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I sagged against the wall, absently noting the lack of that tiny kernel of magic and the energy it had taken with it.

Not good. I drew my knees up to my chest. My ribs poked against my thighs, the bones in my knee sharp against my palms.

I’d lost far too much weight. Hopelessness began digging its claws into my psyche, until I shoved it out with a loud mental NO.

If I gave up now, it was all over. I might as well lie down and let them do with me what they would.

Fight, Moira. Believe help is coming.

I couldn’t have gotten this far for it to all be over now.

A heartbeat sounded from the far hall, the steady slide of familiar footsteps. My mother was up and wearing her favorite slippers.

I schooled my expression into blankness.

Mom shuffled into the kitchen, hollow-eyed and more tired than I’d ever seen her.

She hadn’t had a top-up from me in quite a while, and the strain showed on her face. If I had anything to say about it, she’d never get anything else from me unless it was a knife to the heart.

“Rough night?” I asked sweetly.

Mom’s dark look made me laugh.

She put the kettle on and sat at the scarred kitchen table. “Things won’t be so amusing once Liaza is ready.”

“Who knows? Maybe things will get lively. It’s been a while since I’ve had any real entertainment.”

Mom’s eyes flashed.

I might be weak, starving, and dying, but my ability to talk shit remained unparalleled. Bully for me.

“Keep talking, daughter. Soon the only noise in here will be your screams.”

“Aw, Mom. You’re such a great motivator. Look at you being all encouraging.”

The kettle whistled. Mom snorted and made herself a cup of tea.

“Would you like one?” she asked.

My eyes narrowed.

Minka shrugged. “A final cup of tea for a final day. One last mother-daughter gift.”

I didn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, but I could use that tea for another purpose. “Why not?”

“Earl Grey?”

“Of course.”

Mom turned her back to me, a surefire indicator the bitch was putting a little something extra into the brew. To weaken or make me more amenable no doubt. So predictable.

I waited for her to bring the beat-up tin cup over and extend it through the bars. Half expecting her to toss the brew in my face, I hesitantly reached for it, almost sighing as the warmth hit my fingers.

When nothing happened, I curled my fingers around the cup and scooted back, away from the bars and closer to where that seed slept.

Mom’s lips pursed. “Don’t want to be close to me, Moira?” She clicked her tongue.

“No one wants to be close to you,” I muttered.