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“Driftsea, maybe? Or even farther, perhaps all the way down to Clovendoe. We’ll need a full team—double that, even.”

My brothers exchange a wordless, agitated glance. The way they always do when they’re trying to make a choice without involving me in the discussion. I shift restlessly between them, still too numbedby the shock of what’s happened to feel annoyed, the way I usually would.

Finally, Henry looks at me. “Do you want to come with us?”

I bite my lip. In the past, even when the regular workers still traveled here for the harvest, my brothers sometimes had to go away on business. I’d always go with them, until I was at Marchmain. And I loved it, especially when we went to Driftsea, which had a whole row of shops and bookstores along the waterfront, or to Astera, where I could visit the art gallery.

But now, leaving feels like the worst possible choice I could make. Despite the fact that the saltseemsto be restored, everything feels so wrong, so uncertain. What if I go away from Verse and the salt vanishes as suddenly as it appeared?

I twist my hands anxiously inside the sleeves of my sweater. “I think it would be better if I stayed here.”

Henry takes a deep inhale from his cigarette. He and Oberon exchange another loaded, drawn-out glance. Reluctantly, Henry sighs, “I suppose one of us can go while the other stays behind.”

He sounds unconvinced, and I know it won’t work. In the past it took my brothers months to prepare for the harvest: hiring a crew, setting everything in order here to begin work in the mine. Now those preparations will be condensed into a scant handful of weeks.

“Don’t be foolish,” I say, trying to still my restless fidgeting. “You both need to go. I will be perfectly all right here on my own.”

“I’m not sure if someone who betrothed themselves to a god has the right to call anyone else foolish,” Oberon says, mouth drawn into a line.

“It would be more foolish for me to leave.”

“Debatable.”

Henry pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you stay behind, you’re to beproperlybehaved. Keep near the house. Don’t go into the mine for any reason. As soon as we arrive, we’ll telegram the address of wherewe are staying. And if there areanyproblems, you’ll go to Saltswan and ask Alastair for help.”

Pressing my lips together, I manage a stilted nod. Oberon squeezes my hand, then gets to his feet with a reluctant sigh. “We had better pack. If we hurry, we should be able to make the evening train.”

My brothers leave at sunset. We stand together at the front of the cottage to say goodbye. The quiet stretches out between us; no one speaks, as though we’re all afraid to say the words that will acknowledge this moment. I embrace Henry first; he holds me for a long time, his cheek pressed firmly to my hair.

Then he steps back, taking me by the shoulders. His hands are shaking slightly. “You’re certain of this?”

“Yes, Henry.”

He gives me a long, searching look before he releases me. With a sigh, he picks up his traveling bag, slinging the strap across his shoulder. I turn to Oberon and wrap my arms tightly around him.

“We’ll wire you as soon as we can. It might take a few days, depending on who we can find in Driftsea, and if we need to travel farther.”

I nod, my face rustling against the buttoned front of his overcoat. He kisses the crown of my head, then we move apart. And I feel like I am five years old again, afraid of the dark, afraid to be alone. I don’t want them to leave but I know this is the best, the only, way forward. To free ourselves from the debt, the salt must be harvested.

Forcing myself to relax, I help Oberon to adjust the strap of his traveling bag. “Goodbye,” I tell my brothers. “Have a safe journey. I promise I will be fine.”

Finally, we separate and I stand in the open cottage doorway, waving, as I watch them go. Early sunset lights their path toward the Arriscane woods. They pause to look back at me one last time. I raisemy hand in farewell, staying like that until Henry and Oberon disappear between the trees.

Then I walk back inside and close the door.

I hadn’t realized how empty the house would feel once I was alone. The noise of the wind and the sea sweeps in—waves breaking on the distant shore, the camellia trees rustling, a harsh seabird call.

The quiet inside presses down as I move from room to room. I can’t shake the creep of foreboding. It clings to me like a shadow as I go into the kitchen, fill the teakettle, and put it on the stove. A leftover slice of birthday cake is in the icebox. I eat it standing over the sink, spilling crumbs, licking sugar from my fingers.

Upstairs in my bedroom, everything is as untouched as on the night I left for the altar. A pile of books on the floor, Eline atop my unmade bed, the satchel I brought home from Marchmain sitting on my dresser chair.

And pinned to the wall is my wedding veil.

I edge toward it, one hand at my throat. My heart is pounding hard against my ribs. When my fingers brush the gauze, I expect it to dissipate like smoke beneath my touch. Surely this is a hallucination, a waking dream. But the veil is solid and real, etched by embroidered flowers, all ivory and crimson.

My mind wheels, searching for a way to explain how this is possible. It’s the same veil I wore on my betrothal night, the veil that Alastair pulled from my hair and cast aside on our escape from the mine. It should be crumpled in a mine shaft far below the earth. Tangled around a new fractal of salt.

The scent of brazier ash fills my room. The sunlight goes suddenly dim, as though blotted out by a cloud. I turn toward the window and someone isthere—a figure with a beautiful, ethereal face. One hand pressed flat against the glass, translucent claws scraping down.