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I followed in her wake through the fragrant fields. “So much has changed in this world.... How can it be?”

“Soleil always had a talent for creating things,” Ofelia said over her shoulder. “He just needed the guidance of someone who remembers what it’s like above! And your letters, your poems, they helped us tremendously!”

Soleil?I hadn’t a clue who that could have been; the only others below were Marisol and the Shadow King. Had hemade a bargain with some other poor soul in my absence?

“It’s so perfect, Lo,” she continued. “Whatever Mother wants to paint, he and I help craft it for her. We can change the landscape whenever we feel like it.”

We stepped out of the fields and onto the beach made of pink sand. Not far from us, Ofelia’s mother was painting the portrait of a blond man sitting in front of her. Resting on his lap was a strange dog that seemed to be made of black vapor. Another smaller one, also seemingly made of shadow, was curled up on the sand beside Marisol.

Before I could ask about this, Ofelia loudly declared my presence. Marisol set aside her brush and palette and bent down, letting the not-quite-dog leap into her arms. The blond man in a cerulean suit rose from a stone bench, and the two ambled toward us.

Marisol had changed in small ways—she wore her dark hair loosely and bore an easy smile on her face. Over her buttercup-yellow gown she wore her artist’s apron, covered in smudges of paint.

“Caballera de la Rosa,” she said in greeting.

“Just Lope, please, madam.”

Her eyes crinkled warmly. “I am happy to see you again, Lope. My daughter spoke so often of you. For you to choose a life down here, to give up the world above...”

I wove my fingers with Ofelia’s. “It’s an easy choice,” I said. I cast a quick glance at the stranger to her right butcouldn’t help but focus on the odd-looking dog in the countess’s arms. “What... whatisthat?”

“It’s a Shadow,” said Ofelia, leaning forward to scratch behind its floppy ears. It lolled its black tongue and kicked its back foot as she petted him. “Soleil said they came to him asking for new forms, too. To change like the world has.”

The man extended a hand—but I paused. Where I thought his hair had been blond, it was now auburn, the same color as Ofelia’s. Perhaps it was a trick of this new world; perhaps my mind was addled with fatigue from all my journeying. I cautiously accepted his handshake. His eyes, to my great surprise, were the color of amethysts.

“What a delight it is to see you again,” he said with a white-toothed grin.

My brow furrowed. “Again, sir?”

He winked. “I looked a bit different last we met. But rest assured, I have not changed. You are still my favorite poet.”

His voice was faintly, faintly familiar—but softer, smoother, not whispered. Only one person—onebeing—called me their favorite poet.

My hand flopped to my side. “You’re the—the Shadow King?”

“He goes by Soleil now,” said Ofelia.

The king of Shadows, now named after the sun. In the light, his face kept changing—his nose would be small or large, his eyes would be bright blue or deep black, his jawwas sharp and square one second and round and smooth the next, and his skin shifted between different shades of warm brown tones.

“How can this be?” I whispered.

Soleil looked fondly at Ofelia. “My two friends. Most especially Ofelia. She remembers the world so vividly. The way she describes it is marvelous.” Ofelia’s pink skirts bloomed as she curtsied. He reached into his breast pocket, passing me a piece of paper. “And these! The poems you sent us inspired our work!”

I unfolded the page and found verses in my own hand. Vaguely, I remembered this poem, describing the line of the mountains jutting into the sky. As Ofelia had asked, I had fed it to the candle flame, as I would a sacrifice. The poems were not consumed or absorbed, then, but sent, preserved, to the king himself.

But there was one poem I had prepared for my reunion with Ofelia. I dug through my bag and pressed it into her hands.

“I owe you a poem,” I said to her. “I owe you a hundred.”

She folded the paper with a demure smile. “Nonsense. You may share your art with me when you feel ready to do so.”

“I’m ready.”

Ofelia grinned, flipping the paper open and reading it over. The words had been repeating themselves in my head over and over for weeks now. I bent close to her, my arms around her and my lips beside her ear as I read them aloud:

“I have seen the ice-peaked mountains,

The floating city,