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“Camille.” I take her face between my hands. Her eyes are clear, lucid. Something falters in my chest, like a knot that’s begun to slip, and I’m sobbing, helpless relief spilling out alongside the tears.

She wraps her arms around me, pulls me close, her fingers digging into my skin, all of her trembling. I bury my face against her neck. Her heart is beating rabbit-fast. “I thought I’d lost you,” she whispers.

Her hands slide into my hair, fingers tangled around the ribbon she tied, then she cradles my jaw between her palms and drags me toward her. I kiss her, hot and frantic. Everything is salt-slick from our tears, Camille’s mouth, open, gasping, is still sour from the drugged wine.

The taste of it is like a bell rung through the silence of the garden. We pull apart, our foreheads still pressed, our limbs still tangled. “Where is Hugo?” I ask her. “Where is Alastair?

Camille gets to her feet, then helps me up. She’s blanched and anxious, shaking her head. “I don’t know. When I came to just now, you were the only one here.”

I cling tightly to her hand. I need to feel her fingers woven through mine, the press of her palm. To know she is real, that she won’t disappear. “Hugo tried to banish Therion again. He used me—used our bond—to try and reach him. But Alastair—he saved us.”

“What do you mean?”

We hurry together down the path. Gravel scatters under my feet. We slip between espaliered trees, and through the hedges, and I whisper to Camille what happened: Hugo, the mirror, Alastair’s agreement to allow Therion to possess him so we could return.

She squeezes my hand, her palm damp with nervous sweat. The garden is moonlight and sharpened angles—the sculpture, the hedges, the iron fence, the graveled paths. Saltswan rises above, a darkened silhouette. From below the cliffs comes the sound of the high-tide sea.

We move through the grounds in breathless quiet. I want to call out, but I’m afraid Hugo may be nearby. My heart is in my throat, my teeth clenched on a rising scream, as I scan the shadows for any signs of him or Alastair. A footprint, a white feather.

But there’s nothing. The garden is untouched, as silent as a museum.

The iron gate hangs open, the empty space between the posts revealing a view of the path that cuts through the wildflower fields, disappearing as it slopes down to the beach below. It’s where the tide pools lie, where jagged rocks give way to the deep, dark ocean. Where Alastair swam through the riptide. Where we all emerged in the other world, both times we slipped through.

There, at the curve of the path, I see a flicker. Like a flashlight. The blurred outline of two figures, going down toward the sea.

I tug at Camille’s hand, point toward the light. We hurry through the gate, leaving Saltswan behind us. Our eyes quickly adjust to theshallow moonlight as we run across the clifftop fields. But when we reach the place where the path slopes down to the beach, we stop.

The tide is high, covering all but a thin strand of beach. Foam-capped waves break hungrily near the base of the cliffs. Everything familiar—the rock pools, the jagged shelf—is completely submerged. The sound of the ocean fills the air, the crash and shift of waves closing in around us.

It rushes over me, through me. I close my eyes to the hollow hiss of water, remembering the way it sounded echoing from the walls of a cave. The taste of liquor, the acrid scent of smoke: Therion’s altar in the grotto beside the sea.

Turning to Camille, I say, “I think I know where they’ve gone.”

The wind sweeps around us as we cut through the fields. We trample over the grass and crush flowers beneath feet as we run. Time passes in a blur; the moon tracks our movements as we head toward the cove beside my cottage.

At the top of the narrow bay, we stagger to a breathless halt. The beach is a sickle of marbled sand above the swollen tide. I can see the entrance to the sea cave, barely visible above frothing waves. Eyes narrowed, I try to make out the scene more clearly. Camille tugs at my hand. “Look.”

She points; ahead, the grass has been flattened as if by footsteps. On the ground is a scatter of torn camellia petals and a large white feather.

Then, past the cove, in the distance, a single light winks from the clifftop. It gleams above the breakwater like an eventide star.

Panic bites through me. “The light—it’s coming from my house.”

We run the rest of the way in frantic silence, our heads bowed, our hands clasped. After the looming shape of Saltswan, my cottage is impossibly small: two stories tucked between the tangled garden and overgrown arbor, with the rising ocean just below. But at the topmost point, light burns like a beacon, shining from the small square of glass that is the attic window.

The door hangs open; the iron ring of keys is on the other side, still in the lock where I left them. I hadn’t thought to lock the house or take the keys when we left; foolishly, I’d thought the only threat we faced couldn’t be locked out. Now I wrench them out and shove the keys, clinking, into my pocket.

Downstairs is all in shadow. There’s a faint, smoky smell in the air, like someone has just blown out a candle. Clutching my skirts in one fist, I lead Camille up the stairs. All the doors hang wide open, and I feel so vulnerable, exposed, passing my room and my brothers’ rooms, seeing them all laid bare.

A trickle of golden light spills down at the end of the hall. It brightens as we approach, and the staircase to the attic glows like amber. The door above is open, a sinister invitation. We have to go up in single file; Camille stays as close as she can, her fingers still laced tightly through mine.

In the attic, a salt lantern illuminates the space. Everything is stark and bright, laid out with the imprisoned stillness of the espaliered trees in the Saltswan garden. Alastair lies sprawled on the floor. His eyes are closed, his head flung back. His mouth is smudged thickly with indigo stains; it cakes his lips, smears over his chin and down the sides of his neck. A silver flask lies discarded beside him, a trickle of indigo liquid pooled beneath it. Alongside that is a glass vial, a crust of silvery-white power in the bottom.

Alastair’s shirt has been torn open; buttons are scattered across the wooden boards. Hugo leans over him, his palms flat against Alastair’s chest.

“Get away from my brother!” Camille cries.

Hugo’s head snaps up. “Stop,” he says, teeth bared, eyes fierce. He raises his hand; he’s holding a switchblade razor. He flicks it open, then sets the wicked blade at Alastair’s throat. “Don’t come any closer.”