Two nights.
Forty‑eight hours.
Rowan had never been so aware of time in her life.
It used to slide by in great blurry chunks—semesters, holidays, rent cycles. Now she felt every hour like a bead on a string, deliberately fingered, counted, knotted.
After the funeral, the world didn’t pause. It never did.
People still needed Halloween displays at Ever After Books. Mrs. Carrow still wanted fake cobweb hung in the front window just so. Kids still shrieked over the bowl of free candy on the counter.
Gran’s absence followed Rowan like a shadow no one else could see.
“You don’t have to come in,” Mrs. Carrow had told her gently. “Take a few days. Grief is…sticky.”
“I’d rather be here,” Rowan had said honestly. “If I go home, I’ll just…count the walls.”
Now she stood on a stepladder, looping orange-and-black bunting along the top of the display shelves. Plastic bats dangled from clear string, more silly than sinister.
Harper stood below, coffee in one hand, the other braced lightly on Rowan’s calf as if checking that gravity still applied.
“Left a little,” Harper called. “No, your *other* left. I swear you lose orientation the second your feet leave the ground.”
“I am deeply spatially challenged,” Rowan said. “You knew this when you befriended me.”
“I thought we could work through it,” Harper said. “But your refusal to acknowledge cardinal directions has been a real strain on our relationship.”
“Break up with me after Halloween,” Rowan said. “My schedule is full until then.”
Harper went quiet for a beat. “Don’t joke about that,” she said softly.
“I’m not,” Rowan said.
She stepped down, metal creaking under her weight. The store smelled like paper, dust, and cheap plastic packaging—the familiar chaos of every October since junior high, when she’d first started helping Mrs. Carrow tape paper ghosts to the windows.
Only this time, there was an invisible countdown clock overlayed on everything.
Harper handed her the coffee. “How’s your head?” she asked.
“Full,” Rowan said. “Loud. Yours?”
“Like a raccoon in a trash can,” Harper said.
“That’s extremely specific,” Rowan said.
“And yet accurate,” Harper replied. She hesitated. “Zia’s coming by on her break. She’s got something for you.”
“Another ward?” Rowan guessed.
“Something like that,” Harper said. “More…portable.”
Rowan sipped the coffee. Too sweet, the way Harper liked it. It stuck in her throat.
“You sure about this?” Harper asked quietly. “About…going.”
Rowan didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“No,” she said. “But I’m sure about not staying. Not like this. Not waiting for the bang on the door.”
Harper’s jaw clenched. “I keep thinking there’s a third option,” she muttered. “Something we haven’t thought of. A loophole. A…portal in the back of a wardrobe.”
“If there is,” Rowan said, “I haven’t found it.”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to,” Harper said bitterly. “Maybe the narrative doesn’t allow it.”
“Fuck the narrative,” Rowan said.
Harper’s mouth quirked. “That’s my girl,” she said.
Rowan’s chest ached.
Mrs. Carrow bustled out from the back, arms full of a box labeled COSTUMES – MISC. She set it down with a huff. “Do we think it’s insensitive,” she asked, “to dress as a witch when one’s best employee has just lost her grandmother?”
“It’s only insensitive if the witch is sexy,” Harper said. “Puritanically dressed witches are fine.”
“I was going to go with ‘disheveled librarian witch,’” Mrs. Carrow said. “Cardigan, bun, glasses askew.”
“Authentic,” Rowan said. “No notes.”
Mrs. Carrow’s eyes softened as they landed on Rowan. “You’ll be all right tomorrow night?” she asked casually. “You don’t have to do the late shift if you don’t want.”
*Tomorrow night.*
The words slammed into Rowan’s ribs.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I…might come by. Before. To…say goodbye to the shelves.”
Harper and Mrs. Carrow both watched her.
Neither pushed.
***
Zia arrived just after lunch, a cardboard tray of iced coffees balanced on one hip, a small cloth bag tucked under her arm.
“Bribes,” she announced, dropping the tray on the counter. “Liquid and otherwise.”
“The way to my heart,” Harper said, grabbing her cup. “Caffeine and contraband.”
“This isn’t contraband,” Zia said, patting the cloth bag. “It’s…art.”
Rowan arched a brow. “The last time you said that, you tried to tattoo a sigil on my ankle.”
“It would have worked,” Zia said. “And looked sick.”
“I’m still not convinced I want permanent magic tramp-stamped on my body,” Rowan said.
“This isn’t permanent,” Zia said. “Probably.”
“That inspires confidence,” Harper muttered.
Zia leaned on the counter, dropping her voice. “Seriously, though,” she said. “This is…a last-minute attempt at not sending you in naked.”
“I am definitely packing clothes,” Rowan said.
“You know what I mean,” Zia said. She pulled open the cloth bag.
Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a bracelet.
At first glance, it was simple—three strands braided together. One looked like plain leather. One looked like some kind of dark, dull metal. The third was…odd. Not quite thread, not quite wire. It caught the light in strange ways, glinting greenish, then copper, then something else.
“What is it?” Rowan asked, reaching out.
“Careful,” Zia said quickly. “Don’t put it on just yet.”
Rowan’s hand hovered. “Is it going to bite me?”
“Not physically,” Zia said. “It’s…a tether. Or half of one.”
Rowan blinked. “Half.”
Zia nodded. “Remember when we talked about…anchors? A way for you to find your way back if you needed to? Something to…grab, magically?”
“Caelan mentioned it,” Rowan said slowly. “One of the few things he didn’t couch in seventeen qualifiers.”
“Yeah, well, I’m more of a blunt instrument,” Zia said. She nudged the bracelet closer. “I talked to my Tía. And my cousin Javi. And this old woman who may or may not be a hedge witch who runs the botanica on Ninth. We…cobbled this together.”
Harper squinted. “Is that…iron?”
“A very small amount,” Zia said. “Braided with copper and something else. Enough to sting, not enough to…kill. It’s not meant for you. It’s meant to…annoy anything that tries to grab hold of it from the wrong side.”
“And the third strand?” Rowan asked.
Zia hesitated. “That,” she said, “is what happens when three different strands of magic get braided together and left under a full moon for three nights while being insulted in two languages.”
Rowan snorted. “You did a sigil spell,” she translated. “And infused it with spite.”
“Exactly,” Zia said. “Spite is an underrated ingredient.”
“What does it *do,* exactly?” Harper asked, more serious now.
Zia exhaled. “It’s keyed to Rowan,” she said. “To her…signature. I pricked her finger last week, remember?”
“When you said you wanted to check our blood types,” Harper said. “I knew that was sus.”
“It was,” Zia said shamelessly. “The bracelet should…hum with her. If she walks through a seam while wearing it, some of her…resonance stays put. Here. On this side. That gives us…something to follow. And if she ever needs to…yank back, the connection goes both ways. In theory.”
“In theory,” Rowan repeated.
“In practice, we’re experimenting with cosmological forces way out of my weight class,” Zia said. “But it’s better than nothing.”
“How does it…yank?” Rowan asked quietly.
Zia tapped the bracelet. “If you want to…come back—if you get to a seam and decide ‘nope,’ if shit goes sideways, if you just want to bail—you picture this. Hard. And you say…a word.”
“A word,” Rowan said warily. “Not a name.”
“Not a name,” Zia said firmly. “Not his. Not yours. Not any of theirs. Just…something that means ‘home’ to you. Something small. Human. Tied to your life here.”
Rowan thought of possibilities—*Gran,* *Harper,* *Ever After.* Each one felt…dangerous in its own way. Tying something so important to a magical panic button seemed like tempting the universe.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Do,” Zia said. “Once you pick it, it…locks. And don’t tell him what it is. Or her.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “So I wear this,” she said, “and if I need to…run…I have a rope.”
“A thin one,” Zia said. “Made of spite and hope and me messing around with things old ladies in my family told me not to. But yes.”
Emotion swelled under Rowan’s breastbone, messy and hot.
“You made me a magical friendship bracelet,” she said, voice wobbling.
Zia’s mouth quirked. “Don’t cheapen it,” she said. “I bled on that thing.”
Harper made a wounded noise. “I want a magical friendship bracelet.”
“You get to hold the other half,” Zia said. She reached back into the bag and pulled out a second object.
It looked like a coin.
Old. Worn around the edges. The face engraved on it was…indistinct. Some sort of animal. Or a tree. The metal was the same odd mix as the bracelet’s—dull, dark, with threads of warmer color running through.
“This one stays here,” Zia said. “With you two. Probably taped under your bed. Or sewn into a pillow. Or something.”
“Sexy,” Harper said.
“If Rowan tugs from there,” Zia continued, “this will…twitch. Heat. Act up. That’s your sign that she’s pulling. You can…add your weight. Pull back. Think of her. Yell at her. Whatever. It’ll help.”
“That’s…a lot of faith in my ability to nag someone across dimensions,” Harper said.
“You have a gift,” Zia said. “Use it.”
Harper stared at the coin, then closed her fingers around it. Her throat bobbed.
“You sure you want it with me?” she asked quietly. “I’m…not the witch here.”
“You’re the one who loves her loudest,” Zia said simply. “That counts for more than you think.”
Rowan’s eyes stung.
She picked up the bracelet, ignoring the faint prickle where her skin brushed the metal strand.
“What about…him?” she asked. “Caelan said he could make something too. Bind part of his power to an object.”
Zia nodded. “Let him,” she said. “More ropes are better. This one is…ours. It runs on human fuel. No offense to your princeling, but I don’t want to rely entirely on fae physics.”
“None taken,” came a voice from behind them.
Rowan nearly dropped the bracelet. Harper almost chucked her coffee.
Caelan stood in the doorway to the staff area, hands in the pockets of his long coat, expression dry.
“You really have to stop doing that,” Harper said, clutching her chest. “One of these days I’m going to throw a stapler at your head on reflex.”
“I’ll…duck,” Caelan said.
“You knew he was here,” Zia murmured to Rowan, eyes flicking to the way the air felt around them.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “He…radiates.”
“I do not—” Caelan started, then caught himself. “We’ll argue about that later.”
His gaze landed on the bracelet in Rowan’s hand. Silver eyes sharpened.
“You made a tether,” he said to Zia.
“A crude one,” Zia said. “With…found materials.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s good work,” he said. “For this side. For…mortals.”
“Was that almost a compliment?” Harper asked.
“It was,” Caelan said. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
Zia eyed him. “You going to throw a princely tantrum because we’re meddling with your girl?” she asked.
Rowan’s stomach did something unhelpful at the phrase *your girl,* even delivered with a healthy dose of challenge.
Caelan’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it gentled. “I would be an idiot,” he said, “to object to her having more ways home.”
“That’s…surprisingly reasonable,” Harper muttered.
“I’m very reasonable,” Caelan said mildly. “When it suits me.”
“Does it…interface,” Rowan asked, “with whatever you were planning to do? Or are we going to get…crossed wires?”
“Their magic and mine…move differently,” Caelan said, taking a step closer. “It shouldn’t…snarl. If anything, it will give us more…routes.”
He held out his hand. “May I?”
Rowan hesitated, then placed the bracelet in his palm.
He turned it over, fingers tracing the strands. When his fingertip brushed the odd third one, the metal shivered faintly, as if in recognition.
He raised a brow. “You braided intent,” he said to Zia. “Layered. Old, new, borrowed.”
“I stole some dirt from the wildwood when I was there that one time,” Zia said. “Don’t freak out.”
He did not, in fact, freak out. If anything, he looked…impressed. “You’re bolder than most of my Court,” he said.
“She’s dating me,” Harper said. “That comes with the package.”
Caelan smiled faintly.
He handed the bracelet back to Rowan, but didn’t let go immediately. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, right over the pulse.
“Wear it tomorrow,” he said softly. “On your right. I’ll bind my tether to your left.”
The warmth of his touch slid up her arm, coiling under her skin.
“I’m going to jangle,” she said, voice a little too thin. “Like a keychain.”
He leaned in, just a fraction. “You’ll be…anchored,” he murmured.
Heat flared low in her stomach.
“Okay,” Harper said loudly. “That’s enough of that. We’re trying to have a perfectly normal, emotionally devastating afternoon here without sexy fae hand grazing, thanks.”
Caelan straightened, unrepentant. “I’ll be back after closing,” he said to Rowan. “We…should talk.”
“We’re talking now,” she said, defensive.
“Without…Court ears,” he said. “Without…other agendas.” His gaze flicked briefly to Zia and Harper. “No offense.”
“Offense taken,” Harper said cheerfully. “But I’m too tired to act on it.”
He inclined his head to them both, then melted back into the shadowed doorway and was gone.
Zia let out a long breath. “He is very,” she said. “Much.”
“Agreed,” Harper said. “Unfortunately, I sort of like him now and I resent it.”
“Same,” Rowan muttered.
She fastened the bracelet loosely around her right wrist.
The leather strand warmed against her skin. The metal pricked faintly, like a mosquito bite that didn’t quite itch. The third strand…hummed.
Like a distant chord.
She pressed her thumb over it.
“I’m not going to be the easiest person to pull back,” she said quietly. “Once I go.”
“We know,” Harper said.
“That’s why we’re stacking ropes,” Zia said.
Rowan nodded.
For the first time since this began, she felt something other than fear coiled under her breastbone.
Not hope. Not exactly.
Readiness, maybe.
Or stubbornness, humming in time with the bracelet around her wrist.
***
The rest of the day blurred.
Customers. Small talk. A kid in a witch hat insisting that yes, she *was* going to be a dinosaur *and* a fairy and she refused to choose.
Rowan let the noise wash around her like a river. She found she could hold it at a distance, as if her brain had gone into triage mode and only truly processed the things that directly impacted her survival.
At six, Mrs. Carrow shooed them all out. “Go home,” she said. “Dress up. Or don’t. I’ll man the candy bowl for an hour, then lock up. No one needs to buy books at eleven p.m. on Halloween. Unless they’re a witch. And then they can knock.”
Rowan hesitated, hand on the doorknob. The bell chimed softly as a gust of cold air snuck in.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly.
Mrs. Carrow blinked. “For what, dear?”
“For…this,” Rowan said, gesturing broadly at the shelves, the counter, the mess. “For…letting me be here. All these years. For not asking too many questions when weird stuff happened.”
Mrs. Carrow’s eyes crinkled. “You always were my favorite odd duck,” she said. “Every bookshop needs one.” She stepped around the counter and pulled Rowan into a brief, firm hug that smelled like tea and old paper. “You’ll be all right,” she murmured. “You’re too stubborn not to be.”
Rowan clung for a second longer than she meant to. Then she let go.
Outside, the sky was already bruising toward dark, clouds dragging their bellies low. Kids in capes and plastic masks darted along the sidewalk, parents trailing with cameras and tired smiles.
“You okay to walk?” Harper asked, bundling her scarf tighter.
“Yeah,” Rowan said. “I want to…feel the town. One more time.”
They walked slowly.
Past the coffee shop, where the fae barista—eyes safely human-round under strong glamour—handed free mini hot chocolates to kids dressed as superheroes and skeletons. He caught Rowan’s eye as she passed and lifted his cup in a small salute.
She nodded back.
Past the laundromat, humming with machines. Past the tiny art gallery with a painting in the window that looked suspiciously like the wildwood if you tilted your head.
At her building, Harper stopped.
“I’ll be back at eight,” she said. “With snacks. And…other stuff.”
“Other stuff,” Rowan repeated.
Harper’s expression was strained but determined. “You’re not walking into a different world on an empty stomach,” she said. “Or without…something stupid to laugh about on the way.”
Rowan’s throat tightened. “Okay,” she said. “Eight.”
Harper hugged her hard. “If he tries to be noble and broody about this,” she muttered into Rowan’s shoulder, “tell him I said stop fetishizing self-sacrifice and work on his communication skills instead.”
“I’ll…pass that on,” Rowan said.
Harper pulled back, eyes bright. “I love you,” she said. “Just in case I forgot to say it any of the last seventeen thousand times.”
“You didn’t,” Rowan said. “But you can keep repeating it.”
“Same to you,” Harper said. She poked Rowan’s bracelet. “Don’t forget to yank this thing if you need us.”
“I won’t,” Rowan said.
She watched Harper walk away, small and fierce under her ridiculous pumpkin beanie.
Then she went upstairs.
Her apartment felt…strange.
Not because anything had changed. The Rorschach water stain still loomed on the ceiling. The thrift‑store lamp still leaned. The table still bore the scars of a thousand takeout nights.
But it felt…smaller.
Folded in on itself, like a shirt neatly packed in a suitcase.
She set her bag down. Toed off her boots. Stood in the middle of the room with her hands hanging useless at her sides.
“What now,” she said aloud.
No answer.
She went through the motions.
Shower. (No, she did not shave her legs. She refused to treat being dragged to another realm like a date.) Clothes. She debated armor—layers, boots, something she could move in—and decided on her favorite black jeans, her softest gray sweater, thick socks. Sneakers. She’d miss her boots, but they had metal shanks in the soles. Too much risk.
She packed a bag.
It felt absurd, like preparing for a very niche camping trip.
Toothbrush. One spare pair of jeans. Underwear. A T‑shirt that said READERS DO IT BETTER that she fully intended to wear on principle. Gran’s old flannel shirt. A photo—Gran, young, standing in front of the farmhouse, hair in a scarf, cigarette dangling from her lips as she flipped the camera off.
She tucked the picture into the book she slid into the bag: a battered copy of *Persuasion* she’d stolen from the high school library at sixteen. Jane Austen in the fae Court. Why not.
She added a small jar of peanut butter. A bag of pretzels. Two granola bars. Harper’s idea—and a damn good one. Fae feasts might be bottomless, but she wasn’t risking it until she knew which food didn’t come with clauses.
Last, she added Gran’s square of dried tissue, folded into a scrap of cloth. Their blood, now a brownish stain. It felt…right. Dangerous. Necessary.
She zipped the bag.
The bracelet on her wrist pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Polite.
Not Caelan’s.
She cracked it cautiously.
Zia stood in the hall, a plastic grocery bag in hand. Her eyes were shadowed. She looked like she hadn’t slept.
“I brought offerings,” she said.
Inside the bag were three things: a Tupperware container of arroz con pollo, still warm. A small, battered paperback copy of *The Hobbit* with sticky notes jutting out at odd angles. And a small vial of something clear.
“What’s this?” Rowan asked, holding up the vial.
“Water from the lake,” Zia said. “Diluted. Filtered. Blessed. It…remembers the seam. If you drip a little on the ground where you are, it might…show you where the nearest crack is.”
“You bottled the murder lake,” Rowan said.
“Again with the cheapening,” Zia said. “It took me three nights and a lot of arguing with a not‑entirely‑corporeal being, okay?”
Rowan’s chest hurt. “Thank you,” she said.
Zia shrugged one shoulder. “You come back,” she said roughly. “So I don’t have to go on a rampage. It’d be messy. Paperwork.”
“I’ll…do my best,” Rowan said.
Zia stepped forward and, very carefully, hugged her. It wasn’t her usual style; she was more of a shoulder-bump person. But she wrapped her arms around Rowan and squeezed.
“If anyone tries to push you into something you don’t want,” Zia whispered, “remember you can bite. Hard. On all levels.”
“That’s my brand,” Rowan whispered back.
Zia pulled away. “See you on the other side,” she said.
“Don’t say that,” Rowan said. “It’s ominous.”
“It’s accurate,” Zia said. Her smile was crooked. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to say it unironically.”
She left.
Rowan stood in the quiet for a long minute, then exhaled.
She didn’t even flinch when the shadows in the corner of the ceiling thickened.
“You’re getting predictable,” she said without turning.
“That’s progress,” Caelan said.
She turned.
He stood by the window, hands in his coat pockets, hair a little tangled from the wind. He looked both very out of place and like he’d always been there.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I prefer to be punctual,” he said. “You mortals have so many…rituals around time.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Appointments. Deadlines. Something called ‘happy hour,’ which appears to be a lie.”
She barked a short laugh. “You’ve been spying on the wrong bars,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You’re…holding,” he said quietly. “Better than I expected. After the funeral.”
She swallowed. “I think I burned through a layer earlier,” she said. “What’s left is…raw. But…steady.”
He nodded. “Grief is…strange,” he said. “We’re not good at it. In my world. We…move on. Or we pretend to.”
“You suck at a lot of human things,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I’m learning.”
His gaze dropped to her bag. “You packed,” he observed.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m not stepping into your murder palace without clean underwear.”
“Murder palace,” he repeated, amused.
She set the bag down and crossed her arms. “So,” she said. “How does this…work, exactly? The actual…crossing. I’d like to know if I’m going to be…squeezed through a keyhole or dissolved into mist or what.”
He took a breath. “There are…many ways,” he said. “Old, wild ones. New, carved ones. For you…I chose…a middle path.”
“Of course you did,” she muttered.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “at midnight, the seam at the lake will be…thinnest. That’s the moment most of the Court expects to…act. To send the Hunt. To pull you.”
“So we’re not doing that,” she said firmly.
“No,” he said. “We’re going earlier.”
She blinked. “Earlier.”
He nodded. “Samhain is not a single moment,” he said. “It’s…a season. A shift. The border blurs over hours, not seconds. Most of them forget that. They like theatrics.” A faint smile. “We have a window. Narrow. We’ll go at nine.”
“Nine,” she repeated. “So I’ll be…late to my own kidnapping.”
“Something like that,” he said.
He crossed the room, stopping a respectful distance away. The lamplight carved shadows along his jaw, made his eyes look deeper.
He held out his left hand. “May I?” he asked.
She knew what he meant.
Her left wrist. His tether.
She extended it, the right already weighted with Zia’s bracelet.
His fingers were warm as they closed gently around her hand. He turned her wrist palm-up, thumb pressing lightly over the bluish tracery of veins.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
She snorted. “Where am I going to go.”
“Somewhere else,” he said.
His other hand came up, hovering over her skin. His eyes slipped half-closed. He said something under his breath, words that weren’t for her ears. The air between his palm and her wrist thickened, shimmering faintly.
A prick.
Not a cut. Not a sharp stab like iron. More like…a bee sting, quick and hot.
She hissed.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Liar,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
When he lifted his hand, a thin line of silvery light circled her wrist. It sank into her skin like ink into paper. For a heartbeat, she saw it—a band of symbols, curling and twisting, unfamiliar and yet somehow…relieving.
Then it was gone.
Her skin looked unchanged.
But she *felt* it.
Like the weight of a promise resting on her bones.
“What did you do,” she asked, flexing her fingers.
“I tied a thread,” he said. “From me to you. From my side of the seam to yours.”
“Does that hurt you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “A little.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “Some choices are…mine alone.”
She glared at him. “You’re very…annoying,” she said.
“I’ve been told,” he said.
He stepped back, giving her space.
“So,” she said. “We’re going at nine. Before the big show. At the lake.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you think no one will notice,” she said skeptically.
“Oh, they’ll notice,” he said. “Some of them. But there will be…distractions.”
“Like what,” she asked.
“Fireworks,” he said. “Metaphorical and literal.”
She stared. “What did you do.”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “Aisling, on the other hand…”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rowan muttered.
He looked at her sharply. “She spoke to you,” he said.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “Repeatedly.”
He exhaled. “Of course she did.”
“She wants to…help,” Rowan said. “In her way.”
“Her way involves a lot of broken glass,” he said.
“So does yours,” she shot back.
They glared at each other for a second, then—unexpectedly—both laughed.
The sound jarred the tightness in her chest, loosening it a fraction.
He sobered first. “She plans to…crack the border,” he said. “In a different place. Draw attention.”
“She told me that much,” Rowan said. “And she’ll…keep the door from slamming behind me.”
“She said that,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “I’m not…naïve enough to take it at face value. But…between your tether and Zia’s and whatever Aisling’s cooking up…maybe I won’t be as…trapped as they think.”
He watched her. “You’re…remarkably calm,” he said.
“I screamed into a pillow for twenty minutes before you got here,” she said. “This is just what’s left.”
His eyes warmed. “You’re allowed to scream at me,” he said. “If it helps.”
“I have,” she said. “Frequently.”
“True,” he said.
They stood there, fifty different things unsaid between them.
“You’ll…come here?” she asked finally. “Tomorrow. To…get me.”
“Yes,” he said. “At eight. We’ll walk to the lake. Together.”
“Like a date,” she said, before she could stop herself.
His mouth curved. “My Court would be…scandalized,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s scandalize them.”
He laughed softly.
“I should let you rest,” he said, after a moment. “Tomorrow will be…long.”
“Will we sleep there?” she asked. “Once we…cross. Or is it just…party, politics, attempted murder.”
“There are beds,” he said. “And doors that lock. I made sure.”
“You thought of everything,” she said, half mocking.
“Not everything,” he said. “If I had, we wouldn’t be here.”
She looked at him. At the line of his throat, the scar in his brow, the tension in his shoulders.
“You’re scared,” she said.
He blinked. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“Of…what,” she asked. “Specifically.”
“Of you dying,” he said. “Of you breaking. Of you hating me more than you already do. Of my Court tearing itself apart in ways that hurt the wrong people. Of the prophecy twisting into its worst version despite all my cleverness.”
She swallowed. “You’re not…worried about yourself.”
“I told you,” he said. “I’ve made my peace with my own end. It’s the ends of others I lose sleep over.”
“You suck at self-preservation,” she said.
“I’ve survived this long,” he said. “I must be doing something right.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re…allowed to want to live,” she said.
He looked at her. Really looked. Something in his expression softened, cracks appearing in the armor he usually wore around his eyes.
“I do,” he said quietly.
Heat crawled up her neck.
“Good,” she said. “If I’m going to all this trouble, the least you can do is not die in some pointless, noble self-sacrifice before I get there.”
He smiled, a small, real thing. “I’ll…do my best,” he said.
He took a step back. Shadows licked at his boots.
“Rest,” he said. “Dream if you can. I’ll…try to leave those alone tonight.”
“Try,” she repeated. “Emphasis on ‘try.’”
He inclined his head.
Then he was gone.
The apartment felt…emptier.
Rowan sank onto the bed and stared at the bracelet glinting faintly around her wrist.
There was no going back now.
Tomorrow, she would step into a different world.
Tonight, she had one last night in this one.
She lay down, Gran’s flannel shirt bunched under her cheek, the city’s hum outside her window.
Sleep came slower this time. It came anyway.
She dreamed, but not of forests.
She dreamed of Gran, standing in the old farmhouse kitchen, cigarette in one hand, spoon in the other. Of Harper on the couch, yelling at a cooking show. Of Zia hunched over a notebook, scribbling sigils in the margins of a grocery list.
Of a man with silver eyes, standing at a door made of trees, hand outstretched.
Of a woman with honey hair, standing across from him, fingers on a different handle.
And of herself, in the middle.
Hands outstretched to both.
Pulling.