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Aimee stayed behind to help organize the little kitchenette. The menders and healers were so overworked Aiden barely came home to sleep. If nothing else, she could make sure he had a place to prepare a meal.

She was still stocking shelves when Gilly burst in, flushed and panicked.

One of her uncle’s long-term staff, Gilly had been in service for decades. A housekeeper by trade, though lately she’d taken to running messages and filling gaps wherever needed.

“The rescue party has returned, and the little miss is in a terrible way,” she panted.

Aiden was instantly on his feet, downing the rest of his tea as he grabbed his coat. He turned to clear his dishes.

“I’ll clean up here,” Aimee said. “You go.”

He nodded, kissed her cheek, and disappeared after Gilly into the gray morning.

Just like that, Aimee was alone. She turned back to the counter, adjusting a stack of cups.

This time, it wasn’t familial duty that kept her tidying.

She was stalling. Even without this latest crisis, Talya had a way of pulling every bit of air out of a room, and she wasn’t ready to suffocate in it yet.

So, she lingered—meticulously rearranging utensils, wiping surfaces that were already spotless. But eventually, there was nothing left to do.

Taking the long way home, she dragged her feet. She tried to feel even a glimmer of what she’d felt before—the rush, the hope, the quiet certainty that she’d been right.

All she got was a vague sense of nausea.

Back at the townhouse, the staff was up now. The kitchen bustled with activity as people rushed about, working with a sense of urgency that went beyond the usual morning preparations.

“What’s going on?” Aimee asked.

Gilly, now overseeing a simmering pot, barely glanced up. “The rescue party returned, ma’am. The little miss is—”

“In a terrible way,” Aimee finished. “Yes, I heard.”

She’d expected them to be done by now. Expected breakfast.

Instead, the kitchen reeked of bitter herbs—like the brews her mother used to make for Cori’s coughing fits.

For a moment, she was back in Picolo. Cori was upstairs, her mother was hunched over a stove, muttering about stubborn lungs, and the world was right again.

Aimee shoved the thought down hard. She was imagining things.

Ducking around a pair of maids carrying boiling pots, she snagged a few biscuits from yesterday’s breakfast, stale but edible. Then she retreated to the safety of her room. The best thing she could do for everyone was stay out of the way.

She lingered in the bath, letting the heat pull the soreness from her muscles. She took her time with her hair. She managed to kill the better part of the morning, but when she checked downstairs an hour later, there was still no breakfast.

Whatever was wrong with Talya, it wasn’t over yet.

A strange twinge settled in Aimee’s stomach—something uneasy she couldn’t quite name. Almost like concern, but that couldn’t be right.

She shook it off. And with no more excuses to delay the inevitable, she headed for Talya’s room, where the little miss was no doubt soaking up attention like the insufferable sponge she was.

Admittedly, she didn’t know what was happening up there, but she’d seen enough performances to know the beats. Poor, wounded Talya. The broken girl who somehow still got everything she wanted. And everyone else crowded around her, desperate to prove how much they cared.

Halfway up the stairs, a thought struck—what if she was missing fingers?

Talya had been wandering the woods for a month without food or shelter. She’d probably lost some toes to frostbite, at the very least.

Aimee’s lips twitched into a grim smirk. She hated herself for it immediately, but the thought persisted. And it invited friends.

What if the golden girl wasn’t so golden anymore?

What if that pretty face wasn’t so pretty?

What if Skylen’s perfect little obsession came back clawed and ruined? Would he still look at her like she hung the moon, or would the cracks finally show?

It shouldn’t have made her feel better. But it did. Just for a second.

Just long enough to make her feel worse.

The top floor of the townhouse belonged to Skylen and Talya. Aimee had never had a reason to go inside before now. The door to the attic suite stood open, and she poked her head around it, trying not to look too interested.

The entryway opened into a narrow but inviting hallway, the walls paneled in the same dark wood as the floors.

At either end, two doors faced each other.

The one on the right stood ajar. Beyond it, she glimpsed a comfortable bed with a dark wood frame and sturdy posts, bedecked in masculine tones of green and brown.

Skylen’s room, most likely. Which meant the closed door across the hall belonged to Talya.

Between the two rooms stretched a spacious common area with tall, sloping ceilings. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, spilling over the furniture—a collection of comfortable sofas, plush armchairs, mismatched wooden tables, and soft, over-worn rugs.

It wasn’t to Aimee’s usual taste. But she couldn’t say she hated it either. It felt comfortable, like a space meant to be lived in. Not designed but shaped over time, molded around the people inside.

That’s where she found the rest of her family—and a few others.

Ivain and Sarina sat curled into armchairs, speaking in low voices near the fire. Kato was slumped sideways in a chair, arms folded, chin tucked against his chest.

From the couch, Skylen stared at nothing—awake, but not really there. His damp hair curled at the ends.

The room was thick with a waiting kind of silence.

Aimee stepped inside, the soft creak of the floorboards loud in the hush. Nobody looked at her. The only sound was the occasional shift of fabric, the snap of burning wood.

She cleared her throat at the threshold. “Well. Glad to see the family morale’s holding steady.”

Sarina’s gaze cut to her, sharp enough to flay.

Aimee held up her hands. “Sorry,” she mouthed. Apparently, humor wasn’t allowed on the fifth floor.

“We’re doing what we can,” Ivain muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Taly was having some difficulty breathing. Aiden’s in with her now.”

“He’s been in there for ages,” Sarina said tightly, her chin perched on a rigid fist.

“Might as well get comfortable. It’s probably going to take a while longer.” Ivain gestured to the room.

Like she belonged here now. Like this was her vigil too.

Aimee hesitated. She didn’t want to stay. But… family was family. And leaving would look bad.

With a quiet sigh, she pulled out a chair at the card table near the window and settled in.

She glanced at the door. There was no sound from beyond it. What was her brother doing back there? What if she just… poked her head inside?

One look at Sarina immediately disqualified that idea. She didn’t want to get singed.

Aimee sat back, drumming her fingers against the table.

It wasn’t Cori. She’d had time to think on it now, and clearly, she’d been mistaken. Blinded by hope, by pain, by the exhaustion of so many years of searching. Sure, they looked similar, but that’s where the resemblance ended.

Cori had been laughter and sunlight, gentleness and warmth.

Talya barged into every room, weapon drawn, and expected the world to fall in line.

Cori never would’ve accepted the Time Shard’s call. Only Talya had that kind of audacity.

Cori had loved her. She’d loved everyone, unconditionally. Talya… Talya chose who got her softness. At least, that’s what Aimee assumed. She’d never been on the receiving end, so she couldn’t say for sure if it even existed.

Talya’s door opened. Everyone in the room tensed. Kato woke with a snort, and Skylen was instantly upright.

But it was only one of the maids. In her arms, she carried a bundle of towels soaked with blood. The smell of it wafted from the room behind her.

There it was again—that flicker of something uncomfortably close to worry. Aimee tried to get a peek inside the room, but the door slipped shut.

She stared at it, waiting for a cry of pain, a gasp for air, anything.

Nothing came.

Her gaze flicked to Skylen. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, face in his hands.

The picture of devotion.

Something twisted in Aimee’s chest. He was never going to love her. She’d accepted it. But still… just once, she wanted to know what it felt like to be chosen that completely.

Bored of the silence, she pulled a deck of cards from her skirt pocket, shuffling them idly. Sunlight slanted over the polished wood. She tapped the deck against the table once, aligning the edges before dealing the first row.

A shadow moved into her light.

Aimee didn’t look up from her game. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” said a male voice.

Aimee sighed and raised her eyes to give the red-haired idiot standing before her the attention he so obviously wanted.

“What’s wrong, Lady Bryer?” Kato smirked. “You usually look happier to see me.”

“Usually, you’re drunker,” she said coolly. “It makes it easier to take all your coin.”

“Mind if I join?”

She placed another card down. It made a satisfying, gentle snap as it settled on the wood. “It’s called Solitaire for a reason.”

“Yes, but as you might’ve noticed, nobody else in the room is much in the mood for talking. And you’re always such a ray of sunshine…”

Aimee arched a brow.

“I have coin.”

Her hand paused mid-air, the Queen of Clocks perched between her fingers.

“Always the mercenary, Lady Bryer.” Kato flicked a coin purse into the air, catching it in his palm with an easy grin.

Aimee considered him. “Are you sure you want to do this? The last time you played me, I relieved you of more than just your coin.”

Kato grimaced as if remembering. And who knew, maybe there was a sliver of recollection left in his wine-soaked memory—a sense of wordless, unexplainable unease that something terrible had happened.