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thirty-five

Astoria

T he last few months passed in a blur, like scenery smeared beyond recognition from a speeding train.

Nemo, ever the enigma, left a manila folder on my hotel bed one evening without a word.

Inside, I found a full identity, stitched together so seamlessly it might have been real.

Astoria Devlin Reeves. Complete with a birth certificate, government IDs, credit history—a whole life ready to be worn as a second skin.

It wasn’t that I was ungrateful. Nemo had already done more for me than I deserved, but even he, it seemed, was admitting this would be my final adventure. And as much as I yearned for my days to finally count , a strange, unsteady emotion gnawed at my ribs. A hunger laced with agony.

Living out of a hotel wasn’t ideal, but permanence felt... wrong. Like making a vow to a life I wasn’t sure I was allowed to have yet.

Every day, I wandered the dusty halls of the Bodleian, pouring over brittle books and yellowed collections, chasing down any scrap from Alice and Margery’s time, desperately trying to scratch at the curse’s edges.

Gentry, bless him, was undeterred by my stubbornness.

Every evening, without fail, he would float the idea that I move into his guest room.

“At least until we figure out how to break your curse,” he said one night, as he tidied up the study space we had commandeered for ourselves. He worked tirelessly beside me, somehow balancing teaching his classes with spending every spare moment combing through archives and genealogy records.

The beautiful thing about England was its memory. Families had lingered here for centuries, their histories stacked in trunks and attics like forgotten treasures. Sometimes, we even got to dust them off. But so far, none of it had been enough.

I sighed, tucking away the battered journal I’d been scribbling in before slipping it into my messenger bag.

Gentry straightened up, pulling off his glasses and setting them carefully on the table. He studied me with a tender furrow between his brows. “Would it really be that bad?” he asked quietly.

“Gentry—” I started, the automatic protest forming.

“No, Astoria,” he interrupted, voice low but firm. He stepped closer, until I could see the flecks of green in his brown eyes. His gaze dropped to where my fingers fidgeted against the worn strap of my bag. “Would it really be that bad?”

The late evening light poured through the window behind him, catching the dust motes in a slow, golden dance. His shadow fell over me like a shield. “You don’t have to stay once this is over,” he said, voice rough, “but please... please, let’s get you out of the hotel.”

For a moment, the world stilled. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, warring between reflex and reason.

Gentry had already given me so much. More than kindness.

More than loyalty. He cared for me in a way I wasn’t sure I remembered how to accept.

Maybe I never really had. Besides Day, of course.

But even Time was fickle. Even Time could vanish.

Gentry, though?

Gentry was constant.

He sent a text first thing every morning.

He met me at the hotel doors with coffee and tea, rain or shine.

He tried to pay for every meal. He stayed up late, hunched over grimy ledgers and worn maps, chasing the shape of my curse across centuries.

And recently... after I had trusted him with my father’s letter, he had booked us a short weekend trip to Sussex, digging into the tangled roots of the Reeves family line. Hoping, always hoping, for answers.

Grim’s betrayal still hurt. A wound left wide open, festering the longer I sat and stewed on it. Throwing myself into defeating the Tempest curse was the only thing keeping me afloat...

That, and Gentry. I was beginning to realize just how much I’d begun to rely on him. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

It was enough for him.

He smiled softly and ran his fingers down my shoulders, giving a light, reassuring squeeze before turning to gather his things. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the curse— till Death himself their fate is torn— what if you’ve already broken it? Leaving him?”

“I don’t know…” It felt too easy, for something as strong and violent as the Tempest curse. But what if it was as simple as that? Would I know?

“We can noodle it out over dinner, I’m starving.”

After dinner, Gentry invited me to check out his place. I agreed, mostly because I’d run out of excuses. He had asked plenty of times over the past few months, and each time, I’d skillfully dodged. This time, he was insistent.

Gentry lived in a newly built modern flat a few miles from the university, tucked near the edges of Summertown. It was beautiful, sleek and modern.

Which was the most surprising part of it all.

Gentry gave off bookish, stuffy scholar vibes at first glance. But his home? It was all clean lines and cool tones, black fixtures and polished steel appliances. Everything immaculate. Not a speck of dust. Not a pencil out of place.

We were standing in his spare bedroom, straight lines running the length of the carpet from the vacuum.

“I’ve mostly been using it as an office,” he said, stacking loose papers and gathering a few scattered books. “But there’s a guest bed already set up. We can grab anything else you need, if you’d like to stay. A chest of drawers, maybe.”

I drifted toward his desk, running my fingers lightly across its smooth surface.

A few framed photos lined the back wall behind it.

A young Gentry, grinning proudly, holding up a fish almost bigger than he was.

Gentry and a girl I assumed was his sister, both laughing mid-splash in some sun-drenched lake.

A group of young men in battered rugby kits, faces sloppy with joy and bruises.

I smiled faintly, warmth pulling at my chest, until my gaze snagged on the last photo.

I leaned in, frowning.

Gentry stood beside an older woman, her dark skin glowing against the vibrant swirl of colors in her kaftan. Heavy, beaded hoop earrings glinted in the sun. A thread of cold recognition laced through my gut.

I plucked the photo gently from its place on the wall, studying it closer. “Who is this?” I asked, voice rasping too sharp around the edges.

Gentry came up behind me, so close his body brushed mine lightly.

His warmth seeped into my spine. He peered over my shoulder, nonchalant.

“That’s Feodora,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“She’s the lovely librarian that nudged me on the path I’m on.

She’s the reason I had my article published in the journal and got the post at Oxford. ”

I scowled, lips tugging downward as I set the photo back on the wall. My pulse roared in my ears. I needed to get out of there. Now.

Turning too fast, I bumped straight into him.

I’d forgotten he was still right behind me.

Our chests brushed, and I froze—caught in the heat of his body, the way he was already looking down at me.

That light in his gaze. So warm. So real .

And it twisted something cruel in my stomach to wonder if the only reason he looked at me with that reverence. .. was because of Fate.

“I—I have to go,” I stammered, ducking out of his space.

His expression shifted in an instant, that easy smile faltering. “You alright?”

“I forgot I was meeting Day,” I lied, scrambling for the counter, snatching my bag.

Gentry followed. “I’ll drive you,” he said quickly, concern woven through every word.

“That’s okay. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

“ Astoria .” He caught my elbow. Gentle, but firm.

“It’s dark. Let me take you. Or at least wait here until Day comes to get you.

” There wasn’t anger in his voice. Just worry.

Kindness. He was always like that; so agreeable, so good.

Sometimes I forgot he had feelings of his own—forgot how deep they might go.

And in the past, I’d have pulled away. I always did. Better to scorch the ground early than let anyone get too close. But it hurt to do that with him. It hurt to lie.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Yeah, I’ll wait for him.”

Gentry nodded, visibly relieved, and took the bag from my hand without question. “Good. Thank you.”

He pulled my phone from the front pocket and offered it up. “Here. Want me to ring him for you?”

I shook my head, fingers curling around the device.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The truth sat heavy on my tongue. I could tell him. Tell him who Feodora really was. Why it mattered so much that she , of all people, had nudged him toward this life. Toward me .

Nemo said to live in truth. That it would catch up to me otherwise. And Gentry... he had never once made me regret being honest with him. Even when he met Day, he hadn’t flinched.

Still.

What would it mean if I told him?

What would change?

He didn’t need to be convinced of the invisible magic laced through our world. It was as if he just knew, but this felt personal. I didn’t want to be responsible for Gentry’s entire existence. He did not deserve to be wrapped up so entirely in me, or my burdens.

Instead, I lied—told him it was nothing and proceeded to text out a message to Day, asking him to come get me and deliver me to one certain eccentric woman in the Hamptons.

I raised my fist, ready to pound on her ornate, gaudy door. But before I could, it swung open. There stood Feo, grinning like a cat in a bubblegum-pink kaftan. A mustached man hovered behind her, holding a paintbrush and palette, blinking at me. His eyebrow twitched upward in silent judgment.

I shoved past them both, stomping into the house, and immediately skidded to a stop. The living room was full of half-naked men dressed in varying shades of white.

Some sat. Some stood on risers. A few wore enormous feathered wings strapped to their backs.

All of them were posed, preening, lounging, or brooding as they circled a massive throne made of gaudy gold and tufted lime-green velvet.

At the center of it all was a giant canvas with a half-finished painting. Of course.

It was so Feodora.

Feo swept into the room, a river of pink fabric trailing dramatically behind her as she resumed her rightful place, sprawled across the lime-green throne. The mustached man tiptoed after her, glancing nervously between us as my scowl deepened.

“Astoria, be a doll and grab the glitter behind you. Francois here could use an extra coating,” she said, lazily pointing to a massive jar of gold glitter with a brush sticking out.

“Not here to paint glitter on models, Feo.”

“Of course you’re not,” she agreed breezily. “But I surmise you can throw a fit while painting a man's abs, can you not?” She clucked her tongue, adjusting herself on the throne and lifting her chin with the manner of a queen, bored with the peasants.

I rolled my eyes but grabbed the damn jar anyway.

The painter resumed his brushstrokes on the giant canvas, adding another layer of green to Feo’s already obnoxious throne.

With a heavy sigh, I dipped the brush into the sticky glitter, tapping off the excess. Francois, grinning like he was thrilled by this turn of events, sat just below Feo, his skin already gleaming. I knelt into the lush carpet, brushing glitter across the sculpted planes of his abs.

He winked at me.

I narrowed my eyes, snapping out of my Feo-induced haze of absurdity. I glared up at her. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Feo blinked down at me, all innocence and false confusion. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling. I am not a mind reader.”

I furrowed my brows, sure that my eyes were nothing but narrow slits. Instead of arguing with her over the semantics, I went right in. “You said you had no information on the curse, and yet you forced an innocent and kind man to take up an entire career based on that one curse.”

Feo laughed. “Forced? Is that what Gentry said?”

“No, of course not. He doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Fate can do whatever it pleases,” Feo answered. “Besides, just as I said to you, he has free will. He did not have to follow the path I set before him; I only made it available. If not Gentry, I would have found some other way to provide you the answers you needed, Astoria.”

I chewed on that a moment, moving on to run a few strokes over Francois’ chest. “Why Gentry?”

Feo turned to me, her arrogant expression softening. “He’s kind and loyal. Fiercely loving. He also asked me to.” She turned back to her position, snapping her fingers and pointing at the man standing in the corner. “Add some to the ends of his wings, will you?”

After finishing the man’s wings, I set the glitter down back on the counter. Mulling it all over. “He asked you?”

Feodora groaned. “Yes, Astoria. You are not the only one who has pleaded for help from something outside your world. Gentry needed a bit of guidance, he was unhappy. You were—” she laughed, correcting herself, “You are unhappy. You have helped one another in ways unseen. Perhaps it is time to put your worries to bed.”

Picking at the remnants of gold that coated my fingers, I thought of Gentry—his willingness to help, no questions asked.

“Sometimes it’s good to have a friend, someone in your corner. You wanted help breaking your curse, you got help,” she tutted. “Now go, I have a portrait to finish. But do come back soon and bring Gentry with you. I’d like to see him again.”

I gathered my bag, moving toward the door where Day had finally come in and lingered, waiting for me. “One more thing,” I called back.

“Hmm?”

“That day you showed up at Grim’s… you knew what Death was doing.” It wasn’t so much a question, but Feo stood then, crossing the room in the blink of an eye. Her arms came tight around me. “What was it you wanted him to choose?” I asked.

She pulled back, her golden eyes fixed onto mine. “His heart,” she said softly, “though I fear I may have been wrong.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “It seems he did choose his heart.”