The price of tragedy—any tragedy—was blood. She'd known that, when she'd persuaded Lloyd to let Constance live. She'd known that, too, when she stepped forward to fight by John's side, for whatever brief time she could. She'd know that even as her gun ran out of bullets, even as she felt the howling of ghosts waiting for her to join them in death, their cries louder, louder, hungry. When she died so Constance could live, so the little tragedy of her demise could flavor the victory of the rebels, she knew better than to feel betrayed. Lloyd was the narrator; he'd never been her friend.