The funeral was small.
Gran had never liked fuss, and she’d outlived most of her friends. The people who came to the hill behind the old farmhouse on the crisp, bright morning were a motley assortment—Mrs. Carrow in a black coat with mismatched buttons, Sandra from Hollybrook with her eyes red, a couple of women from Gran’s old church, Harper’s parents, Zia’s Tía with a scarf over her hair and a rosary wound around her fist.
They sprinkled her ashes at the top of the hill, where stubbled grass gave way to the memory of orchard rows.
The wind took the gray dust and flung it wide. Some caught on Rowan’s sweater, on Harper’s curls, on Caelan’s coat where he stood at the far edge of the gathering, pressed almost to the tree line.
He looked wildly out of place among the folding chairs and travel mugs of coffee.
Most people’s eyes slid right off him. If they noticed him at all, they’d think *old friend of the family.* *Distant cousin.* His glamour worked better in groups.
Rowan felt him like a pressure behind her ribs.
The pastor—retired, shaking, but still with a voice that rolled like distant thunder—said some words about dust and return. He didn’t talk much about heaven. Gran had made it very clear she had no intention of spending eternity at a sing-along.
Rowan stood with Harper and Zia flanking her. Her hands were cold. The urn was gone now—empty, the last physical bit of Gran scattered into the land she’d fought to keep too long and lost anyway.
After, people shuffled back to their cars. Mrs. Carrow hugged her until Rowan thought her ribs would crack. Harper’s mom pressed a casserole dish into her hands with the intensity of someone giving a life raft.
“If you need anything,” she said, voice thick. “Anything at all.”
“Thank you,” Rowan said. The words felt inadequate and heavy all at once.
One by one, they left.
Until it was just Rowan, her friends, Caelan, and the hill.
The farmhouse at the bottom of the slope had a new coat of paint now. Someone had put up a trampoline in the yard. A plastic slide. A faint echo of children’s laughter drifted up.
“Do you want us to stay?” Harper asked softly.
“Yes,” Rowan said. Then, “No. I don’t know.”
Zia squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll be at the car,” she said gently. “Yell if you need us. Or if he gets weird.”
Harper shot Caelan a look that promised violence and retreated with Zia down the hill.
The wind tugged at Rowan’s hair.
She stood in the spot where they’d let go of Gran and tried to feel something other than the gaping hole in her chest.
Footsteps behind her.
He didn’t speak. Just came to stand beside her, hands in his coat pockets.
For a while, they just…stood.
“She loved this place,” Rowan said finally, voice rough. “Even when she hated it.”
“I know,” Caelan said quietly. “I watched her plant those apple trees.”
Rowan blinked. “You—”
“She thought no one saw her,” he said. “She was wrong.”
“She hated being watched,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” he said. “So do you.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Then maybe stop,” she said.
He exhaled. “I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”
The admission should have made her angry.
It just made her tired.
“I keep thinking I should have done more,” she said. “Come earlier. Stayed longer. Said…different things.”
“She knew,” he said.
“You say that like it’s…simple,” she said.
“It isn’t,” he said. “But it is…true.”
She stared at the patch of earth where the ashes had vanished. “What happens there?” she asked quietly. “When you die. In your Court.”
He was silent for a beat.
“Depends,” he said eventually. “On who you are. On who you were. Some are burned, their ashes scattered in the wildwood. Some are entombed under the Palace, their bones woven into the foundations. Some…simply fade, if no one cares enough to mark them.”
“And you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
The wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He pushed it back absently. “I used to think I wanted…a pyre,” he said. “Something dramatic. Flames and speeches.” His mouth twisted. “Now…I think I’d like a tree. Something crooked. Difficult to cut down.”
She almost smiled. “Of course you would,” she said.
He glanced at her. “And you?” he asked. “If your people’s stories were…real. If you believed in…heaven. Hell. Rebirth. What would you choose?”
She thought of Gran’s dry voice. *I want to haunt irresponsible men.*
“I don’t know,” she said. “I used to think…nothing. Just…off. Dark. No more. That sounded…peaceful.” She swallowed. “Now, I kind of hope she’s somewhere she can yell at people again.”
“That would be hell for them,” he said. “Heaven for her.”
“Exactly,” she said.
They fell silent again.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “That she didn’t get to see…what happens next.”
“She saw enough,” Rowan said. “She saw me say yes.”
His head turned. “Do you regret it?” he asked quietly.
She stared at the horizon. “Ask me on the other side,” she said. “Right now, I’m…too full of her to be full of anything else.”
He nodded.
A crow landed on one of the old apple stumps, head canted. Ash. He cawed once, short and sharp.
“He thinks we should go,” Caelan said.
“Why does he always know what we’re doing?” Rowan asked.
“Because he’s nosy,” Caelan said. “And bound to me.”
“Like I’m about to be,” she said.
He went very still. “Not…like that,” he said. “Our bond is…chosen. Yours will be…too. We are not...binding you to me. We are...binding me to you.”
She huffed. “Semantics,” she said.
“Words,” he said quietly, “are all we have.”
She closed her eyes.
“Gran told me to make you bleed,” she said. “You did. With that oath. With this plan.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“It’s not enough,” she said.
He blinked. “No?”
“Not yet,” she said. She turned to face him. “Tonight. The formal bargain. The…ritual. Whatever you’re calling it. I want more.”
His eyes flickered. “More…terms.”
“More teeth,” she said.
He inclined his head. “Name them,” he said.
She swallowed. “Not here,” she said. “I can’t…do this here.”
He nodded. “Where, then?”
She thought of Gran’s room. Too full of absence. Of their apartment. Too permeated with Harper and Zia and comfort.
“The store,” she said. “After closing.”
He smiled faintly. “Our…neutral ground,” he said.
“Where I have access to a bat,” she said.
His lips twitched. “I’ll try not to deserve it,” he said.
He took a step back, giving her space.
“I’ll meet you there,” he said. “At midnight.”
“Midnight,” she echoed. It felt like a cliché. A story thing. But then, her life had become a story months ago.
“Don’t be late,” she said.
“I’m never late,” he said. “I’m merely…dramatic.”
She snorted.
He turned and walked down the hill, moving between the fractured shadows of the apple stumps. Ash took flight, circling overhead.
Rowan watched him go.
“Gran,” she whispered to the empty air. “If you’re still hanging around, please don’t haunt him. Yet.”
A faint breeze lifted her hair, smelling faintly of peppermint and smoke.
She took it as approval.
***
Ever After Books felt…different that evening.
The bell chimed the same. The floors creaked the same. The heater still clunked uncertainly when it turned on.
But the aisle lights seemed dimmer. The shadows deeper. The fairy lights along the ceiling flickered as if in anticipation.
Harper and Zia were there for closing, shelving and dusting with more vigor than was strictly required. Mrs. Carrow had hugged Rowan three separate times before leaving with suspiciously shiny eyes.
“Text me if you need me,” she’d said. “For anything. Ghosts. Goblins. Awkward conversations.”
“I will,” Rowan had promised.
Now, the sign said CLOSED. The deadbolt was turned. The curtains in the front windows were half-drawn.
Harper perched on the counter, legs swinging. “I resent that this is happening in my place of work,” she said.
“Our place,” Rowan corrected. “We resent it together.”
Zia leaned on the romance display, twirling a pen between her fingers. “He’s cutting it close,” she said, eyeing the clock. 11:58.
“He said midnight,” Rowan said. “He’s probably timing his dramatic entrance.”
The lights flickered.
“Of course he is,” Harper muttered.
At exactly midnight, the bell over the door chimed.
Even though no one had opened it.
The air went cold.
Rowan’s breath clouded faintly in front of her.
“Very theatrical,” Harper said, teeth chattering. “Two stars.”
Caelan stepped out of the shadow between the New Releases shelf and the window display.
No door. No seam. Just…there.
He wore Court clothes tonight.
Not armor, not a crown. But not mortal casual, either.
A dark green coat fitted close to his shoulders. A shirt of some fine, shimmering fabric that caught the light in subtle ways, open at the throat. Black trousers, boots polished, a knife at his hip.
His hair was loose, falling around his face. His glamour was thinner than ever. The angles of him were too sharp for human, the colors just a fraction too saturated.
He looked like he’d stepped straight out of one of the more honest fae books on the folklore shelf.
Harper whistled under her breath. “Okay,” she said. “I take it back. Four stars.”
Zia elbowed her.
Caelan’s gaze went straight to Rowan.
He paused. Something in his eyes…softened.
“I am sorry,” he said. No preamble. No smirk. Just those three words, flat and sincere. “For your loss.”
It did something awful and good to her chest.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely.
He inclined his head to Harper and Zia. “Thank you as well,” he said, “for keeping her from burning the world down this week.”
“Who says we didn’t help?” Harper asked.
His lips twitched. “Of course,” he said.
Zia hopped off the display. “We’ll be in the back,” she said. “Pretending to mind our own business and absolutely not eavesdropping through the paper-thin wall.”
Rowan’s mouth curved. “Subtle,” she said.
“Where do you think I learned it?” Zia said, arching a brow. She tugged Harper by the sleeve. “Come on, menace.”
Harper slid off the counter. She squeezed Rowan’s hand as she passed. “Yell if he starts glowing ominously,” she muttered.
“He always glows ominously,” Rowan said.
“More ominously,” Harper clarified. “There’s levels.”
Then they were gone, the back room door swinging gently shut behind them.
Silence settled.
Caelan stepped further into the store, fingers tracing along a shelf as if greeting old friends.
“You know, in some Courts,” he said, “making bargains in a bookshop is considered bad luck.”
“Why?” Rowan asked, moving behind the counter to put something solid between them. “Afraid of all the words listening in?”
“Something like that,” he said. “Stories get jealous.”
“Good,” she said. “Maybe they’ll side with me.”
He smiled faintly. “They already do,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“You are…more narrative than anyone I’ve met in a very long time,” he said. “The world bends around you. Like an author who got drunk and decided to cram three arcs into one life.”
“Are you calling my life overplotted?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s very messy. I’m enjoying it immensely.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
The tension eased a notch.
“Okay,” she said. “Terms.”
His face sobered. “Terms,” he agreed.
He moved to stand opposite her, palms resting lightly on the counter. No looming. No reaching.
“I meant what I said on the hill,” he began. “If you tell me now you cannot do this, I will still try to stand between you and the Hunt. Even if it kills me.”
She swallowed. “And if I say I can?” she asked.
His eyes darkened. “Then we commit treason together,” he said. “And hope we’re better at it than everyone who tried before.”
“Comforting,” she muttered.
“First,” he said, “I restate what I owe you. So there is no…misremembering.”
He lifted his right hand, palm up. The air around it shimmered.
“I, Caelan of the Autumn Court,” he said, voice dropping into something resonant, “swore already on my name, blood, and roots to keep you alive and whole, body and mind, if you come with me. To not touch you without your explicit consent. To protect your friends from my Court’s interference. To seek a way to void or twist the original bargain in your favor.”
The air pulsed with each clause.
He looked at her. “Do you wish to amend any of that before we…seal the rest?”
She thought of Aisling. Of Winter. Of the Mire Queen’s scheming smile from beyond the reflection.
“Add this,” she said. “If someone tries to…take me. To claim me. You don’t just…fight them. You tell me *exactly* what they said. What they offered. What they threatened.”
He inclined his head. “You don’t want me…shielding you from the ugliness,” he said.
“I’ve seen enough sanitized lies,” she said. “I want…truth. Even if it hurts.”
His gaze warmed. “You have it,” he said. “I swear I will tell you any bargains made around you in my hearing. No secrets. No editing.”
The air tightened, then eased.
“Now you,” he said. “What do you bind yourself to? Of your own will.”
She sucked in a breath.
This was it.
This was where she started chaining herself.
“Okay,” she said. “I, Rowan Vance—” The words felt strange in her mouth. Big. Old. “—agree to come with you on Samhain. To your Court. As your guest. For three months.”
He watched her intently, muscles in his jaw working.
“I agree to…learn,” she went on. “What I am. What I can do. I agree to…listen. Not obey. Listen.” She held his gaze.
His mouth twitched. “Listening is more than most give us,” he said.
“I agree not to…deliberately try to burn your Court down in the first week,” she added.
A startled laugh escaped him. “I appreciate the grace period,” he said.
“I agree not to…kill anyone,” she continued, “unless they are...actively trying to kill me or someone I have sworn to protect.”
His eyes gleamed. “Our earlier clause,” he said. “Yes.”
She hesitated.
“And,” she said slowly, “I agree…to give you a chance.”
The words felt like stepping off a ledge.
His nostrils flared. “A chance,” he repeated. “At what?”
“At…being more than your Court,” she said quietly. “At being…Caelan. Not just the Autumn Prince. Not just the man in my nightmares. A…person. I agree not to…judge you solely by your blood.”
Emotion flashed across his face. Too quick to parse. “That is…” He swallowed. “More than I expected,” he said.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t…call you on your shit,” she added. “Constantly.”
He huffed. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” he said.
“But in return,” she said, “you agree to give me the same thing.”
He tilted his head. “Explain.”
“You don’t treat me like a prophecy,” she said. “Or a weapon. Or an obligation. You treat me like…Rowan. A person. Messy. Stubborn. Not always right. You don’t…put me on an altar or in a cage.”
He met her gaze. “I swear,” he said. “To the best of my considerable and often terrible ability, I will treat you as yourself. Not as a story.”
The lightbulb above them flickered wildly, then steadied.
Rowan blew out a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “Now the teeth.”
His brows rose. “Those weren’t the teeth?” he asked.
“Oh, that was gums,” she said. “We’re getting to the root canal.”
He winced. “Do not bring dentistry into this,” he said. “We have enough horrors.”
She braced her hands on the counter. “If I decide,” she said carefully, “that your world is…worse. For me. That staying there will…break me. I want your help getting out. Even if it…hurts your Court. Even if it…hurts you.”
Silence.
He stared at her.
“That is…treason,” he said softly.
“Against who?” she asked. “A King who made a bargain with my grandmother when she was desperate? A Court that thinks killing me is an acceptable risk mitigation strategy?”
“Against…our roots,” he said. “Our…binding. The thing that holds our world together.”
She met his eyes. “If I don’t ask for this,” she said, “then I am just…walking into your trap and calling it a choice.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, they were very bright.
“You want…my promise,” he said slowly, “that if it comes down to you or my Court…I choose you.”
Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she whispered.
He inhaled, a harsh sound.
“That choice,” he said, voice rough, “might end me.”
“It might end me,” she shot back. “That’s the whole fucking point.”
They glared at each other across the counter.
Then, quietly, “I already made it,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“I chose you,” he said. “When I swore to bind myself to you. When I stood in front of the Court and said I would take the blame. When I went to your dreams instead of sending an assassin. I have been choosing you for years.” His mouth twisted. “I just didn’t have the honesty to say it that clearly.”
Heat flared under her skin.
“Say it now,” she whispered.
His throat worked.
“I swear,” he said. Each word slow, heavy. “On my name. On my blood. On the roots of the wildwood. If it comes to a choice between your life and my Court’s comfort…I choose you. If it comes to a choice between your soul and my throne…I choose you.”
The air around him crackled.
Somewhere in the store, a book fell off a shelf with a thud.
The lights blew out.
Darkness swallowed them.
“Shit,” Rowan breathed.
Power thrummed between them in waves.
“Candle?” Caelan asked, very calm.
“In the…drawer,” she said, fumbling.
Her fingers brushed his.
The contact was like slamming into a wall of heat.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Help me find the stupid matches,” she snapped.
He laughed softly, the sound low in the dark.
Flame flared.
His face appeared, lit from below by the match he’d struck. Shadows carved his cheekbones into something almost too sharp. His eyes reflected the tiny light, molten.
“Better?” he asked.
“Worse,” she said honestly.
He lit a candle—a cheap vanilla-scented pillar from the sale bin—and set it on the counter.
Shadows danced along the shelves.
“The magic…heard that,” he said quietly. “Loudly.”
“Good,” she said. “I meant it to.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Rose. Lifted.
“Rowan,” he said softly.
Her pulse skittered.
“This is the part,” she said, voice thin, “where you tell me I have to say something back. Some…counter-oath. So it’s fair.”
He smiled, crooked and pained. “You don’t owe us fairness,” he said. “You owe us…nothing.”
She swallowed. “I owe *you* something,” she said. “You just nailed yourself to a very big, very stupid promise.”
His eyes softened. “You don’t have to—”
“I, Rowan Vance,” she said over him, heart pounding, “swear that I will not use you as my shield and then…hate you for the scars.”
He froze.
“I swear,” she continued, voice shaking but steady, “that if I live—if I get through this—I will not pretend you didn’t bleed for me. I won’t…rewrite the story to make myself the only hero.”
Emotion flickered across his face like stormlight.
“And,” she said, softer, “I swear I will try very hard not to stab you unless you really, really deserve it.”
His laugh came out choked.
“Accepted,” he said.
Something in her chest eased.
The candles’ flame burned steady now.
He cleared his throat. “There is…one more thing,” he said. “We should discuss.”
“Of course there is,” she muttered. “Lay it on me.”
“Aisling,” he said.
She stilled.
“You already know she wants to…see you,” he said. “You know she has…her own agenda. There is…another layer.”
“Of course there is,” she said again. “We’re not drowning in enough.”
He leaned on the counter, hands braced.
“Some in the Court,” he said, “would like very much to see you and Aisling…trade places.”
Her stomach dropped. “Trade…”
“Lives,” he said. “Roles. One in, one out. Tidy. Symmetrical. A story they understand.”
Her throat closed. “They want…her here. In my life.”
“Yes,” he said. “Some. Not…officially. Yet. But the idea is…whispered.”
She thought of Aisling’s text. *I want your life. Just for a little while.*
“Is that…possible?” she asked hoarsely. “Like…magic-wise.”
He hesitated.
“Yes,” he said. “With enough power. With enough…willingness. There are old…rites. To trade debts. To shift bindings.”
She stared at him. “Would you…let that happen?” she asked.
“No,” he said immediately. “Not if I can stop it.”
“Even if she wanted it?” Rowan pressed. “Even if I did?”
He flinched.
“If you *both* wanted it,” he said slowly, “if you both chose…consciously…it would be…hard to argue you out of it. I would try. For reasons that are not entirely selfish.” His mouth twisted. “But if it were forced? If someone tried to…swap you like chess pieces without your consent…” His eyes went cold. “I would kill them.”
Her breath left her in a shaky rush.
“Do you…want that?” she asked quietly. “On any level?”
His gaze snapped to hers. “To see you…here?” he asked. “Trapped in our games? To send Aisling out to a world that has not hurt her in the ways we have?” He exhaled. “Sometimes, yes. It would be…simpler. Cleaner. She has already paid the price. You could be spared.”
Her stomach twisted. “But?”
“But you are not…her,” he said. “And she is not you. Your lives are not…interchangeable. You are both…more than the bargains that birthed you.” He shook his head. “No matter how much easier it would make things, I will not…put you in jars and rearrange you on a shelf.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
He straightened.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Samhain. The seam will be…softest. Are you…”
“Ready?” she finished for him. “No. But I’m going anyway.”
He smiled, small and fierce. “Good,” he said. “I would worry if you were eager. The eager ones get eaten first.”
“Reassuring,” she muttered.
He pushed off the counter.
“What now?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, “I leave. You sleep. You grieve. You say your goodbyes to this world. Tomorrow, we begin…your new chapter.”
“Don’t call it that,” she said. “It sounds like a self-help book.”
He huffed. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow, we set fire to the old contract and dance on the ashes.”
“That’s better,” she said.
He hesitated.
“May I—” he started.
She knew what he was asking.
Her heart thudded.
“Yes,” she said. “But…this.” She pointed to her cheek.
He smiled, slow and something like fond.
He walked around the counter.
Stopped in front of her.
Up close, lit by candlelight, he looked…almost human. Tired. Wrecked. Determined.
He lifted his hand. Brushed his knuckles along her jaw first, like he was checking for flinching.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to her cheek.
It was a brief touch.
Soft.
Almost chaste.
Her whole body lit up like someone had plugged her into the seam.
He lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
She could feel the shape of his mouth against her skin long after he’d straightened.
“Sleep,” he said, voice rough.
“Bossy,” she murmured.
“Get used to it,” he said. “You’re about to live in my world.”
He stepped back.
The candle flickered as if in a wind that wasn’t there.
He was gone.
The bell above the door chimed softly.
Rowan stood alone in the pool of candlelight, heart pounding, cheek tingling.
After a moment, Harper’s voice floated from the back. “If you’re not kissing him,” she called, “I’m coming out there and doing it myself.”
“Harper,” Zia said, scandalized.
“What?” Harper said. “He just offered to commit high treason for her. That deserves at least a little tongue.”
Rowan laughed, half-hysterical.
She blew out the candle, plunging the store into darkness.
Tomorrow.
She had one more day to say goodbye.
Then everything would change.
---