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The words of her tutor vibrated through her skull, but Evelyn tuned them out.

“I didn’t want you to think less of me or to think I couldn’t help with the investigation because I was afraid of something so silly.”

“I would never think less of you because you fear something. In fact, I respect you more.”

He meant it. She didn’t need to see his expression—his voice said it all, the gentle timbre of it behind her.

“Why?”

He shrugged, the movement drawing his chest closer to her back. “Fears make us real.”

Surprise shot through her, making Evelyn sit a little straighter on the horse.

“I hate boats,” Cyrus said.

Evelyn turned, looking up at him. “What?”

He seemed to smile. “Boats. Well, truthfully, I’m terrified of the water. Being out at sea.” He shook his head. “Therefore, I hate boats. Loathe them. Loathe the very thought of bobbing up and down in an endless body of water.”

Impossible to believe someone like Cyrus, who appeared strong and agile, was afraid of something like water, or of anything at all. It made her fear of heights feel normal, relatable.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said. “But I must request we share no more secrets.”

Cyrus looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Why?”

Evelyn shrugged. “If we are to be partners, we must establish boundaries.”

Cyrus leaned closer, his chin brushing her shoulder. “I think after this ride, there is not much left for boundaries.”

Their eyes locked, and Evelyn didn’t turn away. The wind whipped around them, blowing Cyrus’s golden hair in the wind. The way he spoke, the way his words tickled down her neck... She shook away the idiotic feelings. She was reading too much into it. He was teasing her. After all, they were partners and nothing more could come of it.

Luckily, their destination came into view at the end of the path. The farmer’s cottage was made of clay and painted with a thick, white paint. Reed thatch, arranged like overlapping shingles, created the roof. Rocks tied to ropes dangled at the bottom edge, keeping the thatched roof in place. They swayed in the breeze, clattering off one another and making a gentle chime in the wind. Stacks of stones and horizontal beams lined the perimeter in a hodgepodge and randomized fence. In the center, a direct path led to a red-stained door.

Cyrus dismounted first and helped Evelyn down from the horse. She stepped off to the side as he tied Bleu to a horse’s post. Cyrus squinted at the house, his eyes slivers of honey while his lips thinned into a flat line as if he were deep in thought.

Leather britches, tan with red undertones, molded to his muscular legs. His dark blue tunic contrasted in color. The sleeves ballooned but gathered tightly at his wrists. His torso filled out the tunic, more muscle straining against fabric. He wore a belt of the same leather, fastened at the center with a buckle. Something of its size and metal type would be a considerable price all its own. He’d secured a sheathed dagger beneath his cloak. It appeared ordinary, mundane against his clothes, until she noticed the hilt had been melted down, the etched crest buffed beyond recognition.

So richly attired, he must be quite the successful huntsman. Those who traveled for hire to kill demons in the human lands could make good money but surely not enough to afford his clothing.

“Done staring?” he asked.

Evelyn jumped. She had been staring. Again. Goddess. She swallowed and met his gaze. His eyes glistened with amusement, one brow arched upward inquisitively.

“Let’s get on with it,” she said, heading toward the cottage.

The gate screeched as they pushed it wider. Aside from the clucking chicken that scurried across the lawn and the distant moos of the unseen cows, the cottage sat quiet and unnerving. Past the house, tools, wagons, and wheelbarrows surrounded a weathered barn. A wreath of lilies hung from the door. The unmistakable color and symbol for mourning reminded Evelyn of why they were there.

Cyrus stood rigid and alert. He knocked, deliberate and quick. Not too long after, Brenna McCarthy swung the door open, and Evelyn’s stomach sank. Brenna’s eyes were swollen, rubbed raw from crying. Her braided hair had unraveled, and gray strands wafted in the breeze. She wore the same high-necked dress from the morning she’d stood under McKenna’s body, the same shawl falling over her shoulders. She appeared to have sunk into madness on a tide of grief and shock. Her rumpled clothes had not been changed in days, her frenzied hair left unbrushed.

“You must be the ones Commissioner Doyle mentioned,” she said, her voice a brittle, broken rasp.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice boomed in the back.

“Ma!” another shouted.

A young man, about the age of sixteen, entered the doorway. Days of crying showed on his face, too. Evelyn recalled that the McCarthys had a son and daughter. He was McKenna’s brother.

“Mrs. McCarthy, do you think we could come in for a moment?” Evelyn asked.