In Chap­ter 57 of “We Solve Mur­ders,” Steve grap­ples with his fear of fly­ing as he jour­neys towards Dublin, reflect­ing on the inher­ent vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties that every­one pos­sess­es. Despite his anx­i­ety, he finds a sur­pris­ing calm­ness in the plane, espe­cial­ly as he watch­es Rosie asleep on a sofa, reveal­ing a side of her that is rarely seen while she is awake. Steve mus­es about the fragili­ty of exis­tence and the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty hid­den beneath exter­nal facades.

The tran­quil­i­ty of soar­ing through the night sky prompts Steve to con­sid­er how his once com­fort­able and rou­tine life at home has shrunk his world. He recounts his dai­ly monot­o­ny: mun­dane tasks, inter­ac­tions, and the qui­et com­pan­ion­ship of his cat, Trou­ble. This habit­u­al exis­tence, while safe, has expand­ed his sense of iso­la­tion.

His thoughts shift to Amy, who is busy with her lap­top, immersed in files relat­ed to their ongo­ing inves­ti­ga­tion. Steve won­ders about Amy’s own vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties as he touch­es her arm and inquires if she feels scared. Their can­did exchange reveals that they both har­bor fears, yet Amy admits to being adept at evad­ing her feel­ings. Their con­ver­sa­tion bal­ances moments of seri­ous­ness with a dis­cus­sion about fam­i­ly ties, specif­i­cal­ly regard­ing Adam and how they both view him dif­fer­ent­ly.

As they strate­gize about the case involv­ing Court­ney Lewis, who is impris­oned in Dubai, a sense of urgency emerges. Steve is wary of Felic­i­ty Wool­las­ton, believ­ing she might be caught in a trou­bling sit­u­a­tion. The duo acknowl­edges the neces­si­ty of involv­ing Adam in their inves­ti­ga­tion, demon­strat­ing their pro­fes­sion­al cama­raderie and famil­ial con­nec­tions.

As the chap­ter pro­gress­es, a poignant moment aris­es when Amy express­es her grat­i­tude for Steve’s con­cern about her fears. Their heart­felt con­nec­tion empha­sizes the human expe­ri­ence of fear, high­light­ing the con­trast between her brav­ery and Steve’s self-per­ceived cow­ardice. As the chap­ter con­cludes, Steve returns to his inves­ti­ga­tion, deter­mined to uncov­er the iden­ti­ty of Joe Blow, sug­gest­ing that there may be more to unrav­el in their case than ini­tial­ly thought.

In Chap­ter 57 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” the char­ac­ter Saint is depict­ed in a peri­od of wait­ing and uncer­tain­ty as she holds vig­il out­side the old house on Rose­wood Avenue, anx­ious­ly await­ing a glimpse of some­one impor­tant to her. Each day, she finds her­self drawn to the house, tak­ing to a rust­ing lawn chair in the yard, where she is com­fort­ed by Ivy, who informs her that the per­son she waits for is sim­ply tired and asleep.

Through­out this wait­ing, Saint grap­ples with her cre­ative impuls­es, attempt­ing to chan­nel her feel­ings into mak­ing a pirate card. Despite her artis­tic efforts, she ulti­mate­ly deems the cre­ation child­ish and dis­cards it, high­light­ing her strug­gle with the emo­tion­al weight of the sit­u­a­tion.

At school, she is sub­ject­ed to rumors swirling around Patch, the indi­vid­ual whose absence weighs heav­i­ly on her. Whis­pers imply that he has returned dis­fig­ured, suf­fer­ing from griev­ous injuries inflict­ed by a malev­o­lent fig­ure from the near­by wood­land. This has undoubt­ed­ly cast a shad­ow over her dai­ly life, mak­ing her aca­d­e­m­ic expe­ri­ence even more chal­leng­ing.

Misty, a class­mate, reach­es out one day dur­ing home­room, inquir­ing about Patch. Though Saint feels the urge to con­ceal the truth and pro­tect Patch’s pri­va­cy, she choos­es silence instead. This encounter illus­trates her inter­nal conflict—wanting to shield her feel­ings and the truth from those around her.

After school, Jim­my Wal­ters tries to forge a con­nec­tion with Saint, often gath­er­ing wild­flow­ers for her. Their inter­ac­tions oscil­late between awk­ward­ness and humor, cul­mi­nat­ing in a mis­un­der­stand­ing regard­ing an invi­ta­tion to see a “beaver.” This moment punc­tu­ates the ten­sion with laugh­ter, allow­ing both char­ac­ters to share a gen­uine moment of con­nec­tion.

Reflec­tive­ly, as Saint laughs, she real­izes how long it has been since she felt joy beyond her bur­dens, mark­ing a poignant moment in her emo­tion­al jour­ney. This chap­ter encap­su­lates her iso­la­tion, the pres­sure of gos­sip, fleet­ing moments of friend­ship, and the strug­gle to cope with her real­i­ty, ulti­mate­ly empha­siz­ing her pro­found lone­li­ness and the desire for emo­tion­al relief.

Chap­ter Fifty-Sev­en pro­vides a glimpse into Mil­lie’s psy­cho­log­i­cal tur­moil and her com­plex rela­tion­ship with Andrew. The chap­ter opens with Mil­lie wak­ing up anx­ious­ly in the guest bed­room, imme­di­ate­ly check­ing on Andrew through a cam­era feed set up in the attic where he is con­fined. Ini­tial­ly believ­ing him to have escaped, she expe­ri­ences a mix­ture of relief and dread upon dis­cov­er­ing he is still there, albeit hid­den under cov­ers.

Mil­lie reflects on the ordeal Andrew has under­gone for the past five hours, trapped under heavy books. Feel­ing oblig­at­ed to hon­or their agree­ment, she plans to release him but not with­out tak­ing her time and indulging in a moment of self-care with a long show­er. Dressed and pre­pared, she secures Andrew’s phone and a mys­te­ri­ous object from the garage in her pock­ets before head­ing to the attic.

Upon reach­ing the attic, Mil­lie’s cau­tious inter­ac­tion with Andrew, who is vis­i­bly weak­ened and des­per­ate, under­scores the pow­er dynam­ics between them. Andrew’s attempts to nego­ti­ate his release only lead to Mil­lie reveal­ing her final, cru­el demand: for Andrew to extri­cate one of his own teeth with pli­ers she slides under the door. His vehe­ment refusal and sub­se­quent, futile attempts to break free expose his vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and Mil­lie’s cold manip­u­la­tion.

Through­out the chap­ter, the detailed depic­tion of the psy­cho­log­i­cal and phys­i­cal stand­off between Mil­lie and Andrew, the stark set­ting of the attic, and the intense emo­tion­al states con­vey a chill­ing nar­ra­tive of con­trol, des­per­a­tion, and the dark facets of human rela­tion­ships

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
57
Spring had at last dawned on the human world, cro­cus­es and daf­fodils
pok­ing their heads out of the thawed earth.
Only the eldest and the gold­en-haired queens came this time.
They were escort­ed by just as many guards, how­ev­er.
I once again wore my flow­ing, ivory gown and crown of gold feath­ers,
once again beside Rhysand as the queens and their sen­tries win­nowed into
the sit­ting room.
But now Rhys and I stood hand in hand—unflinching, a song with­out end
or begin­ning.
The eldest queen slid her cun­ning eyes over us, our hands, our crowns,
and mere­ly sat with­out our bid­ding, adjust­ing the skirts of her emer­ald
gown around her. The gold­en queen remained stand­ing for a moment
longer, her shin­ing, curly head angling slight­ly. Her red lips twitched
upward as she claimed the seat beside her com­pan­ion.
Rhys did not so much as low­er his head to them as he said, “We
appre­ci­ate you tak­ing the time to see us again.”
The younger queen mere­ly gave a lit­tle nod, her amber gaze leap­ing over
to our friends behind us: Cass­ian and Azriel on either side of the bay of
win­dows where Elain and Nes­ta stood in their fin­ery, Elain’s gar­den in
bloom behind them. Nesta’s shoul­ders were already locked. Elain bit her
lip.
Mor stood on Rhys’s oth­er side, this time in blue-green that remind­ed me
of the Sidra’s calm waters, the onyx box con­tain­ing the Ver­i­tas in her tan
hands.
The ancient queen, sur­vey­ing us all with nar­rowed eyes, let out a huff.
“After being so grave­ly insult­ed the last time … ” A sim­mer­ing glare
thrown at Nes­ta. My sis­ter lev­eled a look of pure, unyield­ing flame right
back at her. The old woman clicked her tongue. “We debat­ed for many days
whether we should return. As you can see, three of us found the insult to be
unfor­giv­able.”
Liar. To blame it on Nes­ta, to try to sow dis­cord between us for what
Nes­ta had tried to defend … I said with sur­pris­ing calm, “If that is the worst
insult any of you have ever received in your lives, I’d say you’re all in for
quite a shock when war comes.”
The younger one’s lips twitched again, amber eyes alight—a lion
incar­nate. She purred to me, “So he won your heart after all, Curse­break­er.”
I held her stare as Rhys and I both sat in our chairs, Mor slid­ing into one
beside him. “I do not think,” I said, “that it was mere coin­ci­dence that the
Caul­dron let us find each oth­er on the eve of war return­ing between our two
peo­ples.”
“The Caul­dron? And two peo­ples?” The gold­en one toyed with a ruby
ring on her fin­ger. “Our peo­ple do not invoke a Caul­dron; our peo­ple do not
have mag­ic. The way I see it, there is your people—and ours. You are lit­tle
bet­ter than those Chil­dren of the Blessed.” She lift­ed a groomed brow.
“What does hap­pen to them when they cross the wall?” She angled her head
at Rhys, at Cass­ian and Azriel. “Are they prey? Or are they used and
dis­card­ed, and left to grow old and infirm while you remain young for­ev­er?
Such a pity … so unfair that you, Curse­break­er, received what all those
fools no doubt begged for. Immor­tal­i­ty, eter­nal youth … What would Lord
Rhysand have done if you had aged while he did not?”
Rhys said even­ly, “Is there a point to your ques­tions, oth­er than to hear
your­self talk?”
A low chuck­le, and she turned to the ancient queen, her yel­low dress
rustling with the move­ment. The old woman sim­ply extend­ed a wrin­kled
hand to the box in Mor’s slen­der fin­gers. “Is that the proof we asked for?”
Don’t do it, my heart began bleat­ing. Don’t show them.
Before Mor could so much as nod, I said, “Is my love for the High Lord
not proof enough of our good inten­tions? Does my sis­ters’ pres­ence here
not speak to you? There is an iron engage­ment ring upon my sister’s fin­ger
—and yet she stands with us.”
Elain seemed to be fight­ing the urge to tuck her hand behind the skirts of
her pale pink and blue dress, but stayed tall while the queens sur­veyed her.
“I would say that it is proof of her idio­cy,” the gold­en one sneered, “to be
engaged to a Fae-hat­ing man … and to risk the match by asso­ci­at­ing with
you.”
“Do not,” Nes­ta hissed with qui­et ven­om, “judge what you know noth­ing
about.”
The gold­en one fold­ed her hands in her lap. “The viper speaks again.”
She raised her brows at me. “Sure­ly the wise move would have been to
have her sit this meet­ing out.”
“She offers up her house and risks her social stand­ing for us to have these
meet­ings,” I said. “She has the right to hear what is spo­ken in them. To
stand as a rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the peo­ple of these lands. They both do.”
The crone inter­rupt­ed the younger before she could reply, and again
waved that wrin­kled hand at Mor. “Show us, then. Prove us wrong.”
Rhys gave Mor a sub­tle nod. No—no, it wasn’t right. Not to show them,
not to reveal the trea­sure that was Velaris, that was my home …
War is sac­ri­fice, Rhys said into my mind, through the small sliv­er I now
kept open for him. If we do not gam­ble Velaris, we risk los­ing Pry­thi­an—
and more.
Mor opened the lid of the black box.
The sil­ver orb inside glim­mered like a star under glass. “This is the
Ver­i­tas,” Mor said in a voice that was young and old. “The gift of my first
ances­tor to our blood­line. Only a few times in the his­to­ry of Pry­thi­an have
we used it—have we unleashed its truth upon the world.”
She lift­ed the orb from its vel­vet nest. It was no larg­er than a ripe apple,
and fit with­in her cupped palms as if her entire body, her entire being, had
been mold­ed for it.
“Truth is dead­ly. Truth is free­dom. Truth can break and mend and bind.
The Ver­i­tas holds in it the truth of the world. I am the Mor­ri­g­an,” she said,
her eyes not whol­ly of this earth. The hair on my arms rose. “You know I
speak truth.”
She set the Ver­i­tas onto the car­pet between us. Both queens leaned in.
But it was Rhys who said, “You desire proof of our good­ness, our
inten­tions, so that you may trust the Book in our hands?” The Ver­i­tas began
puls­ing, a web of light spread­ing with each throb. “There is a place with­in
my lands. A city of peace. And art. And pros­per­i­ty. As I doubt you or your
guards will dare pass through the wall, then I will show it to you—show
you the truth of these words, show you this place with­in the orb itself.”
Mor stretched out a hand, and a pale cloud swirled from the orb, merg­ing
with its light as it drift­ed past our ankles.
The queens flinched, the guards edg­ing for­ward with hands on their
weapons. But the clouds con­tin­ued roil­ing as the truth of it, of Velaris,
leaked from the orb, from what­ev­er it dragged up from Mor, from Rhys.
From the truth of the world.
And in the gray gloom, a pic­ture appeared.
It was Velaris, as seen from above—as seen by Rhys, fly­ing in. A speck
in the coast, but as he dropped down, the city and the riv­er became clear­er,
vibrant.
Then the image banked and swerved, as if Rhys had flown through his
city just this morn­ing. It shot past boats and piers, past the homes and
streets and the­aters. Past the Rain­bow of Velaris, so col­or­ful and love­ly in
the new spring sun. Peo­ple, hap­py and thought­ful, kind and wel­com­ing,
waved to him. Moment after moment, images of the Palaces, of the
restau­rants, of the House of Wind. All of it—all of that secret, won­drous
city. My home.
And I could have sworn that there was love in that image. I could not
explain how the Ver­i­tas con­veyed it, but the col­ors … I under­stood the
col­ors, and the light, what they con­veyed, what the orb some­how picked up
from what­ev­er link it had to Rhys’s mem­o­ries.
The illu­sion fad­ed, col­or and light and cloud sucked back into the orb.
“That is Velaris,” Rhys said. “For five thou­sand years, we have kept it a
secret from out­siders. And now you know. That is what I pro­tect with the
rumors, the whis­pers, the fear. Why I fought for your peo­ple in the War—
only to begin my own sup­posed reign of ter­ror once I ascend­ed my throne,
and ensured every­one heard the leg­ends about it. But if the cost of
pro­tect­ing my city and peo­ple is the con­tempt of the world, then so be it.”
The two queens were gap­ing at the car­pet as if they could still see the city
there. Mor cleared her throat. The gold­en one, as if Mor had barked, start­ed
and dropped an ornate lace hand­ker­chief on the ground. She leaned to pick
it up, cheeks a bit red.
But the crone raised her eyes to us. “Your trust is … appre­ci­at­ed.”
We wait­ed.
Both of their faces turned grave, unmoved. And I was glad I was sit­ting
as the eldest added at last, “We will con­sid­er.”
“There is no time to con­sid­er,” Mor coun­tered. “Every day lost is anoth­er
day that Hybern gets clos­er to shat­ter­ing the wall.”
“We will dis­cuss amongst our com­pan­ions, and inform you at our
leisure.”
“Do you not under­stand the risks you take in doing so?” Rhys said, no
hint of con­de­scen­sion. Only—only per­haps shock. “You need this alliance
as much as we do.”
The ancient queen shrugged her frail shoul­ders. “Did you think we would
be moved by your let­ter, your plea?” She jerked her chin to the guard
clos­est, and he reached into his armor to pull out a fold­ed let­ter. The old
woman read, “I write to you not as a High Lord, but as a male in love with
a woman who was once human. I write to you to beg you to act quick­ly. To
save her people—to help save my own. I write to you so one day we might
know true peace. So I might one day be able to live in a world where the
woman I love may vis­it her fam­i­ly with­out fear of hatred and reprisal. A
bet­ter world.” She set down the let­ter.
Rhys had writ­ten that let­ter weeks ago … before we’d mat­ed. Not a
demand for the queens to meet—but a love let­ter. I reached across the space
between us and took his hand, squeez­ing gen­tly. Rhys’s fin­gers tight­ened
around my own.
But then the ancient one said, “Who is to say that this is not all some
grand manip­u­la­tion?”
“What?” Mor blurt­ed.
The gold­en queen nod­ded her agree­ment and dared say to Mor, “A great
many things have changed since the War. Since your so-called friend­ships
with our ances­tors. Per­haps you are not who you say you are. Per­haps the
High Lord has crept into our minds to make us believe you are the
Mor­ri­g­an.”
Rhys was silent—we all were. Until Nes­ta said too soft­ly, ‘This is the
talk of mad­women. Of arro­gant, stu­pid fools.”
Elain grabbed for Nesta’s hand to silence her. But Nes­ta stalked for­ward
a step, face white with rage. “Give them the Book.”
The queens blinked, stiff­en­ing.
My sis­ter snapped, “Give them the Book.”
And the eldest queen hissed, “No.”
The word clanged through me.
But Nes­ta went on, fling­ing out an arm to encom­pass us, the room, the
world, “There are inno­cent peo­ple here. In these lands. If you will not risk
your necks against the forces that threat­en us, then grant those peo­ple a
fight­ing chance. Give my sis­ter the Book.”
The crone sighed sharply through her nose. “An evac­u­a­tion may be
pos­si­ble—”
“You would need ten thou­sand ships,” Nes­ta said, her voice break­ing.
“You would need an arma­da. I have cal­cu­lat­ed the num­bers. And if you are
ready­ing for war, you will not send your ships to us. We are strand­ed here.”
The crone gripped the pol­ished arms of her chair as she leaned for­ward a
bit. “Then I sug­gest ask­ing one of your winged males to car­ry you across
the sea, girl.”
Nesta’s throat bobbed. “Please.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard that word
from her mouth. “Please—do not leave us to face this alone.”
The eldest queen remained unmoved. I had no words in my head.
We had shown them … we had … we had done every­thing. Even Rhys
was silent, his face unread­able.
But then Cass­ian crossed to Nes­ta, the guards stiff­en­ing as the Illyr­i­an
moved through them as if they were stalks of wheat in a field.
He stud­ied Nes­ta for a long moment. She was still glar­ing at the queens,
her eyes lined with tears—tears of rage and despair, from that fire that
burned her so vio­lent­ly from with­in. When she final­ly noticed Cass­ian, she
looked up at him.
His voice was rough as he said, “Five hun­dred years ago, I fought on
bat­tle­fields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike,
bled beside them. I will stand on that bat­tle­field again, Nes­ta Archeron, to
pro­tect this house—your peo­ple. I can think of no bet­ter way to end my
exis­tence than to defend those who need it most.”
I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cass­ian
reached up a hand to wipe it away.
She did not flinch from his touch.
I didn’t know why, but I looked at Mor.
Her eyes were wide. Not with jeal­ousy, or irri­ta­tion, but … some­thing
per­haps like awe.
Nes­ta swal­lowed and at last turned away from Cass­ian. He stared at my
sis­ter a moment longer before fac­ing the queens.
With­out sig­nal, the two women rose.
Mor demand­ed, on her feet as well, “Is it a sum you’re after? Name your
price, then.”
The gold­en queen snort­ed as their guards closed in around them. “We
have all the rich­es we need. We will now return to our palace to delib­er­ate
with our sis­ters.”
“You’re already going to say no,” Mor pushed.
The gold­en queen smirked. “Per­haps.” She took the crone’s with­ered
hand.
The ancient queen lift­ed her chin. “We appre­ci­ate the ges­ture of your
trust.”
Then they were gone.
Mor swore. And I looked at Rhys, my own heart break­ing, about to
demand why he hadn’t pushed, why he hadn’t said more—
But his eyes were on the chair where the gold­en queen had been seat­ed.
Beneath it, some­how hid­den by her volu­mi­nous skirts while she’d sat,
was a box.
A box … that she must have removed from wher­ev­er she was hid­ing it
when she’d leaned down to pick up her hand­ker­chief.
Rhys had known it. Had stopped speak­ing to get them out as fast as
pos­si­ble.
How and where she’d smug­gled in that lead box was the least of my
con­cerns.
Not as the voice of the sec­ond and final piece of the Book filled the
room, sang to me.
Life and death and rebirth
Sun and moon and dark
Rot and bloom and bones
Hel­lo, sweet thing. Hel­lo, lady of night, princess of decay. Hel­lo, fanged
beast and trem­bling fawn. Love me, touch me, sing me.
Mad­ness. Where the first half had been cold cun­ning, this box … this
was chaos, and dis­or­der, and law­less­ness, joy and despair.

Six months fol­low­ing the trag­ic loss of Har­ry, the real­iza­tion dawned that I need­ed to remove Con­nor from our cur­rent envi­ron­ment. Her father’s death, sur­round­ed by a mix­ture of shock and grief, mir­rored the loss I faced when my moth­er died years ear­li­er. With Con­nor’s well­be­ing my pri­or­i­ty, I con­clud­ed that a change of scenery might halt her destruc­tive path. The allure of escap­ing the pub­lic eye, the drug deal­ers, and the over­all tox­i­c­i­ty of our cur­rent life became my focus. I envi­sioned a place where super­vi­sion was eas­i­er, and heal­ing, more fea­si­ble.

In the throes of despair, my night­ly con­ver­sa­tions with Celia pro­vid­ed solace and a sem­blance of sta­bil­i­ty. Celia, dis­tanced yet ever-present through these calls, sug­gest­ed a move to Aldiz, a qui­et fish­ing vil­lage along Spain’s south­ern coast. The deci­sion was bold—a leap towards anonymi­ty, away from the pry­ing eyes and the pain inter­twined with fame. But it also meant part­ing ways with Luisa, our long-term care­tak­er, who had become an inte­gral part of our lives through the years. Acknowl­edg­ing her need for change, I pre­pared to embrace the more mun­dane aspects of life, find­ing solace in the sim­plic­i­ty of domes­tic duties.

Unveil­ing the plan to Con­nor, I braced myself for her reac­tion. The dis­clo­sure encom­passed not only our relo­ca­tion but also my retire­ment from act­ing, and my rela­tion­ship with Celia, with whom I intend­ed to forge a new life. My approach was direct, treat­ing Con­nor not as a child, but as some­one deserv­ing of hon­esty and respect. My heart sank as she expressed indif­fer­ence to the upheavals, yearn­ing only for soli­tude.

The days lead­ing to our depar­ture were a mix of logis­ti­cal arrange­ments and silent appre­hen­sions. Two days before our move, I reas­sured Con­nor of the auton­o­my she would have in Aldiz, hop­ing to kin­dle a spark of enthu­si­asm for our new begin­ning. Despite the chal­lenges, the move rep­re­sent­ed a des­per­ate yet hope­ful attempt to mend the frag­ment­ed pieces of our lives.