Page 42 of Crown of the Mist

"We need to tell her." The words taste bitter, but necessary. "About the cameras. About Phil and her father—"

"Not yet." Gray's hand tightens around his mug. "She's just starting to..." He trails off, watching as Bree presses her palm flat against the earth, the mist swirling thicker around her. "Did you notice the mark on that door upstairs?"

The change of subject isn't subtle, but I let it slide. "Yeah. It wasn’t there until she went up there."

"You sure about that?"

I glance at him, catching the sharp edge in his tone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Gray says carefully, "a lot of things are changing. The mist. The door. Her." He sets his mug down, bracing his hands against the counter. "We've been watching that mist follow her around since we were kids, pretending it was normal. But this feels different."

Through the window, Bree stands, brushing dirt from her knees. The mist follows her movement, and for a moment, it almost looks like it's reaching for her.

"Jace said Phil saw something," I say quietly. "Right before he backed off. Something in the mist that scared him."

Gray's jaw tightens. "Yeah. Well, he's going to see a lot worse if he comes near her again."

"That's not what I meant." I turn to face Gray fully, noting the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. We're all carrying the weight of what we found, but Gray's taking it harder. Maybe because he lived closest to her back then, heard things through those thin walls that still haunt him. "The mist is responding to her differently. Like it's... awakening."

Through the window, Bree crouches again, reaching for something near the base of the oak. The mist coils around her outstretched hand, and I swear I see it pulse, just for a moment.

"Like that door upstairs," Gray says, following my gaze. "The way it reacts when she's near it."

I remember Wes telling me about her tracing that strange symbol yesterday, how the air seemed to thicken, how the mist surged around her feet. "She sees things we don't," I say carefully. "Always has."

"And we pretended not to notice." Gray's voice carries an edge of self-recrimination. "Just like we pretended not to see other things."

"We were kids," I remind him, though the words feel hollow. "We didn't understand—"

"We're not kids anymore." He pushes off from thecounter, running a hand through his hair. "And we can't keep pretending this is normal. The cameras, her father, the mist... it's all connected somehow."

I think about the footage Jace described, the careful documentation of Bree's private moments. The way Phil's hands shook when he talked about her father's plans. "You think her father knows? About the mist?"

"I think he knows something." Gray's eyes narrow as Bree stands again, this time holding something small and green. A seedling, maybe. "Why else keep such close tabs on her? Why plant Phil to watch her?"

"Maybe he's just a sick fuck who wants to rape his daughter again," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. The coffee maker's cheerful beep feels obscene against the weight of that truth.

Gray flinches, but doesn't argue. We both know the depths of Bree's father's depravity. The cameras were just the latest violation in a long history of abuse.

"We need a plan," I say, reaching for new mugs on autopilot. "If her father's been watching this whole time, he's not going to just let her go."

"No," Gray agrees, his voice dropping. "But he's never dealt with all of us before. Not really."

I pour coffee, letting the familiar ritual steady my hands. "Rhett wants to confront him directly."

"Rhett wants to burn the world down." Gray accepts the mug I offer, his knuckles white around the ceramic. "But that's not what she needs right now."

"What does she need?"

"Time." He watches as Bree moves to another spot beneath the oak, the mist following like a loyal pet. "Space to heal. To trust again." His jaw tightens. "To figure out whatever's happening with the mist without her father's shadow hanging over her."

I think about the changes we've seen in just the past few days. How she's slowly letting her guard down, allowing small touches, accepting help. The way the mist grows stronger, more purposeful, as she does.

"She's going to find out eventually," I say quietly. "About the cameras. About all of it."

"I know." Gray sets his mug down with careful precision. "But right now, she needs to feel safe. To know she has a home here, with us." He pauses, something flickering across his expression. "That curry last night... I've known her my whole life and never even knew she could cook like that."

I nod, remembering how her quiet pride had shown through when we all sat down to eat, the way she watched us from beneath her lashes as we tasted it. "Her mother taught her before she left." The words feel weighted with everything we're learning about her, all these hidden parts she's kept locked away.