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I nod, my face rustling against the buttoned front of his overcoat.

He kisses the crown of my head, then we move apart.

And I feel like I am five years old again, afraid of the dark, afraid to be alone.

I don’t want them to leave but I know this is the best, the only, way forward.

To free ourselves from the debt, the salt must be harvested.

Forcing myself to relax, I help Oberon to adjust the strap of his traveling bag. “Goodbye,” I tell my brothers. “Have a safe journey. I promise I will be fine.”

Finally, we separate and I stand in the open cottage doorway, waving, as I watch them go. Early sunset lights their path toward the Arriscane woods. They pause to look back at me one last time. I raise my hand in farewell, staying like that until Henry and Oberon disappear between the trees.

Then I walk back inside and close the door.

I hadn’t realized how empty the house would feel once I was alone. The noise of the wind and the sea sweeps in—waves breaking on the distant shore, the camellia trees rustling, a harsh seabird call.

The quiet inside presses down as I move from room to room.

I can’t shake the creep of foreboding. It clings to me like a shadow as I go into the kitchen, fill the teakettle, and put it on the stove.

A leftover slice of birthday cake is in the icebox.

I eat it standing over the sink, spilling crumbs, licking sugar from my fingers.

Upstairs in my bedroom, everything is as untouched as on the night I left for the altar. A pile of books on the floor, Eline atop my unmade bed, the satchel I brought home from Marchmain sitting on my dresser chair.

And pinned to the wall is my wedding veil.

I edge toward it, one hand at my throat.

My heart is pounding hard against my ribs.

When my fingers brush the gauze, I expect it to dissipate like smoke beneath my touch.

Surely this is a hallucination, a waking dream.

But the veil is solid and real, etched by embroidered flowers, all ivory and crimson.

My mind wheels, searching for a way to explain how this is possible.

It’s the same veil I wore on my betrothal night, the veil that Alastair pulled from my hair and cast aside on our escape from the mine.

It should be crumpled in a mine shaft far below the earth. Tangled around a new fractal of salt.

The scent of brazier ash fills my room. The sunlight goes suddenly dim, as though blotted out by a cloud. I turn toward the window and someone is there —a figure with a beautiful, ethereal face. One hand pressed flat against the glass, translucent claws scraping down.

“Therion?”

I edge away until my back is pressed to the wall.

The image twists, becoming the boy from the mine.

His eyes glint as he stares at me, gaze bisected by a golden lock of hair.

His lips part, shaping words that I cannot hear.

He raises his fist, as though to strike the window.

I cry out, but with a blink, the boy is gone.

There is nothing but the sunset-colored sky.

Tentatively, I creep toward the window and peer down. I am on the second floor; in the garden below there is only an undisturbed cluster of camellia trees and overgrown weeds.

A piercing shrill rushes up from the lower rooms of the house.

I leap back from the window in a desperate quaver of panic.

Then I remember: the teakettle. With a final glance at the veil—still there, still real—and the empty window, I hurry back down the stairs and turn off the stove.

The house falls silent, everything like a held breath.

Sighing, I sit heavily into one of the kitchen chairs and lean my elbows against the table.

My brothers have only just left and already I am imagining horrors outside my window.

I want to be braver than this. After all, I’m going to be here alone for what could be weeks. The thought of that makes me shiver.

The weight of Therion’s ring on my finger is painfully heavy. I twist it back and forth and remind myself this is my home ; I am safe here. I was born inside these walls. The rise and fall of the tides against the breakwater has been as familiar to me as my heartbeat for my entire life.

I can hear it now, the hush and sigh of the sea. Waves drawing back and forth over the beach. But overlaid is another sound. A muted drip drip drip that comes not from outside, but from above.

When I go to the base of the stairs, the floorboards are slick with damp. A running cascade of water pours down from the landing above. Snares of kelp are woven through the banisters, and as I hurry to the second floor of the house, shells crunch beneath my feet.

I’m cut and bleeding by the time I reach the bathroom. Inside, the claw-foot tub is overflowing, a torrent of water rushing quickly over the sides. Both of the taps are turned on as far as they can go. The faucet is a torrent, filling the already flooded bath.

I splash across the floor, the water stinging my scraped feet.

It’s salt water—the air tastes like brine, and condensation beads against my skin like an ocean mist. I lick the taste of salt from my lips as I reach across to turn off the bath taps.

The water shuts off to an aching silence.

In the bottom of the tub, the drain is clotted with a mass of flowers.

I plunge my hand into the icy water, shivering as my arm is submerged all the way to my shoulder.

It’s a bundle of oxeye daisies, bruised and marshy, tied together with a satin ribbon. Like one of the garlands strung up to decorate for the bonfire. I drag it out and the tub empties with a torrid moan; the water in the drainpipes sounds alive. A voice that is not at all human.

I stumble back from the bath, holding the sodden bouquet against my chest. I feel lost to the same dizziness that overcame me this morning when I stepped into the mine and touched the salt.

My hands, clutched tight around the ribbon-tied stems, look as formless as mist. My fingernails are opalescent as pearls.

Feathers fill the air, drifting down to cover me like enormous flakes of snow.

The world tilts and spins. I sink to my knees.

Everything starts to disappear.