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
68
Rhysand
I slammed into the floor of the town house, and Amren was instant­ly there,
hands on Cassian’s wings, swear­ing at the dam­age. Then at the hole in
Azriel’s chest.
Even her heal­ing couldn’t fix both. No, we’d need a real heal­er for each
of them, and fast, because if Cass­ian lost those wings … I knew he’d pre­fer
death. Any Illyr­i­an would.
“Where is she?” Amren demand­ed.
Where is she where is she where is she
“Get the Book out of here,” I said, dump­ing the pieces onto the ground. I
hat­ed the touch of them, their mad­ness and despair and joy. Amren ignored
the order.
Mor hadn’t appeared—dropping off or hid­ing Nes­ta and Elain wher­ev­er
she deemed safest.
“Where is she?” Amren said again, press­ing a hand to Cassian’s rav­aged
back. I knew she didn’t mean Mor.
As if my thoughts had sum­moned her, my cousin appeared—panting,
hag­gard. She dropped to the floor before Azriel, her blood-caked hands
shak­ing as she ripped the arrow free of his chest, blood show­er­ing the
car­pet. She shoved her fin­gers over the wound, light flar­ing as her pow­er
knit bone and flesh and vein togeth­er.
“Where is she?” Amren snapped one more time.
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
So Mor said them for me as she knelt over Azriel, both of my broth­ers
mer­ci­ful­ly uncon­scious. “Tam­lin offered pas­sage through his lands and our
heads on plat­ters to the king in exchange for trap­ping Feyre, break­ing her
bond, and get­ting to bring her back to the Spring Court. But Ianthe betrayed
Tamlin—told the king where to find Feyre’s sis­ters. So the king had Feyre’s
sis­ters brought with the queens—to prove he could make them immor­tal.
He put them in the Caul­dron. We could do noth­ing as they were turned. He
had us by the balls.”
Those quick­sil­ver eyes shot to me. “Rhysand.”
I man­aged to say, “We were out of options, and Feyre knew it. So she
pre­tend­ed to free her­self from the con­trol Tam­lin thought I’d kept on her
mind. Pre­tend­ed that she … hat­ed us. And told him she’d go home—but
only if the killing stopped. If we went free.”
“And the bond,” Amren breathed, Cassian’s blood shin­ing on her hands
as she slowed its drib­bling.
Mor said, “She asked the king to break the bond. He oblig­ed.”
I thought I might be dying—thought my chest might actu­al­ly be cleaved
in two.
“That’s impos­si­ble,” Amren said. “That sort of bond can­not be bro­ken.”
“The king said he could do it.”
“The king is a fool,” Amren barked. “That sort of bond can­not be
bro­ken.”
“No, it can’t,” I said.
They both looked at me.
I cleared my head, my shat­ter­ing heart—breaking for what my mate had
done, sac­ri­ficed for me and my fam­i­ly. For her sis­ters. Because she hadn’t
thought … hadn’t thought she was essen­tial. Even after all she had done.
“The king broke the bar­gain between us. Hard to do, but he couldn’t tell
that it wasn’t the mat­ing bond.”
Mor start­ed. “Does—does Feyre know—”
“Yes,” I breathed. “And now my mate is in our enemy’s hands.”
“Go get her,” Amren hissed. “Right now.”
“No,” I said, and hat­ed the word.
They gaped at me, and I want­ed to roar at the sight of the blood coat­ing
them, at my uncon­scious and suf­fer­ing broth­ers on the car­pet before them.
But I man­aged to say to my cousin, “Weren’t you lis­ten­ing to what Feyre
said to him? She promised to destroy him—from with­in.”
Mor’s face paled, her mag­ic flar­ing on Azriel’s chest. “She’s going into
that house to take him down. To take them all down.”
I nod­ded. “She is now a spy—with a direct line to me. What the King of
Hybern does, where he goes, what his plans are, she will know. And report
back.”
For between us, faint and soft, hid­den so none might find it … between
us lay a whis­per of col­or, and joy, of light and shadow—a whis­per of her.
Our bond.
“She’s your mate,” Amren bit at me. “Not your spy. Go get her.”
“She is my mate. And my spy,” I said too qui­et­ly. “And she is the High
Lady of the Night Court.”
“What?” Mor whis­pered.
I caressed a men­tal fin­ger down that bond now hid­den deep, deep with­in
us, and said, “If they had removed her oth­er glove, they would have seen a
sec­ond tat­too on her right arm. The twin to the oth­er. Inked last night, when
we crept out, found a priest­ess, and I swore her in as my High Lady.”
“Not—not con­sort,” Amren blurt­ed, blink­ing. I hadn’t seen her sur­prised
in … cen­turies.
“Not con­sort, not wife. Feyre is High Lady of the Night Court.” My
equal in every way; she would wear my crown, sit on a throne beside mine.
Nev­er side­lined, nev­er des­ig­nat­ed to breed­ing and par­ties and child-rear­ing.
My queen.
As if in answer, a glim­mer of love shud­dered down the bond. I clamped
down on the relief that threat­ened to shat­ter any calm I feigned hav­ing.
“You mean to tell me,” Mor breathed, “that my High Lady is now
sur­round­ed by ene­mies?” A lethal sort of calm crept over her tear-stained
face.
“I mean to tell you,” I said, watch­ing the blood clot on Cassian’s wings
with Amren’s tend­ing. Beneath Mor’s own hands, Azriel’s bleed­ing at last
eased. Enough to keep them alive until the heal­er got here. “I mean to tell
you,” I said again, my pow­er build­ing and rub­bing itself against my skin,
my bones, des­per­ate to be unleashed upon the world, “that your High Lady
made a sac­ri­fice for her court—and we will move when the time is right.”
Per­haps Lucien being Elain’s mate would help—somehow. I’d find a
way.
And then I’d assist my mate in rip­ping the Spring Court, Ianthe, those
mor­tal queens, and the King of Hybern to shreds. Slow­ly.
“Until then?” Amren demand­ed. “What of the Cauldron—of the Book?”

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.

W HEN I GET TO EVELYN’S apart­ment in the morn­ing, I’m unsure
when I even made the actu­al deci­sion to come.
I sim­ply woke up and found myself on my way. When I round­ed the
cor­ner, walk­ing here from the sub­way, I real­ized I could nev­er have
not come.
I can­not and will not do any­thing to com­pro­mise my stand­ing at
Vivant. I did not fight for writer at large to bunt at the last minute.
I’m right on time but some­how the last to arrive. Grace opens the
door for me and already looks as if a hur­ri­cane hit her. Her hair is
falling out of her pony­tail, and she’s try­ing hard­er than usu­al to keep a
smile on her face.
“They showed up almost forty-five min­utes ear­ly,” Grace says to me
in a whis­per. “Eve­lyn had a make­up per­son in at the crack of dawn to
get her ready before the magazine’s make­up per­son. She had a
light­ing con­sul­tant come in at eight thir­ty this morn­ing to guide her on
the most flat­ter­ing light in the house. Turns out it’s the ter­race, which
I have not been as dili­gent about clean­ing because it’s still cold out
every day. Any­way, I’ve been scrub­bing the ter­race from top to bot­tom
for the past two hours.” Grace jok­ing­ly rests her head on my shoul­der.
“Thank God I’m going on vaca­tion.”
“Monique!” Frankie says when she sees me in the hall­way. “What
took you so long?”
I look at my watch. “It’s eleven-oh-six.” I remem­ber the first day I
met Eve­lyn Hugo. I remem­ber how ner­vous I was. I remem­ber how
larg­er-than-life she seemed. She is painful­ly human to me now. But this
is all new to Frankie. She hasn’t seen the real Eve­lyn. She still thinks
we’re pho­tograph­ing an icon more than a per­son.
I step out onto the ter­race and see Eve­lyn in the midst of lights,
reflec­tors, wires, and cam­eras. There are peo­ple cir­cled around her.
She is sit­ting on a stool. Her gray blond hair is being blown in the air
by a wind machine. She is wear­ing her sig­na­ture emer­ald green, this
time in a long-sleeved silk gown. Bil­lie Hol­i­day is play­ing on a speak­er
some­where. The sun is shin­ing behind Eve­lyn. She looks like the very
cen­ter of the uni­verse.
She is right at home.
She smiles for the cam­era, her brown eyes sparkling in a dif­fer­ent
way from any­thing I’ve ever seen in per­son. She seems at peace
some­how, in full dis­play, and I won­der if the real Eve­lyn isn’t the
woman I’ve been talk­ing to for the past two weeks but, instead, the one
I see before me right now. Even at almost eighty, she com­mands a
room in a way I’ve nev­er seen before. A star is always and for­ev­er a
star.
Eve­lyn was born to be famous. I think her body helped her. I think
her face helped her. But for the first time, watch­ing her in action,
mov­ing in front of the cam­era, I get the sense that she has sold her­self
short in one way: she could have been born with con­sid­er­ably less
phys­i­cal gifts and prob­a­bly still made it. She sim­ply has it. That
unde­fin­able qual­i­ty that makes every­one stop and pay atten­tion.
She spots me as I stand behind one of the light­ing guys, and she
stops what she’s doing. She waves me over to her.
“Every­one, every­one,” she says. “We need a few pho­tos of Monique
and me. Please.”
“Oh, Eve­lyn,” I say. “I don’t want to do that.” I don’t want to even be
close to her.
“Please,” she says. “To remem­ber me by.”
A cou­ple of peo­ple laugh, as if Eve­lyn is mak­ing a joke. Because, of
course, no one could for­get Eve­lyn Hugo. But I know she’s seri­ous.
And so, in my jeans and blaz­er, I step up next to her. I take off my
glass­es. I can feel the heat of the lights, the way they glare in my eyes,
the way the wind feels on my face.
“Eve­lyn, I know this isn’t news to you,” the pho­tog­ra­ph­er says, “but
boy, does the cam­era love you.”
“Oh,” Eve­lyn says, shrug­ging. “It nev­er hurts to hear it one more
time.”
Her dress is low-cut, reveal­ing her still-ample cleav­age, and it
occurs to me that it is the very thing that made her that will be the
thing to final­ly take her down.
Eve­lyn catch­es my eye and smiles. It is a sin­cere smile, a kind
smile. There is some­thing almost nur­tur­ing about it, as if she is
look­ing at me to see how I’m doing, as if she cares.
And then, in an instant, I real­ize that she does.
Eve­lyn Hugo wants to know that I’m OK, that with every­thing that
has hap­pened, I will still be all right.
In a moment of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, I find myself putting my arm around
her. A sec­ond after I do, I real­ize that I want to pull it back, that I’m not
ready to be this close.
“I love it!” the pho­tog­ra­ph­er says. “Just like that.”
I can­not pull my arm away now. And so I pre­tend. I pre­tend, for one
pic­ture, that I am not a bun­dle of nerves. I pre­tend that I am not
furi­ous and con­fused and heart­bro­ken and torn up and dis­ap­point­ed
and shocked and uncom­fort­able.
I pre­tend that I am sim­ply cap­ti­vat­ed by Eve­lyn Hugo.
Because, despite every­thing, I still am.
  *  *  *  
AFTER THE PHOTOGRAPHER leaves, after every­one has cleaned up,
after Frankie has left the apart­ment, so hap­py that she could have
sprout­ed wings and flown her­self back to the office, I am prepar­ing to
leave.
Eve­lyn is upstairs chang­ing her clothes.
“Grace,” I say as I spot her gath­er­ing dis­pos­able cups and paper
plates in the kitchen. “I want­ed to take a moment to say good-bye,
since Eve­lyn and I are done.”
“Done?” Grace asks.
I nod. “We fin­ished up the sto­ry yes­ter­day. Pho­to shoot today. Now I
get to writ­ing,” I say, even though I haven’t the fog­gi­est idea how I’m
going to approach any of this or what, exact­ly, my next step is.
“Oh,” Grace says, shrug­ging. “I must have mis­un­der­stood. I
thought you were going to be here with Eve­lyn through my vaca­tion.
But hon­est­ly, all I could focus on was that I had two tick­ets to Cos­ta
Rica in my hands.”
“That’s excit­ing. When do you leave?”
“On the red-eye lat­er,” Grace says. “Eve­lyn gave them to me last
night. For me and my hus­band. All expens­es paid. A week. We’re
stay­ing near Mon­teverde. All I heard was ‘zip-lin­ing in the cloud
for­est,’ and I was sold.”
“You deserve it,” Eve­lyn says as she appears at the top of the stairs
and walks down to meet us. She is in jeans and a T‑shirt but has kept
her hair and make­up. She looks gor­geous but also plain. Two things
that only Eve­lyn Hugo can be at once.
“Are you sure you don’t need me here? I thought Monique would be
around to keep you com­pa­ny,” Grace says.
Eve­lyn shakes her head. “No, you go. You’ve done so much for me
late­ly. You need some time on your own. If some­thing comes up, I can
always call down­stairs.”
“I don’t need to—”
Eve­lyn cuts her off. “Yes, you do. It’s impor­tant that you know how
much I appre­ci­ate all that you’ve done around here. So let me say
thank you this way.”
Grace smiles demure­ly. “OK,” she says. “If you insist.”
“I do. In fact, go home now. You’ve been clean­ing all day, and I’m
sure you need more time to pack. So go on, get out of here.”
Sur­pris­ing­ly, Grace doesn’t fight her. She mere­ly says thank you
and gath­ers her things. Every­thing seems to be hap­pen­ing seam­less­ly
until Eve­lyn stops her on her way out and gives her a hug.
Grace seems slight­ly sur­prised though pleased.
“You know I could nev­er have spent these past few years with­out
you, don’t you?” Eve­lyn says as she pulls away from her.
Grace blush­es. “Thank you.”
“Have fun in Cos­ta Rica,” Eve­lyn says. “The time of your life.”
And once Grace is out the door, I sus­pect I under­stand what is
going on.