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My brothers are happy in a way I’ve not seen them in the longest time. Henry drinks too much wine and tells foolish jokes that make everyone laugh. Then he throws the last of his cigarettes into the bonfire, and announces he’s giving them up for good.

In the arbor, Oberon is talking to another man around his age, who seems strangely familiar, though I’m sure we’ve never met. They’re bowed together in a hushed, intimate conversation. When Oberon catches my eye, he beckons me over to introduce us. “This is Nicholas,” he says. “An… old friend I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Nicholas smiles shyly at me, and I remember the hidden photograph. He’s older now, his hair cropped close, two silver rings in one ear; but there’s still the same pleased, boyish cast in his expression as there was in that picture.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him, and even in the firelight I can see that Oberon is blushing.

As the evening draws on, Camille and I walk out into the fields. We go through the Arriscane woods, our path lit by the full moon. We go to the edge of the cliff and climb down the narrow ladder.

The ocean lies flat and still, reflecting a second, blurred moon, as we reach the base of the cliffs. The salt has drawn back from the lowerentrance to the mine, unveiling the corridor ahead. We go down together, our hands clasped, lighting our way with the same flashlight we’ve used to readThe Neriadon our sleepless nights at the beach.

When we reach the altar chamber, the brazier is already burning. The room is all amber light and dancing shadows, the air smells of smoke and pollen. And it’s a riot of flowers: drifts of them piled in the corners, cascading over the floor. Camellia and pear blossom, oxeye daises and delicate spider orchids. It’s as though every flower that bloomed and fell throughout the spring didn’t rot into the earth but was brought here instead.

At the heart of the space, Alastair lies asleep on a bed of greenery. There’s a circlet of laurel branches on his hair. His cheeks are dusted in gold. He stirs awake as Camille and I enter the room. He sits upright, regarding us with wide, dark eyes. His mouth tilts into a disbelieving smile.

“I’ve dreamed of you, so many nights,” he says. “But this—this must be real.”

I tumble forward into his outstretched arms. Petals crush beneath my knees as I drag Alastair close, kissing him, feeling the heat of his mouth. He tastes of honey, of chthonic liquor, of brazier smoke. His fingers knot into my hair, map the line of my cheek, the curve of my jaw. He clutches me tighter and buries his face in my neck, exhaling a shuddering breath against my skin.

“We’re real,” I tell him between feverish kisses. “I promise, we’re real.”

He draws back, his smile more certain now, and reaches for Camille. As he embraces her, I notice his eyes are gray—solely gray, the color of storm clouds. I stroke his cheek, smudging the golden paint with my thumb. “Where is Therion?”

Alastair looks down at his hands folded in his lap, his knuckles dusted with pollen. “He is gone. But only…” He hesitates, touching hisface, where bloodied tears once welled at the corner of his changed eyes. “Only until the next salt season. Then he will return, be within me again.”

I remember Therion’s suggestion, when I asked him to possess me, that it would perhaps be a reversal of our original promise. That he and I would share a consciousness in the mortal world for the salt season, that afterward he could leave… for a time.

But now, it will be Alastair to whom he returns.

He looks at me, reads the troubled expression in my eyes. Gently, he clasps my face in his hands. “I don’t regret it, Lark. That I’ll be bound to him like this, forever. That he and I will always be connected. Because it allowed me to save you. You are his bride, and I am his body.”

“And you,” I tell him, feeling as eternal and true as lines written in ancient poetry, “are simplymine.”

When we emerge back to the hidden beach, the moon has turned orange, as though it has absorbed the light from the bonfire flames. We walk to the end of the pier and stand in silence, looking out at where Camille and I watched the swan boat burn.

Alastair turns in a slow circle, his arms outstretched. Then he pauses, glancing down at the water with a glint in his storm-gray eyes, all longing and delight. I think of him at the beach, the first time I saw him alone, standing at the edge of the ocean, as though he drew strength from the waves.

The sea is an earnest threat. And it’s my birthplace, my blood, my heart. Wherever we go after this night, we will always be tied to the shore of Verse.

With a grin, Alastair holds out his hands to me and Camille. For a moment, the orange moonlight is captured by his gaze. A flash ofamber like swan’s eyes, god’s eyes. The lingering promise of what—and who—waits for us at the next salt season, at the new cusp of spring.

Alastair leads us to the end of the pier. We stand in a row, and then, in unison, we take a deep breath.

Together, we plunge into the sea.

Later

Trieste is beautiful, even in the heart of winter. The sun cuts through the sylphlike clouds, dazzling against the icy air, and covers the city in dreamlike stillness. On the outskirts, the more populous areas give way to a parkland, bordered by the river flowing in from the distant sea. Here is the cultural district: a charcoal sketch of gray pavement, glass-still water, the trees bare silhouettes against the sky.

Lark walks slowly along the path that follows the riverbank, bundled in Henry’s old coat. She has a new woolen scarf wound snugly around her throat, but her hands are bare. When a brisk rise of wind casts through the leafless branches, she snuggles closer to Alastair, slipping her hands into his pocket. He winces at the brush of her chilled fingers, and she laughs, unapologetic. “I forgot my gloves!”

“I did warn you it would be cold,” he says, but he folds his warmer hands around her own, rubbing the woolen edge of his gloved thumb across her knuckles.

Camille turns to walk backward so she can look at them. She’s completely unbothered by the raw weather, and has neither gloves nor a scarf, only a thin overcoat. Between the hem of her tweed skirt and the tops of her tall, lace-up boots, her knees are bare.

She’s been eating winter strawberries that she bought from one ofthe market stalls, and her fingers and mouth are stained with drippy, pastel syrup. “It will be warmer inside the gallery.” She makes a face at Alastair and Lark, teasing. “You babies.”

“Sorry that we didn’t spend most of our childhood in Trieste, so we could be used tothis,” Alastair retorts. His breath plumes in the icy air, an unintended but perfect emphasis.