“You might as well read along with me,” he said to Fairfax. “Many of her visions have to do with our task.”

Fairfax left the low table and crouched down next to him.

4 April, YD 1021

While Titus and I played in the upper gardens this morning, I had a vision of a coronation—one could not mistake those particular banners of the Angelic Host, flown only at coronations and state funerals. And judging by the colorful attire of the spectators thronging the street, I was witnessing no funeral.

But whose coronation is this? I caught three minutes of a long parade, that was all.

I came back to Titus tugging at my sleeve. He had found a ladybug he wanted me to admire. The poor child. I do not know why he loves me. Whenever he wants my attention, I always seem to be caught in another vision.

“The date—it’s just after the end of the January Uprising, isn’t it?” asked Fairfax.

Titus nodded. Baroness Sorren had been executed the day before.

They read on.

10 April, YD 1021

The vision returned. This time I was able to see, at the very end of Palace Avenue, the arrival of the state chariot. But I could not make out its occupant, except to see the sun dancing upon his or her crown.

For the rest of the day I could not concentrate on anything else. Poor Titus brought me a glass of pompear juice. After holding it for some time, I handed it back without taking a sip.

I need to know. I must know. The day after this vision occurred for the first time, Father requested that I exchange my life for Titus’s future on the throne. I asked for time to consider it. He gave me three weeks.

If I am the person in the state chariot, then I will take Titus and go into hiding. The Labyrinthine Mountains are full of impenetrable folds and valleys. The nonmage world likewise offers plenty of means to disappear.

But what if I am not the person in the chariot?

12 April, YD 1021

I am not the person in the chariot.

Titus is. And he is tiny, barely bigger than he is now.

This time the vision lasted and lasted. I saw the entirety of his coronation, as well as the ceremony that invested Alectus with the powers of regency.

Either I have gone into exile by myself, or I am dead.

Because Titus is so young, many festivities that would otherwise take place are postponed until he comes of age. Still, for hours on end he receives well-wishers. My son, small, solemn, and all alone in the world.

Finally he is by himself. He takes out a letter from inside his tunic, tears it open, and reads. I could not see the writing on the letter, but the discarded envelope bears my personal seal.

The letter has a dramatic effect on Titus. He looks as if he has been kicked in the chest. He reads it again, then runs to take something out of his drawer.

My diary. This diary, which has never left my side.

He opens the diary. The first page reads My dearest son, I will be here when you truly need me. Mama. The date beneath the inscription is two weeks from today.

He turns the pages.

Shock. My diary is empty—pages upon pages of nothing.

When something finally appears on the page, I am shocked again. It was the vision about a young man on a balcony, seen from the back, witnessing something that stuns him. I had experienced the vision several times but never sensed any significance to it.

Apparently I shall feel quite different about it in the near future. The description of the vision, less than half a page long when I last added to it, now stretches the full four pages I allot any one vision. Even the margins are packed with words.

The vision itself began to fade at this point, but I was able to read bits and pieces of my writing, which concern elemental magic, of all things. In the crammed paragraphs I reference other visions, which appear to have nothing at all to do with this one, even recounting a conversation with Callista, during which she told me in strict confidence what she had learned about Atlantis’s interest in elemental mages, from the then-Inquisitor herself, no less, who had been quite enamored of her beauty and charm.

The vision has faded completely. It is now past five in the morning. The sky outside my window shows the faintest trace of orange. I realize with a wrenching pain in my heart that my days are numbered.

But there is no time to wallow in self-pity. In the next two weeks I will write passionately about elemental magic, but I barely know anything about it.

I must quickly find out not only a great deal more about elemental magic, but why I should care.

But first I weep—because I will not see my son grow up. I will not even see him reach his next birthday. And he will only remember me as the dotty woman who did not drink the juice he had specially brought for me.

The Inquisitor was the liar, not his mother.

A hot shame gripped Titus, that he’d doubted his mother so harshly. That he’d hated her as often and as much as he did.

He excused himself and hurried to the water closet, where he lost his battle with tears. He was still wiping them away when Fairfax called out, “Come here. I found another vision!”

“Are you sure? I have never seen more than one at a time,” said the prince.

His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying. She immediately looked back at the diary. “I was randomly flipping pages. I’m almost sure these pages were blank earlier when you looked at them, but they are not anymore.”

He sat next to her. “This one is from almost a decade before the other one.”

He began to read. She stole a glance at him, then did the same.

7 May 1012

A new vision today.

The vision is of a library—or a bookshop. A woman, who has her back to me, wanders through the shelves and appears to be searching for a specific title.

She stops and reaches for a tome that requires two hands to lift. The title on the spine reads The Complete Potion.

(I know this book—a detestable volume full of pretension and remarkably empty on actual scholarship. My tutor used to torment me with it.)

The woman in the vision, with some difficulty, maneuvers the book to a desk and sets it down next to a calendar that s hows the date, 25 August.

She opens the book and quickly finds what she is looking for. The subject is light elixirs. There is a stylus on the desk. She picks up the stylus and writes on the very edge of a page, There is no light elixir, however tainted, that cannot be cured by a thunderbolt.

Iolanthe’s recoiled. These were the fateful words that had changed everything.

“Is this the advice that you received on Tuesday?” asked the prince.

Tuesday. Less than a week and more than a lifetime ago. She nodded.

“I guess we are about to find out who wrote it,” he said.

5 August 1013

A repeat of last year’s vision, with no new information.

11 August 1013

I have seen this vision three times in the last two days. Yesterday I asked my tutor whether lightning could be used to mend an elixir. He laughed until he choked.

12 August 1013

Again the same vision. It grows vexing.

15 August 1013

Finally something new.

As the woman in the vision leans toward the stylus holder, I was able to make out, on the base of the holder, the inscription: Presented to my dear friend and mentor Eugenides Constantinos.

16 August 1013

I have found out that Eugenides Constantinos owns a bookshop at the intersection of Hyacinth Street and University Avenue. I will stop and take a look the next time I am in the area.