The scent hits me before the memory does.
Jasmine and something bitter underneath, like burnt sugar. My mother used to keep a bottle of it on her vanity, the only luxury she ever let herself have. I haven't smelled it since the night I left home with one bag and a lie sewn into my skin.
"April." Jodan's voice is low, careful. "Talk to me."
"That perfume," I whisper. "It's my mother's. She made it herself. No one else has ever had it. No one else could have it."
"Are you certain?" Eryx asks, and I hear how gently he's asking, like he already suspects the answer will hurt me either way.
"I'm certain."
Riven's hand finds the hilt of his blade again, knuckles white. "Then either your mother is down there, or someone wants you to think she is."
"My mother is dead." The words come out fla
