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Lark reached to him. Her fingers trembled. She touched the back of his hand, and a shiver went down her spine. His skin was warm, despite the cool inside the room.

It was the first time she had ever touched him.

“I’d like that,” she said, and the words felt solemn as a vow. “I’d like for us to still be friends.”

CHAPTER THREENow

Time passes in a slow lapse, like petals unfurling. Though I’m exhausted, I can’t fall asleep. I lie on the bed, with Eline clutched tight to my chest, as the storm softens and the moonlight turns clear. The house shifts and settles, twitching beneath the drying raindrops that trace its walls and pool in the gutters.

I roll onto my back. The book Alastair Felimath gave me for my thirteenth birthday is still on the bed, the edge of it digging into my ribs. I think of our hands, edging tentatively closer, the first time we touched. How we had promised to always stay friends.

With a disgusted exhalation, I get to my feet and cross the room to my dresser. Opening the topmost drawer, I shove the book inside, burying it beneath a tangle of hair ribbons and dried-out tubes of lipstick.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. With my crumpled blouse and knotted hair, and my mouth still darkened from chthonic liquor, I look like a creature that has been dredged from the ocean.

Reaching for a barrette, I attempt to fasten my hair away from my face. It’s so quiet inside the cottage at night, so different from Marchmain, where city traffic was a steady background hum at all hours, interspersed by the chime of the Canticle bells.

I can hear the ocean waves breaking near the base of the cliffs. Then another sound comes. Footsteps across the landing; going down the stairs. A door being closed. Muffled voices outside.

I look out through my window. On the same flower-strewn path we followed earlier to the altar, there are two figures. They pass the arbor with its overgrown wisteria vines. A low beam of a flashlight dances at their feet as they vanish out of sight.

My brothers, going past the breakwater and down the staircase that leads to the beach. Going down toward the sea.

I open my window and the night air sweeps into my room. It strokes, cool, against my cheeks as I stare curiously down at the now-empty garden. Listening past the sound of the dripping rain and the nearby ocean, wondering why my brothers have gone sneaking out into the dark.

Navigating by moonlight, I go down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out to the garden. When I reach the breakwater, I see more light flickering at the entrance to the altar cave. Why have they gone back, when we were only just there?

Halfway across the clifftop, I realize I forgot my shoes. My stockinged feet sink into the sand when I step down onto the beach. I gather up my skirts and hurry toward the grotto, as the rising tide pushes me closer and closer to the base of the cliffs.

By the time I reach the cave entrance, I’m walking on tiptoe across the scrap of sand that’s left above the waterline. The sea cave is empty and quiet. The candle we left behind on Therion’s altar has burned down, and everything is untouched, the seashells and velvet cloth painted silver by the filtered moon.

Then, past the altar, near the back of the cave, I see the glow of light. Slowly, I edge closer, my heartbeat rising. The small tug of curiosity that brought me here turns sharper, a prickling thorn of unease. Beneath my fingertips, the stone wall is as smooth as the cold-blooded coils of a snake. There’s nothing, until my fingers catchon a small opening, a space between the rocks. It widens to a hidden corridor.

The scent of smoke drifts out from inside. I can hear the low murmur of my brothers’ voices.

One step beyond the entrance, the moonlight fades to shadows. The smell of smoke grows stronger, reminding me of the summer bonfires we’d burn in Therion’s honor. I press my hand against the wall; my palms are sweating. Fear winds around me, a tightly tied ribbon.

I scrub my damp palms against my skirts, square my shoulders, trying to push aside my apprehension. I was born above these cliffs, lullabied with the sound of these waves. I’ve been into the deepest levels of the salt mine with Henry and Oberon more times than I can count, but I have never been into this hidden passage. Never suspected it might exist. Even so, I have no reason to be scared of the dark.

The passage narrows; I have to turn to my side. Smoke fills the air, stinging my eyes and making my throat burn when I swallow. Like the haze of Henry’s cigarettes, but worse—cloying, noxious. I feel dizzy, disoriented by the shadows.

There’s a dim, fragile warmth, like from a banked-down fire. More of the heavy smoke traces over me, laddering against the light. It slithers across my tongue, down into my chest. It snares me up and tugs me forward into the cave.

My brothers kneel together, bowed over an iron brazier. Their eyes are half-closed, swollen and weeping from the smoke. They both have crowns of laurel leaves on their hair. Oberon holds the silver flask from Therion’s altar, and his mouth is already inky with chthonic liquor.

He opens the flask, takes a long, deep swallow before passing it to Henry. His hands are trembling. Henry drinks slowly, then caps the flask and tucks it away into his pocket.

In its place, he draws out another object: something smooth and polished. It catches the shifting light of the flames. It’s a mirror, framedin tarnished silver. But instead of glass the surface is gleaming black, like a piece of polished obsidian. My brothers clutch the mirror between themselves, bowing forward over the glass.

When they start to speak, their tongues are indigo, their teeth stained dark. Their words are like a poem, scratchy with smoke. It has a familiar rhythm, and I realize they’re reciting the homecoming prayer I spoke earlier at the altar. But the words are different, turned from a message of thanks to a desperate appeal.

“Therion, lord of sea and woods and salt, we return to your lands, hold us safe…”

My brothers repeat the prayer over and over, until it becomes a tangle of formless, haunting words. “Please,” Henry whispers, his voice fracturing. His hands clutch the mirror, white-knuckle tight. “Therion,please.”

Oberon sinks to his knees, shrouded by the smoke from the brazier. Through gritted, liquor-stained teeth, he begs, “Answer us, damn you!”

The brazier stutters. A sudden gust of wind spills in from behind me, carrying the scent of sea. Smoke from the fire swirls and billows, caught in the currents of air. It pools at the corners of the cave like pleated satin, then slowly unfolds, drifting back toward my brothers.