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thirty-four

Astoria

E ach day, the moon still hung, and the stars still shone. The earth continued its lazy trek around the sun and time moved on. I don’t know what I expected. As if the world would suddenly stop all because of the rupture between us.

It was past seven in the evening, and I laid in bed, wondering if I could spend the rest of my life here, safely tucked beneath the sheets.

Day left me at a hotel, just like I’d asked him to, even though he had been hesitant.

He sorted the room out for me as I cried on the curb, watching couples stumble out of the pub next door—joy and love plastered across their faces as they walked along the river, heading home. That was almost nine days ago.

London was busy and vibrant. So much life happened around me as I sulked. Did rolling from one side of the bed to the other to reach the remote count as anything for the day? I supposed not.

Day appeared at meal times, bringing me food, leaving it on the table nearby.

I did not eat. He did not speak.

My sadness permeated even my best friend’s presence. Every hour or so I found new things to cry over, the biggest being that I couldn’t take Reaper and I hadn’t even stopped to hug him goodbye. The smallest but most recent being that I forgot my basket. My only trophy of success.

Making sense of what Grim did was like staring into murky water, thinking that if I concentrated hard enough, it would clear. Death was not kind, nor was he compassionate. But he never pretended to be. It was I who blurred the lines of what he truly was.

He wore sorrow as a second skin, anger like armor.

Bitterness was his only friend; pain, his most faithful lover.

And I was the fool who thought my love could tame him.

But tell me, which is worse? The villain who did not hide the darkness he carried, or the hero who weaved pretty lies, hoping good deeds might erase the blood on their hands?

Like calls to like, I thought bitterly.

Could I blame him? Even when I believed the cost of my gift was the death of another, I chose the same path over and over and over again.

Rolling over, my eyes landed on the bag I’d thrown onto the sofa. Its contents had spilled out and my things scattered like the pieces of me I was still trying to gather—fragments of a girl who’d believed too hard in promises, in people, in love.

The folded letter from my father that I kept hidden in a sleeve had fallen from its box, now lying atop the sweater I’d stolen from Grim. Whatever apology it held didn’t matter anymore. Truthfully, it had never mattered.

But now? Now that the illusion had shattered, and the truth had bled out and left me hollow, what was there to lose? Grim had taken what was left of me.

Bitterness pushed my feet to the floor, forcing my hands to snatch up my father’s letter and peel it out of the sleeve.

One hundred and forty-seven years I’ve carried this piece of paper.

If it was as worthless as I’d always considered it to be, why was I still hanging on to it?

Without batting an eye, I unfolded it, my nose crinkled in anger as I read the ink.

Astoria Devlin,

Forgive me. I cannot bear to leave you, and yet your mother forbids me from remaining near. I fear the curse is more real than I had ever imagined, and for that, I am most grieved. I would have stayed… Tempest curse or no.

That is my burden to bear, not yours, nor your mother’s.

I cannot pretend to understand the suffering that awaits you upon your two-and-twentieth birthday, and if I am not permitted to stand at your side, then there is something you must know.

When your mother chose the name Devlin, it was intended as a warning.

She wished only to shield your heart. Yet there lies another meaning still.

Devlin signifies not merely ill fortune, but also the fierce virtue of courage.

You must be courageous, child, whether your curse demands much of you or nothing at all. There shall be an end to it, and I believe you are destined to bring it about. Let perseverance be your companion.

As for Astoria, that is my mother’s name.

A woman who has endured more than most. She and my father share a singular tale, one I pray they may share with you in time.

Named for the heavens, she reflects their vastness and mystery; bright, beautiful, a force unto herself.

It is my great honour to bestow her name upon you.

I ought not to ask this of you, but it would gladden my heart beyond measure to meet you.

I am returning home to Sussex, where my family has resided for generations.

I shall not leave again, for it would be the greatest joy of my life to wait, however long it may take, to meet you, my beloved daughter.

I love you, Astoria Devlin Reeves. Forever and beyond. Give Lucy my love, she was my beginning and my end. You both…my world.

All my love, August Reeves

A dull ache bloomed in the pit of my stomach. My chin quivered as I clutched the letter to my chest, pressing it against a heart too late for answers. I should have opened it sooner. I could have met him. He wanted to meet me, he wanted to know me.

His name slipped past my lips, fragile as a prayer, soft as a wound. I whispered it again, letting it linger on my tongue, like a blessing I hadn’t known I was missing.

“Reeves,” I breathed, tasting the word, wondering if it might finally tether me.

Astoria Devlin Reeves.

A name that suddenly became my armor and an anchor, all at once.

My mind spun with every what if . Had August married? Did I have siblings I didn’t know? Would they have helped me break my curse? Would my mother have gone with me if she’d known there was another way?

Grief hollowed me out, but somewhere deeper, a fire sparked to life.

I couldn’t change the past, but I could tear my future free from the chains they'd locked me in. I could be the one who saved myself.

Fingers trembling, I finally turned on the phone Nemo had given me.

The screen flared to life, harsh, blinding against the darkness.

I flipped through the contacts, ready to call Nemo and ask for Gentry’s number.

But when I opened the list, I froze. There weren’t just one or two names anymore. There were five.

Day. Feodora. Gentry. Nemo. Death.

A text from Nemo bubbled up on the screen.

Just in case you’re ready for the untarnished truth. Telling it. Receiving it. Welcome back, kid.

A tentative smile found me. Small, but real. I typed a dozen replies, deleting them all before settling on the only thing that mattered.

Thanks, Nemo. For everything.

And for the first time in what felt as though a lifetime, I knew exactly what I had to do.

Rooting around in my bag, I fished out the penny.

It's surface smooth from where I'd rubbed it over and over again.

I stood in front of the window, overlooking the dark fog settling over the Thames.

The window was slightly ajar, from when Day had opened it to break up the stale air in the room with a breeze.

I opened it farther, gripping the windowsill tight as I leaned over to look at the passersby below, their forms a haze under street lamps.

With a deep breath, I took a step back and tossed the penny out of the window, and watched as it sailed through the air and landed somewhere below. I was done with superstitions.

I was going to break this curse. Not for him, or anyone else, but for me.

Running my sweaty palms over my legs, I willed my knees to stop bouncing. I don’t know why I was so nervous; I’d already met Gentry. I knew what to expect.

I called him yesterday from the hotel, and when he answered, it was clear he did not remember who I was or what happened the day I met him.

Rightly so, considering Time froze everything around us in order to get Grim out.

His memories of Grim and I had been erased, so our meeting would be a fresh start. A beginning.

“Astoria Reeves?” Gentry asked, nearing my small café table, his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. Some books tucked under his arm.

“Hi, yes! It’s nice to meet you Dr. Townes.” I shook his hand, a small smile forming as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose once more.

“Oh, please call me Gentry. I was surprised to get your call. I mean, pleasantly, of course.” He smiled. He looked like a disheveled scholar—one exhausted, but excited, and on the verge of breakthrough. It made me wonder what he was currently studying or working on.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” I said, but then he began to stare, and I shrank back into my chair. Perhaps Day’s little trickery of magic hadn’t cleansed his memories well enough, maybe he remembered…

“I’m sorry, you are quite… I mean—” he cleared his throat and began rummaging through his bag, setting down the heavy books on the table as he took his seat.

“You’re very beautiful, first.” His eyes flicked to mine, causing a tightness in my limbs.

“Second, you look uncannily similar to… her. ” He placed a drawing on the table, the very one he’d shown me before.

He tapped his finger against Alice’s face.

I smirked.

Tempest curse, you shall no longer hold power over Astoria Reeves.

The moment I stepped inside the Bodleian Library, I was lost. Lost to the sheer weight of history pressing in around me, venerate and heavy.

English Gothic architecture arched overhead in a stone-laced embrace, vaulted ceilings etched with centuries-old craftsmanship, tracery so fine it could’ve been spun from shadow and prayer.

Light filtered in through tall, mullioned windows, soft and golden, painting the air with dust motes that danced like ancient spirits.

It was as if stepping back in time. Back before electricity. Before photographs. Before even I was born.