In Chap­ter 63 of “We Solve Mur­ders,” Eddie Flood grap­ples with the fall­out from his recent encounter, real­iz­ing that his posi­tion is com­pro­mised. He reach­es out to Rob, who reveals that the footage of Rosie on “An Irish Break­fast” has now sur­faced. Rob is clear­ly flus­tered and puz­zled about how Eddie became such a hot top­ic. Eddie recounts his chaot­ic morn­ing, being swarmed by fans and pho­tog­ra­phers at the air­field near Cork, which indi­cates the lev­el of his noto­ri­ety.

As they con­verse, Eddie admits to an unsuc­cess­ful attempt to tar­get Amy Wheel­er, where a tint­ed Mer­cedes made it dif­fi­cult for him to take a clean shot. Rob express­es his dis­ap­point­ment, stat­ing that Eddie has fall­en short of his for­mer skills. Rob informs him that he’s off the job, high­light­ing Eddie’s blun­der has esca­lat­ed to a crit­i­cal lev­el where his pho­to is plas­tered every­where. Despite being tak­en off the assign­ment, Eddie decides to keep the fif­teen thou­sand dol­lars Rob offered him, rec­og­niz­ing he has plans for the mon­ey.

The con­ver­sa­tion shifts to the urgency of their sit­u­a­tion. Rob, now anx­ious about his own role, men­tions the poten­tial con­se­quences if Amy does­n’t die, jok­ing­ly sug­gest­ing a Scan­di­na­vian hit­man. Eddie mus­es about Rob’s mys­tery employ­er, pon­der­ing the intel­li­gence he could gain from dis­cov­er­ing who that might be. With Rob off his tail, Eddie reflects on his next strate­gic steps, pri­mar­i­ly keep­ing tabs on Amy Wheel­er.

Despite a per­fect shot at Amy, Eddie’s moti­va­tions shift from lethal action to need­ing her alive for his own agen­da and to increase his vis­i­bil­i­ty in the unfold­ing dra­ma. He observes his pho­to labeled as a “mys­tery hero” in a news app, giv­ing him a sense of accom­plish­ment, even as he plans his next move with pre­ci­sion and care. Over­all, Eddie’s inter­nal con­flict and strate­gic think­ing demon­strate his desire to main­tain con­trol over an increas­ing­ly chaot­ic sit­u­a­tion.

In Chap­ter 63 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Misty presents a Le Creuset dish of “Arroz de pato” to Patch, who is vis­i­bly appre­hen­sive about the meal. As he sits uncom­fort­ably eat­ing, his thoughts drift to his sur­round­ings, notic­ing chil­dren play­ing foot­ball near­by and Misty’s inter­ac­tions with her friends. A moment lat­er, he catch­es sight of Saint through the win­dow dur­ing her applied math class, prompt­ing a series of trou­bling thoughts about the impli­ca­tions of Misty’s ges­ture as Grace point­ed­ly com­ments on it.

Misty’s light­heart­ed demeanor con­trasts with Patch’s men­tal tur­moil. She shares that she has made a scrap­book about him, which sur­pris­es Patch, mak­ing him reflect on her pecu­liar inter­est in his life. He ques­tions her inten­tions, feel­ing both bur­dened by her atten­tion and intrigued. Misty acknowl­edges her sleep­less­ness and admits to pray­ing for him dur­ing a recent church vis­it, only height­en­ing Patch’s desire to dis­tance him­self from her con­cern.

Patch feels a mix of anger and long­ing as he thinks about his own feel­ings of entrap­ment, wish­ing to escape the sit­u­a­tion entire­ly. His inquiry about the sil­ver cut­lery leads to a moment of temp­ta­tion as he con­sid­ers pock­et­ing it, fueled by the com­plex­i­ty of his feel­ings toward Misty and his broad­er cir­cum­stances. The chap­ter cul­mi­nates as the school bell rings, sig­nal­ing the end of the peri­od and prompt­ing Patch to gath­er his belong­ings and leave, while Misty qui­et­ly fol­lows him, sug­gest­ing a con­tin­ued con­nec­tion between them despite his inner con­flict.

Ulti­mate­ly, the chap­ter under­scores the ten­sion between Patch’s dis­com­fort in social inter­ac­tions and Misty’s earnest attempts to con­nect, set­ting the stage for deep­er emo­tion­al devel­op­ments as they nav­i­gate their con­trast­ing real­i­ties.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
63
I gauged the dis­tance between my friends and Juri­an, weighed my sword
against the twin ones crossed over his back. Cass­ian took a step toward the
descend­ing war­rior and snarled, “You.”
Juri­an snick­ered. “Worked your way up the ranks, did you?
Con­grat­u­la­tions.”
I felt him sweep toward us. Like a rip­ple of night and wrath, Rhys
appeared at my side. The Book was instant­ly gone, his move­ment so slick
as he took it from me and tucked it into his own jack­et that I bare­ly
reg­is­tered it had hap­pened.
But the moment that met­al left my hands … Moth­er above, what had
hap­pened? I’d failed, failed so com­plete­ly, been so pathet­i­cal­ly
over­whelmed by it—
“You look good, Juri­an,” Rhys said, strolling to Cassian’s side—casually
posi­tion­ing him­self between me and the ancient war­rior. “For a corpse.”
“Last time I saw you,” Juri­an sneered, “you were warm­ing Amarantha’s
sheets.”
“So you remem­ber,” Rhysand mused, even as my rage flared.
“Inter­est­ing.”
Jurian’s eyes sliced to Mor. “Where is Miryam?”
“She’s dead,” Mor said flat­ly. The lie that had been told for five hun­dred
years. “She and Drakon drowned in the Ery­thri­an Sea.” The impas­sive face
of the princess of night­mares.
“Liar,” Juri­an crooned. “You were always such a liar, Mor­ri­g­an.”
Azriel growled, the sound unlike any I’d heard from him before.
Juri­an ignored him, chest start­ing to heave. “Where did you take
Miryam?”
“Away from you,” Mor breathed. “I took her to Prince Drakon. They
were mat­ed and mar­ried that night you slaugh­tered Clythia. And she nev­er
thought of you again.”
Wrath twist­ed his tan face. Jurian—hero of the human legions … who
along the way had turned him­self into a mon­ster as awful as those he’d
fought.
Rhys reached back to grab my hand. We’d seen enough. I gripped the rim
of the Caul­dron again, will­ing it to obey, to come with us. I braced for the
wind and dark­ness.
Only they didn’t come.
Mor gripped Cass­ian and Azriel’s hands—and stayed still.
Juri­an smiled.
Rhysand drawled, hand tight­en­ing in mine, “New trick?”
Juri­an shrugged. “I was sent to dis­tract you—while he worked his spell.”
His smile turned lupine. “You won’t leave this cas­tle unless he allows you
to. Or in pieces.”
My blood ran cold. Cass­ian and Azriel crouched into fight­ing stances, but
Rhys cocked his head. I felt his dark pow­er rise and rise, as if he’d splat­ter
Juri­an then and there.
But noth­ing hap­pened. Not even a brush of night-flecked wind.
“Then there’s that,” Juri­an said. “Didn’t you remem­ber? Per­haps you
for­got. It was a good thing I was there, awake for every moment, Rhysand.
She stole his book of spells—to take your pow­ers.”
Inside me, like a key click­ing in a lock, that molten core of pow­er just …
halt­ed. What­ev­er teth­er to it between my mind and soul was snipped—no,
squeezed so tight by some invis­i­ble hand that noth­ing could flow.
I reached for Rhys’s mind, for the bond—
I slammed into a hard wall. Not of adamant, but of for­eign, unfeel­ing
stone.
“He made sure,” Juri­an went on as I banged against that inter­nal wall,
tried to sum­mon my own gifts to no avail, “that par­tic­u­lar book was
returned to him. She didn’t know how to use half of the nas­ti­er spells. Do
you know what it is like to be unable to sleep, to drink or eat or breathe or
feel for five hun­dred years? Do you under­stand what it is like to be
con­stant­ly awake, forced to watch every­thing she did?”
It had made him insane—tortured his soul until he went insane. That’s
what the sharp gleam was in his eyes.
“It couldn’t have been so bad,” Rhys said, even as I knew he was
unleash­ing every ounce of will on that spell that con­tained us, bound us, “if
you’re now work­ing for her mas­ter.”
A flash of too-white teeth. “Your suf­fer­ing will be long, and thor­ough.”
“Sounds delight­ful,” Rhys said, now turn­ing us from the room. A silent
shout to run.
But some­one appeared atop the stairs.
I knew him—in my bones. The shoul­der-length black hair, the rud­dy
skin, the clothes that edged more toward prac­ti­cal­i­ty than fin­ery. He was of
sur­pris­ing­ly aver­age height, but mus­cled like a young man.
But his face—which looked per­haps like a human man in his for­ties …
Bland­ly hand­some. To hide the depth­less, hate­ful black eyes that burned
there.
The King of Hybern said, “The trap was so easy, I’m hon­est­ly a bit
dis­ap­point­ed you didn’t see it com­ing.”
Faster than any of us could see, Juri­an fired a hid­den ash bolt through
Azriel’s chest.
Mor screamed.
We had no choice but to go with the king.
The ash bolt was coat­ed in blood­bane that the King of Hybern claimed
flowed where he willed it. If we fought, if we did not come with him
upstairs, the poi­son would shoot to his heart. And with our mag­ic locked
down, with­out the abil­i­ty to win­now …
If I could some­how get to Azriel, give him a mouth­ful of my blood …
But it’d take too long, require too many mov­ing parts.
Cass­ian and Rhys hauled Azriel between them, his blood splat­ter­ing on
the floor behind us as we went up the twist­ing stair­ways of the king’s cas­tle.
I tried not to step in it as Mor and I fol­lowed behind, Juri­an at our backs.
Mor was shaking—trying hard not to, but shak­ing as she stared at the