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I bow my head and lay my hands flat against the altar. With the taste of liquor on my tongue, I look into the unveiled mirror. Slowly, slowly, I reach toward it. I press my fingertips against the glass, the same way I did last night. “Therion,” I whisper.

A swan cries out, far off in the sky. Another answers. I imaginethem in flight, avee, migrating home. The waves hiss distantly against the shore. Closer to the cave, the sea laps shallowly at the rocks where the swan boat was moored. The sound of the water is soft as a song.

“Therion,” I whisper again.

But he doesn’t appear.

We return to the house in conflicted silence. I should feel relieved, but instead all of me is wound tight enough to snap. The sound of the ocean threatens to become the rush of water, the remorseless rise of waves. The cuffs of my shirt are snares of kelp. I jump at every flicker of shadow, skittish as a hare.

My skin feels sticky with sweat; sand is gritted on the soles of my feet. I go upstairs and take a bath—the water hot and shallow—scrubbing myself until all traces of the feverish night are gone. I try to ignore the feathers on my arm, the way they curl around my wrist like a fetter once I step from the water.

I put on an old cotton dress and pin my wet hair back from my face with two barrettes. Daub some of Oberon’s aftershave on my wrists. The bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror clouded. My reflection is a blurred, impressionist landscape.

I am standing still. But in the glass, something moves.

Clutching the sink, I lean closer to the mirror. I hold my breath. I am motionless as a statue. The reflection is, too. Then, slowly, I see the sprawl of pallid light behind my silhouette. Like outstretched wings. Trembling, I clear a space in the fog with my hand. Amber eyes stare back at me, bright with desperate fury.

Behind me, a wave of water sloshes over the edge of the bathtub. It floods around my feet, cold as the altar cave, briny with salt. A strand of kelp snares my ankle. I stagger forward with a startled cry, wrenching open the door. The water recedes, drawn back like a tide as it vanishes into the drain.

Camille comes running up the stairs. I fall into her arms. I’m shaking, frantic. I hold her like a tether line, press my face into the curve of her shoulder. “What happened?” she asks. “What did you see?”

My voice is choked, the taste of chthonic liquor painted over my tongue. “Therion.”

We turn together and look through the door. The tub is filled shallowly with my bathwater, a lazy curl of steam rising from the surface.

The mirror reflects nothing but an empty room.

I press my hands to my face, sighing out a ragged breath into the cupped space of my palms. I feel as though I’ve lost my mind. Camille gently touches my shoulder. “This arrived, while you were in the bath.”

She passes me a yellow envelope stamped with the mark of the telegram service. My fingers are shaking so much I can hardly get it open. Inside, two lines are typeset on yellow paper:

Evelyn Hotel

#4 Fourth Street, Clovendoe, 000 241124

At the bottom, signed in indigo ink, are my brothers’ initials. Tears fill my eyes at the sight of them. I need my brothers more than ever, and they’re so impossibly far away. All I want right now is to hear their voices.

“Can I use the telephone at Saltswan?” I ask Camille.

“Of course you can.” A thoughtful expression crosses her face, and her mouth curls into a smile. “In fact, pack your overnight bag. I think you should stay there; we should all be together. It’s… safer.”

“Why are you helping me?” I ask quietly. What I really mean is,Why are you being so kind?

Camille regards me levelly. Then she takes my face between her hands. Her thumb strokes my cheek. The motion of her touch raises goose bumps all over my body. “My entire life, nothing has ever been of my own choosing. Alastair is the heir. I’m to keep out of the way, go to school, learn to manage the family accounts. Ihatesums. I’m homenow, but Father is set on me going back to Beauvoir Academy for a postgraduate year in mathematics. I know how it feels to have your future taken out of your control.”

Her gaze is vehement, lit by the same protective spark as when she held me in the altar cave. I press my lips together. I feel a hum of heat rising between our skin. She doesn’t move away, but only watches me. A guarded, careful question in the tilt of her mouth, the arc of her thumbs on my cheeks. My lashes flutter, my breath sighs out, quiet as a secret.

In a fractured whisper, I ask, “Is that the only reason?”

“No.” Camille leans closer. Her voice turns quiet. “I care about you, Lark.”

My heartbeat quickens. I’m caught by a snare of desire, thorned as brambles. The scent of her strawberry perfume fills my lungs. I could lie forever in her touch, curl up in the crescent of her neck and shoulder, the blanket of her hair like the lowering night.

I falter, feeling shy as I tip my face upward, closing the distance between us. I brush my lips against hers, tentative, the unsure answer to her silent question. She sighs against me, her mouth yielding under mine.

It’s like kissing her for the first time, no veil between us, only her chapped lips, the heat and softness of her mouth. She’s so careful, so gentle, that when her teeth notch playfully against my lip, it’s a bright, delicious shock. “Camille,” I say, all tattered, and she kisses her name from my lips, kisses me until I am helpless. She laughs against me, and her tongue is in my mouth, hot and insistent. We stumble backward until I’m pressed to the wall.

Her knee slots between my thighs and I can’t help but gasp as I rock against her. She tastes of syrup, impossible sweetness. Chamomile tea. When I close my eyes, all I can see is a calm, flat ocean. Her hand slips beneath my hair, fingers tracing patterns against my nape, my collarbones. It feels like words from a secret language, something only the two of us can know.