Page 16

If I hadn’t believed he could find the way out, I wouldn’t have followed. But at the back of my mind, a flicker of worry remained, that he might vanish into thin air, leaving me stranded and alone.

He chuckled, low and velvety, then leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I won’t leave you stranded in the gardens, Star. You have my word.”

My cheeks flushed pink as heat blossomed beneath my skin.

With a weighted sigh, he squeezed my hand tighter. “I don’t have a name.”

I glanced up at him, my brows pulling together in quiet ache. Whatever he was—however he came to be—he deserved one. If my grandmother’s stories had taught me anything, it was this: everyone deserves a name. An identity. Spoken or secret, like mine.

“Grim…” I offered, scarcely louder than the wind.

It wasn’t kind. Or soft. It was honest. A name that could be uttered with reverence. Acceptance. A truth, plain and unadorned. And as soon as it left my lips, embarrassment clawed at my throat.

Who was I to name Death? Who was I to call him anything at all?

He stopped, halting us in place. His hands found my shoulders, and I was pinned beneath his gaze, glacial and glowing, impossibly intense beneath the curve of his feathered mask.

“Grim…” he echoed, testing the sound. It left him ragged, hardly held together.

His fingers ran the length of my arms, trailing up again, and then he smiled.

It cracked through his stillness illustrating sunlight through storm clouds.

His cheeks lifted, shifting the edge of his mask, and then he pulled me tightly against his chest. A deep, unexpected laugh rumbled through him, curling into me with warmth.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his breath stirring the curls at my temple.

I smiled against him. “Grim…”

When I leaned back to meet his eyes, I caught something in his expression. An emotion I didn’t recognize. Something I wasn’t sure he’d ever worn before.

It looked a lot like peace.

His hand came up, tentative, fingers grazing the edge of my jaw as a flicker of pain crossed his face. Then gone in the blink of an eye. Thumb brushing my lower lip, I closed my eyes, stilling beneath his touch.

“Astoria Tempest…” he choked out. "I’ve never known a curse quite as formidable… or as bewitching as you.”

My breath caught in my throat as he leaned in, lips barely brushing mine. Warmth, winter, and want suspended in a breathless moment—

Loud whooping shattered the stillness.

Grim stilled, the shape of his mouth turning downward, shadows flickering across his features. Drunken voices drifted from the patio in the form of raucous laughter and boots clattering on stone.

He pulled away, jaw tightening as the moment slipped through his fingers. Rolling his eyes, his expression hardened into something unreadable again. “I should get you back,” he said, voice clipped. He extended his hand, not cold, not warm, just... distant.

We walked in silence, his palm at the small of my back, steady and infuriatingly formal. One step through the hedged archway and we were on the opposite side of the gardens, before the grand staircase, the manor looming ahead like a final curtain call.

“You better get inside,” he said softly, not meeting my eyes. “It’s too cold out here.”

“Grim,” I breathed, the name cracking in my throat. I reached for him, my fingers held out into empty air. Pain curled behind my ribs, sharp and unexpected.

Something had happened beneath the snowflakes and the hush of candlelight.

“Go, Astoria. I’ll see you on the boat.”

“You will?” I asked, without expectation. Still, the knot in my chest loosened at his promise. Those few days on the ship, years ago, had shifted something between us.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, a tight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he nudged me toward the first step.

I hesitated. Then, on instinct, I turned and threw myself into him, looping my arms around his neck. Trusting him to catch me.

He always did.

Spinning me once, he held me tight as I pressed my face against the warmth of his chest, an air of darkness dancing around us in a show of phantom and shadow.

When he set me down, he reached up and pushed my mask to rest atop my head. Then, softly, he kissed my temple, lingering there as if the moment could leave a mark. And maybe it did.

“Go, Tempest,” he commanded.

I didn’t speak. Just squeezed his hand once, then again for good measure, before lifting my skirts and climbing the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

I told myself not to look back, but of course I did.

At the final step, I turned.

And he was gone.

No trace of him remained, only the hush of the garden and the cold settling in my chest reminding me of my grief.

The next morning, hands gripping the railing, I stared out over the sea. England had all but vanished from view, and still, no sign of him.

The wind whipped my hair wildly, violently. Just the way he would’ve admired. Somewhere deep inside, I knew.

He wasn’t coming. At least not over the journey home. Maybe not at all.

True to form, he vanished—broken promises trailing after him, cloaked in the tattered guise of hope.

This must be what it feels like to surrender to Death, I thought.

Not in the final sense—I wasn’t allowed that—but in the way a tired heart leans toward silence.

It was harrowing. A daydream decayed by ivy and rot.

A tangled and twisting ache that left behind pebbled skin and thoughts I didn’t want to name.

If I hadn’t felt his touch the night before, if he hadn’t whispered to me in the garden, cloaked in black and sorrow…

I might’ve believed I imagined it all.

But he answered when I called his name. Grim.

It wasn’t a dream at all, he just buried it deep—and neither of us could care to dig it out.