Page 56

One month later

“Christ, Catherine.” Gavin’s voice is an exasperated sigh, dragging me out of my thoughts. “Why don’t you just take all the cakes? Go on, just shovel them into your reticule like a thief.”

I glance up from my untouched tea to see Catherine perched on the settee, a tower of cakes balanced precariously on her plate. She meets Gavin’s judgemental stare with an imperious lift of her brows, already reaching for another sugar-dusted confection.

It startles a laugh out of me, rusty and creaking. The sound is so foreign, so at odds with the endless grey fog that’s become my existence.

These stolen moments with Gavin and Catherine, with Daniel’s steady presence at her side, are precious. A lifeline when the world feels too sharp. Too close. With them, I don’t have to pretend.

They understand in a way no one else can.

“Marchioness.” Gavin’s voice snaps me back to the present. He’s watching me, head cocked. “Did you know Catherine’s been stealing food from every party we’ve attended for the last month? She’s hoarding desserts in her bloody bedroom.”

I meet Catherine’s gaze, the mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Really?” I ask, pitching my voice low. Conspiratorial. “Just desserts, or are you hiding entire roasts under your skirts, too?”

She affects a scandalised gasp, hand fluttering to her chest. “Why, I would never .” Her eyes slide to Daniel. “And even if I did, Daniel would never tell. Would you, darling? Seeing as you’re the one who so enjoys my figure.”

Gavin chokes on his tea.

Daniel’s ears flush pink, but his expression remains remarkably composed. “You know I’m not getting in the middle of this. A sensible man knows to stay well away from sibling squabbles.”

Catherine laughs. The sound tugs at something in my chest, a bittersweet ache. It’s been so long since any of us could indulge in these simple joys. Could sit in a sunny parlour and do something as wonderfully, painfully ordinary as laugh over tea and too many cakes.

But the cracks remain—beneath our skin, our smiles. It’s there in the way Catherine always sits with her back to a wall. In the knives Gavin keeps tucked into his sleeves. In the shadows behind Daniel’s eyes, the tension that never entirely leaves his shoulders.

They’re all jagged pieces, puzzle edges that don’t quite fit. Rebuilding from the wreckage.

I clear my throat, forcibly dragging myself out of my head.

“For goodness’ sake,” I say, waving an imperious hand, “Gavin, stop pestering Catherine and let her eat the bloody cakes. In fact, have more.” I nod at the dwindling pile of pastries.

“There’s a nice cream tart in there that would make a fine addition to your hoard. ”

Catherine grins. Quick as a snake, she snatches up the tart and shoves it into her mouth whole. She stares Gavin dead in the eye and lets out an exaggerated moan. “I bloody missed tea cakes. And tea. And shortbread. Oh! And those wee sandwiches Cook used to make, with the cucumbers and—”

She cuts herself off, expression faltering. I don’t have to ask why. For a moment, we’re not here. Not safe in a sunwarmed sitting room with the comforting clink of china and silver.

We’re back there. Huddled around a meagre fire. Trying not to think about the things we’ve done. The blood crusted beneath our nails, in the creases of our palms.

I’d give anything to have Derrick perched on my shoulder again. To feel the flutter of his wings against my cheek.

I’d walk barefoot across broken glass for one more moment with Kiaran.

I slam a lid on that thought before it can take root. Before it can sink poisoned claws in deep and tear me open.

“Not this again,” Gavin groans. He looks at me. “Catherine has this list of things she missed about a hundred bloody items long. She recited the whole thing at three in the damn morning, and I haven’t slept since—”

Catherine’s glare could cut glass.

Gavin swallows audibly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping his gaze.

I turn to Catherine, throat tight. “You’re still having bad dreams.” It’s not a question.

She picks a loose thread on her skirt, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “While I appreciate the cakes and the city and everything else, some parts are . . . harder. To readjust to.” Her jaw works, throat bobbing. “I sound ungrateful,” Catherine whispers.

Daniel slips an arm around her, tucking her against his side.

“It was three years, Cat,” he says softly.

Gentle as a sigh. “You’re allowed to not be all right.

We’re all still—” He pauses, searching for the right words.

“Finding our footing. Relearning how to navigate a world that isn’t actively trying to kill us. Takes some getting used to.”

“If you’re ever tempted to have the fae try to kill you again,” I say, “I still live a violent existence.”

Daniel glares at me. “I’ll answer for her. No.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind,” I say.

I need to go out. Every breath feels like I’m dying. Hours later, after Catherine and Daniel have taken their leave, Gavin pauses at the door to the drawing room. One hand jammed deep in his pocket. His eyes search my face—for what, I’m not entirely sure.

“You know you can’t keep doing this,” he says. “Going out.”

“I’m still a Falconer,” I say. “Aithinne’s the one who has me hunting rogues. Scold her for it, if you’d like.”

“I meant wandering the streets at all hours, looking for ghosts,” he says, very softly.

I flinch before I can stop myself. Fold my arms tight across my chest, fingers digging into my elbows. “I’m not—”

“Aren’t you?” Gavin interrupts. There’s no judgement in it, no censure. Just a quiet understanding that makes me want to scream. “You’re searching for him, aren’t you? When you go out at night.”

“Sometimes,” I rasp. Hoarse and cracking, the confession dragged over broken glass. “Sometimes, when I’m in this house, I feel like I’m drowning.”

Like the walls are closing in. Like all the empty spaces are pressing down on me.

Gavin shifts his weight, throat working as he swallows. “I know what you mean,” he says. “It’s the same for me. I reckon it’d be the same for those two—he jerks his chin at the door, to where Catherine and Daniel’s carriage waits in the drive—“if they didn’t have each other.”

I look away. Try to breathe past the sudden vice around my lungs, the dull roar building in my ears.

Because he’s right. Gavin is always right, picking at my scabs with the delicate precision of a surgeon.

“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you keep going, keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s so clearly not?”

Gavin lets out a humourless chuckle. “I lose myself in women,” he says. “Find a willing body to bury myself in until I can’t think anymore. Can’t feel.”

I snort. “And that helps, does it?”

“For a few hours.” His shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Takes the edge off, at least.”

I turn to face him, then. Cataloguing all the little differences. The ways this Gavin, the one Aithinne spoke back into being, doesn’t quite align with the man he became after Edinburgh fell.

His hair is longer now. Skin fresh and smooth, free of the scars that mapped his survival in silver lines. But his eyes give him away. There are shadows there, swimming in the blue. A sharpness, an edge.

Still Gavin, under the polish—but with teeth made for tearing.

Just like me. Just like Kiaran.

Pain lances through my chest at the thought—a dagger thrust between my ribs. I push it down, down. Lock it up tight. Offer Gavin a thin-lipped smile.

“So,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone. “You’re suggesting I lose myself in women, too, is that it? Take my pick of the lovelies at the next ball, and what? Let them paw at my skirts until I can pretend my entire world hasn’t been ripped away?”

Gavin flinches. Opens his mouth, but I’m not finished.

“Or maybe I should find a man,” I continue, vicious now. Aimed as much at myself as him. “A nice, proper gentleman to sink into. To use until I’ve emptied my head of all the inconvenient wanting.”

I feel cleaner somehow. Scraped raw, like I’ve bled out some measure of the poison.

Gavin just stares at me. “That’s not what I meant.”

Slowly, deliberately, I force my shoulders to relax. Uncurl my fingers from their grip on my elbows and take a slow, steadying breath.

“I know,” I say. Calmer now, the anger retreating to a dull roar. “I know you’re just trying to help.”

Gavin hesitates, then takes a careful step forward. Telegraphing his movements, giving me every chance to slap him away and retreat back into my shell, my safe cocoon of numbness.

But I don’t. I let him come, let him reach out to take my hand.

“You could always marry me, you know,” he says. Low, intent. “Doesn’t have to mean anything. I just don’t like leaving you alone in this house.”

I huff a disbelieving laugh, shaking my head. “You can’t possibly be serious. You want to shackle yourself to a woman in love with someone else? Who can barely stand to look at herself in the mirror most days? That’s no kind of life. Not for either of us.”

He shrugs again. “Might be enough,” he says. “Having someone who understands, who knows all the ugly truths. Someone to share the burden, even a little. If you have nightmares, at least I’ll know what they are.”

I wish, for one bright, terrible moment, that I could say yes. That I could take his hand and his name, build something real out of the rubble of our shared history.

But I can’t. I can’t accept his unconditional support and offer only ash in return. Can’t condemn him to a lifetime of living with my ghost.

“Don’t resign yourself to a half-life with me, Kilmartin. You deserve better than the scraps I have left to give. You deserve someone who can love you wholly and completely. Not as a friend.”

Someone without a howling void behind her ribs. Without a blade for a heart.

Gavin’s throat works as he swallows. But he nods. He knows me, knows the shape of my denial. The reasons I can’t, won’t, bend.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

“And you?” he asks quietly. “What will you do?”

I take a shuddering breath. Let my fingers curl into my skirts. “I’ll go out again tonight,” I say. A truth, an admission. Laid bare and bloody at his feet. “Aithinne gave me another fae to kill.”