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“Pride,” I answered truthfully. “Why are you here?” I held my hand out for another branch.

Day forked one over, rolling his eyes.

“I mean, not that I don’t want you. I definitely love having you here—”

“Death thought you could use the company… and he was clearly right, considering you’ve taken up with a dog and basket weaving.”

“Who’s saying—wait!” I swung my head to Day, losing my spot. “Death sent you?”

“Mhm. How do you start this anyways?” Day fumbled with a few branches himself, attempting to follow the directions on the page.

“So he is listening to me. That bastard!” I yelled. You can hear me….

Suddenly, it occurred to me that perhaps he was avoiding me. Maybe the feelings that kept me awake all night, tossing and turning in my bed, kept him from returning. I’d all but confessed my growing feelings for him and his response was to disappear.

Somehow, I convinced Day to weave with me.

We worked side by side in comfortable silence as the sky darkened, the winter twilight settling heavy around the house.

By the time I finally reached a good stopping point, the House had started preparing a meal in the background of the kitchen, pans clattering gently, steam curling up from invisible pots.

To my endless disappointment, Day was much better at basket weaving than I was. "Are you kidding me?" I grumbled, kicking his foot lightly with my own as he admired his finished basket. "I’ve been at this for days , and you crank that out in a few hours ?"

Day smirked, holding up his basket by the handle and twirling it around as if it was a prize. "Or did I?"

I looked down at my poor excuse for a basket. It sagged pitifully in one corner, already trying to give out. "Unbelievable," I muttered, dropping my hands into my lap.

Day chuckled, setting his creation aside and nudging my elbow with his. "Talent can’t be taught, Storybook."

"I suck," I sighed, flopping back against the cabinets.

"Don’t beat yourself up, princess. I suppose if you could manipulate time, you’d have more to show for it, too."

I threw my half-finished handle down and pointed an accusing finger at him. "I knew it! There were a few moments I thought I was having a stroke. Even Reaper stretched his legs in slow motion!"

Day broke into a fit of laughter, his basket tumbling across the kitchen as he fell backward onto the tile, clutching his stomach. "There’s no use fighting my curse. Might as well use it to my advantage."

My smile faltered. Slowly, I began picking up the supplies scattered around us.

Day’s laughter died in his throat. "Oh—sorry, Storybook. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not a curse. Not like yours, anyway. Really, I didn’t mean—ugh.” Flustered, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and down his face, his cheeks pinking with guilt. "I’m sorry."

It didn’t bother me any. I knew what he meant. I hadn’t done a very good job of avoiding my curse, but where Time could twist his to his advantage, I only ever hurt people with mine.

"Have you given any thought to what you’ll do when it’s broken?" he asked, his voice soft, stroking Reaper between the shoulder blades. The mangy mutt gave an exasperated sigh.

Day must not have known about my deal with Death. There was nothing to plan for.

"I’ll pass on," I said, coughing a little on the last word. "After I break my curse, that is."

He looked puzzled, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly. It was suddenly cold in the kitchen, sitting there on the tile, but neither of us moved to leave.

Instead, I picked at the loose thread on the hem of Grim’s sweater—the one I’d taken to wearing. It was dark blue, heavy, the yarn thick with a cable-knit pattern across the chest. I’d seen him wear it a hundred times over the years. It was lived in. Cozy. Twice my size.

Perfect for hiding.

"But I thought… Feo said…" Day mumbled, his brows knitting as his eyes darted around the room as if he was chasing a memory he couldn’t catch. "So why break it, then?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, the taste of iron blooming on my tongue.

It was best not to linger on the what-ifs.

There were a hundred reasons why I should break the curse: It killed my family.

It stole my grandmother’s sanity and my mother’s joy.

It wreaked havoc on a world undeserving of the vile nature of it.

The biggest reason of all was simple, and damning— the Tempest curse made me a murderer.

But that’s not the answer I gave. Because in that tiny, breathless moment between processing what Day had said and wondering why I —Astoria Devlin Tempest—had to be the daughter to break the curse, the truth was …

"I’m tired, Day," I said, simply.

He nodded, his bright eyes never leaving mine. It felt terrifying, having my emotions laid bare. I hated being vulnerable, but it was true. I’m tired.

Tired of watching everyone I love die.

Tired of moving through life without rhyme or reason.

Tired of avoiding anything and everyone, hoping that if I just made myself small enough, I might somehow survive.

"Besides," I said, pushing off the floor and brushing the dust from my pants, "I made a deal with the devil. And for the first time in my life..." I looked up at him, feeling the truth settle as a stone inside my chest. "I’ve run out of time."