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He stopped, his head cocked.

Briar stopped with him, looking up at him expectantly. “What is it?”

“We are close,” he replied.

Briar let out a heavy breath, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Finally. I need to eat a vegetable that isn’t those awful turnip things we found yesterday. I hope Marigold has something cooking.”

Wick sniffed the air. There was only the scent of trees, water, and the weariness and worry that had been clinging to Briar for days. The scent of his own injuries had faded into the background much easier than Briar’s anxiety.

“I do not smell anything,” he said. “But we can hope.”

Briar smiled. It was stronger than many of the smiles she had given him since the ravine, although she averted her eyes very quickly. She seemed to have trouble looking directly at him since yesterday, when he offered to extend her life so she could spend it with him.

Wick wondered if he’d overstepped. But he was used to his overstepping with mortals ending in screaming and bloodshed. If this was Briar’s reaction, he could cope with that.

They continued through the trees until they came across the waterfall. It was bubbling merrily, and Wick gave it a longing glance before turning toward the cottage.

Marigold was facing away from them, spinning her staff distractedly. She was staring up at the trees. Wick almost assumed she was looking for them, but that would not make sense. They were coming from the opposite direction.

Briar dug into her pack and came out with a handful of the flowers they had been sent to collect.

“We’re back,” she called. “Fashionably late. Hope you didn’t miss us.”

Marigold jumped, her staff jolting out of her hands.

“Gods,” she gasped. She stared at them, open-mouthed, looking at her staff and then at Briar before seemingly deciding that her discarded staff could wait.

She ran up to Briar and flung herself into Briar’s arms, squeezing her tightly. “Whathappened? I expected you back a week ago; the glamor can’t last that long. You were supposed to fly right?—”

She stammered to a stop, staring up at Wick, covered in healing burns. She pointed at his remaining wing. “You used to have two of those.”

“I did,” Wick agreed.

“Hence why we’re back so late.” Briar smiled in a way that reminded Wick of wolves baring their teeth. “Here’s your flower. Hope it was worth the trouble.”

She held out the flowers she had been carrying carefully in her pack for days.

Marigold stared at it. Then she jumped, grabbing it like she had only remembered why she was excited about it.

“Right,” she said, flustered. “Good! I’m just sorry it was so much trouble. What happened up there?”

“We had a charming interaction with the locals,” Briar drawled. She looked up at Wick and continued, “Remember when we thought the sex ritual would be the most notable part about our trip?”

“Sex ritual? Ha!” Marigold let out a screechy laugh, bending down to scoop up her staff. Then she noticed that Briar was not joking. “Oh. Wow. You’re serious? I really did hope those were just rumors.”

“I’ll tell you the story over food,” Briar said. “What do you have in your kitchen?”

She linked arms with Marigold, the two of them heading toward the house. Wick moved to follow, then froze as he caught a faint whiff of something familiar on Marigold’s skin.

Briar noticed him stop and turned to him, her arm loosening around Marigold’s. “Wick? What is it?”

Wick wanted to tell her. But now was not the time. Not with Marigold standing right there, gripping her staff unexpectedly tight.

“I will stay out here and wash,” Wick told them.

Briar frowned. “Do you need help?”

“I will be fine,” Wick said, unable to keep his fondness or his nerves from creeping into his tone.