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“I can’t help you,” she said, needing to put it out in the open before things went any farther. She nodded at Cole. “People come here looking for lost things. That’s what you said. Well, I have my own lost thing to find.”

Brooxie studied her over the rim of her mug. “Which is?”

Willow felt the weight of the question. She could lie. Or she could tell them about Serrin, but vaguely. Something in Brooxie’s gaze made her hesitate, however. She’d rather be as honest as possible.

“I don’t want to say,” Willow said.

“Of course you don’t,” Cole muttered.

That stung. Wasn’t telling the truth better than giving them a pretty lie—something covered in honey and wishful thinking?

“It’s my choice, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s my business.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Sure, sure. You’re different. Special. You’re a tourist, just passing through.”

“That’s not fair,” she replied.

“The world never is,” Cole shot back.

Exactly, and that was the problem. Cruelty and corruption, injustice and deceit, those things would always exist. If Cole and Ruby and Brooxie wanted to fight to save all the Lost Souls—and eventually die trying—Willow wouldn’t stop them.

She admired them. She didn’t like what it said about her, necessarily, but sure, she even accepted that maybe, probably, they were made of better stuff than she was.

But Willow didn’t want to join their little rebel army.

She wanted to go to a land where rebel armies didn’t exist because rebel armies weren’t needed. She wanted to go to Serrin and never look back.

“You said that if I passed your test, you’d take me to Amira.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Is that still true?”

“Of course,” Brooxie said. “But not tonight. You’re staying with us—no arguments—and tonight you sleep.”

“And perhaps wash up, if you’re so inclined?” Ruby suggested, rising and beginning to clear the table. She didn’t meet Willow’s gaze.

So. Ruby was back to being cool with her. Willow supposed she couldn’t blame her.

Willow glanced down at herself. “A bath sounds amazing,” she admitted. “I’m pretty gross. Sorry.”

“You’re not gross, pet,” Brooxie said. “You’re just not quite yourself yet.”

That had landed somewhere unexpected.

Cole stood and pushed back his chair, his tone brusque. “C’mon, I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

She followed him through the dim hallway, past stacked crates and a box of tangled extension cords, until he stopped in front of a narrow door. He opened it and gestured her inside.

The room was plain and close, with off-white walls and a single high window. A narrow metal bed sat beneath it, neatly made with a quilt of faded reds and blues. A small table held a mismatched lamp with a crooked shade.

“It’s great,” she said wearily, stepping inside. “Thanks. Really.”

“Yep,” Cole said. Clearly, he’d taken his measure of her and found her lacking.

Willow set down her backpack with a thud and drifted to the bed, brushing her fingers across the quilt. When she moved to sit, her knees buckling from the long day, Cole was suddenly beside her, catching her by the elbow.

“First a bath,” he said. “Then bed. You’ll sleep better for it. I promise.”

She let him guide her to the bathroom down the hall. The light flickered once before holding steady. The claw-footed tub was ancient, with a long crack running along the porcelain. Still, the room was clean, and the towels stacked beside the sink looked freshly washed.

Cole plugged the drain and turned on the water. His back muscles were ropey beneath his shirt, the movement of them strong and hypnotic, and Willow found herself too tired to look away. He tested the temperature, adjusted the knobs, then stood and faced her.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said.

Willow nodded. “Thanks.”

She closed the door and locked it, then peeled off her dirty clothes. The bathwater steamed. When she sank into it, she groaned. Heat wrapped around her limbs, soaked into her bones, and pulled at every exhausted muscle. She ducked under and resurfaced, pushing her wet hair from her face.

For the first time in what felt like days, she was still. Not running, not strategizing, not watching her back.

Just still.

She thought of Brooxie’s kindness, of Ruby’s on-again, off-again reserve. Of Cole, catching her elbow. They were decent people, all of them.

Willow leaned back until the water lapped at her collarbones.

Her eyes fluttered shut. When water burned her nasal passages, she sat up with a gasp and reached for the soap.

She scrubbed hard—her skin, her scalp, behind her ears—until she was clean and soft.

Then she drained the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and slipped into the oversized T-shirt and sweatpants someone had left for her.

Not someone. Cole. She remembered it now, the soft knock on the bathroom door that had startled her back from drowning.

“Not peeking. I promise,” he’d said, going to extremes to enter the room sideways with his gaze averted. He’d probably been aiming for the counter, but the clothes had slipped into the basin of the sink.

That was fine. They were dry and clean, and that was all that mattered.

Back in the guest room, Willow shut the door behind her with care, not wanting to wake the sisters if they’d already fallen asleep.

The mattress springs creaked when she sat down.

She finger-combed her damp hair and braided it to keep it from going wild overnight, weaving the strands on and on until she could go no farther.

With no elastic to secure the tail, she knew the braid would unravel. But hopefully not all the way.

There was a soft knock. “Willow?” Cole said from the hall.

She rose and opened the door.

Cole stood there, barefoot and shirtless. His muscles were equally impressive from this angle, but Willow dragged her eyes to his face and kept them there.

“I just wanted to say...” He toed the floor. “I was an ass earlier. At dinner.”

Willow shrugged. “I deserved it, probably.”

He shook his head. “You’d had a hell of a day, and all I did was pile on. I’m sorry.”

Her throat thickened. “Thanks,” she said, meaning it.

“You’re not wrong to want out,” he said. “Some people want to burn the system down. Some people just want to escape it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know which one of us is dumber.”

“Micah’s your brother,” she said, bowing her head. “You can’t... that’s not... it changes the equation.”

Cole stood there. Willow didn’t want to know what he might be thinking, so she stared determinedly at the floor. Eventually, he stepped back. “Good night, Willow.”

“Good night, Cole.”

She shut the door and stood there, her hand resting on the knob.

Then she turned, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers around her. The pillow was just the right amount of soft.

She waited for sleep to claim her—had she ever been so tired?—but her mind refused to settle. Thoughts unraveled, looping back on themselves.

Cole.

Serrin.

Magic.

Cole. Serrin.

Magic.

What if the Box could bring them all together?

Impossible. And yet . . .

As she finally drifted off, she dreamed of Serrin calling her name, just beyond the veil.