a crack.

I will not say a word to Feyre, she swore.

She didn’t do it for any particular kindness, but to wipe that cautious look from Rhys’s eyes before it grated further. He’d no doubt either heard or guessed that Cassian had told her about the baby’s wings.

Rhys only said, his voice wary, Thank you.

Nesta didn’t ask about his visit to Miryam and Drakon—if he’d learned anything at all. She reached the table, Cassian keeping close. But she forgot about him as she faced Amren, who was watching her with cool distaste.

The words from months ago that Nesta had tried so hard to forget swarmed from the darkest pit of her memory, each one stinging. You have become a pathetic waste of life.

Nesta dropped Amren’s stare, focusing on the map. “Let’s be quick about this.”

Azriel asked from beside Amren, “When you attempted it two days ago, you felt nothing?”

“Nothing.” Nesta’s fingers hovered over the bowl of tools. “My mind circled itself.”

“What did you think of?” Amren asked.

How much she hated herself. Her father. How much she feared the Cauldron.

Nesta said, “The Trove. And what happened the last time I scried.”

Feyre said, “We won’t allow any harm to come to Elain. Rhys warded her this morning, and we have eyes on her at all times.”

“Eyes can be blinded,” Nesta said.

“Not the ones under my command,” Azriel said with soft menace. Nesta met his stare, knowing he was the only one aside from Feyre who could truly understand her hesitation. He’d gone with Feyre into the heart of Hybern’s camp to save Elain—he knew the risk. “We won’t make the same mistake twice.”

She believed him. “All right.” She scooped up the stones and bones. They were ice-cold against her fingers.

Clenching them tight, Nesta closed her eyes and held her arm over the map spread across the table. No one spoke, though the weight of their gazes pressed on her.

Cassian’s warmth seeped into her side, his wings rustling near her back.

She let that warmth, the rustle anchor her.

He had come to save her from her nightmare, had stayed with her while she slept. Had guarded and fought for her. He would let no harm come to her now.

No harm

No harm

No harm

What had been an endless spiral of thoughts vanished. A gaping hole yawned open in her mind.

No harm

No harm

No harm

Nesta eased into that darkness, as if slowly submerging herself in a pool.

Cassian’s arm brushed hers, and she let that anchor her, too. A lifeline out. She took his hand with her free one and interlaced their fingers. Let the touch ground her as she allowed the last of her mind to slip beneath the black surface.

And then nothing.

Falling slowly. Drifting, like a small stone fluttering to the bottom of a pond.

The Mask, she whispered, casting her mind into the eternity. Where is the Mask of the Dread Trove?

Still she drifted in liquid night.

In the beginning, and in the end, there was Darkness and nothing more. She had first heard that truth, understood it, during her battle with the Cauldron. And understood it again now as she floated into that same strange place, both full and empty, forever cold.

Where is the Mask? she asked the void.

Distantly, like a candle in a window, she felt Cassian’s hand tighten on hers. That was the way back. Nothing could trap her, hold her, if she had that way home.

Where is the Mask?



For long minutes, only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner filled the study.

Nesta stood beside Cassian, her fingers now loose in his hand, her other hand extended over the map, bones and stones bulging within.

Cassian swapped glances with Feyre. He’d barely been able to look at her when he’d entered, to see the slight swelling in her lower belly. But he’d made himself grin, the portrait of casual, arrogant ease.

Now a chilled, phantom breeze drifted past him. The hair on the back of his neck stood.

Amren let out a soft hiss. “Where is she wandering to?”

Nesta’s hand remained over the map. But her fingers in his had gone cold as ice.

Cassian squeezed her hand, willing warmth into it.

Across the table, Azriel’s breath clouded. Rhys stepped closer to Feyre, positioning himself to intercept any unexpected threats.

“This didn’t happen that time during the war with Hybern,” Azriel murmured.

Before any of them could answer, Nesta’s eyelids shifted—like she was seeing something. Her brows bunched, just a quiver toward each other. Her fingers tightened on the stones and bones, knuckles going white. Still the air grew colder.