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I comb through her hair and glimpse her staring up at me. I have witnessed this siren lost in pleasure, in laughter, in sorrow, in fear, and in wonder. But this expression is new, crinkling the corners of her eyes and raising the crooks of her mouth.

I could ask her, but I think I know. It is peace.

33

We sit at the top of the world. The mountain range stretches into the vista, a mural of summits capped in rowan trees and flaming torches. The pinnacles lance into a sky cluttered with stars, where raptors sail through the wind.

A small bonfire dances within the circle we make atop the promontory, where the cliffside of Cerulean’s home extends over the void. This precipice is a boundary between life and death, the ending and beginning of things, of what is and what can be. It is a leap of faith into the wind.

Beneath, the forest rises. Trees of all species froth with green leaves that splay over the woodland. It is the center—the roots and the heartbeat of this land.

Further down, my home burrows into the darkness. Water flows through caves and tunnels like veins, fueling this world with life. It is the crust, the foundation of our realm.

I see all of this because I remember all of this. From my youth to now, some things are never forgotten.

Cove nestles into my side on a cushioned bench identical to the others surrounding the fire. I envision Puck lounging with his arm extended across the back of the seat, which he shares with Juniper. His wrist is hanging off the rim, fingers fondling the end of Juniper’s ponytail, while his free hand thumbs over her womb. Juniper rests her spine into the shield of his chest, spectacles perched on her nose as she reads the journal.

Lark’s position is clear. She’s lying on her back, stretching across a bench with a pillow beneath her head and her calves propped on Cerulean’s lap. My brother reclines with the lazy fitness he has always embodied, his open shirt fluttering in the breeze, blue mouth tipping in a grin while he massages his mate’s bare heels. He does this routinely, alternating between her feet and her scarred knees.

In the past three months, his wings have healed well. Though, he keeps the plumes tucked in tonight.

Thorne sits comfortably next to Tinder, whose missing fingers have also mended. The young Fae has been learning how to wield his throwing stars with the opposite hand.

Coral has elected to settle beside Foxglove, the females having developed a camaraderie.

Only Cypress and Moth take up residence on the lawn. The centaur is curling his limbs to his side, and the spitfire of a Fae is balancing at the edge of the promontory. I suspect one leg is dangling over the bluff, her posture indifferent to the thousand-foot drop. The current stirs her papery wings, and she’s fiddling with Cypress’s helmet, which she has confiscated.

Occasionally, I sense Foxglove’s attention wandering across the fire to the centaur. The vibes are tangible, though my lady murmurs under her breath to confirm this hunch.

According to Cove, the centaur eventually notices. His eyes slide toward the nymph, and they share a tentative grin. He nods, and she returns the gesture.

Lark twirls a chalice of blackthorn wine and stares at the celestials while addressing Puck. “I still can’t get over the thought of you in an apron.”

“He’s as skilled at cooking as I am at research,” Juniper says.

“Admit it,” the satyr croons. “You’re being modest for once.”

“That’smodest?” Tinder balks.

“My charms in the kitchen go far beyond just cooking. Sadly for this group, I can’t elaborate with my kid listening.”

“The moppet is carrying a seed,” Cypress reminds Puck with a wry grin. “It does not have ears yet. It will be a long time before you can refer to the wee one as if they’re a sapling.”

“In which case, let’s circle back,” Foxglove instigates, audibly twirling her manicured finger to illustrate. “What charms are you referring to?”

Moth huffs while propping what can only be Cypress’s large horn helmet on her tiny head. “Leave it to a nymph to enable a satyr.”

“For my part, I’d like to know as well,” Coral adds, her aquatic tone so wickedly conspiratorial that I picture her crystalline eyes flashing. “Describe these charms.”

“Sorry, luv,” Puck answers with a smirk. “I wouldn’t want to make my brothers jealous of my prowess.”

I grumble but say nothing, whereas Cerulean chuckles. “Doubtful.”

“Oh? How would you know, dear brother? You weren’t in our cabin last night while I prepped a merry feast.”

“I’m waiting for the impressive part,” Moth says dryly.

Semi-distracted, Juniper thumbs through the journal. “He was naked.”