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“At any rate, that’s a question for her.”

Miriam cocked her head like a small inquisitive bird. “Yes, but she isn’t here.” She scanned the room. “Unless... perhaps I’ve missed her?”

“She has a headache, I’m afraid. A migraine. She’s upstairs resting.”

Miriam’s bright bird mannerisms fell away. When she said, “I’m sorry to hear that,” Willow found herself believing her—which made Willow feel doubly guilty for not believing her mother’s excuse earlier. “Migraines are just awful.”

“Yes, they are,” Willow’s father said stiffly.

Miriam nodded.

Willow’s father nodded back.

“Still,” Miriam said. “I really would love . . .”

“Of course! Yes, of course,” said Willow’s father.

Willow watched him escort Miriam toward the library, struck by the way Miriam moved.

Her footsteps were deliberate, unhurried, untouched by the anxious rhythms of the party.

Willow felt the space between herself and that kind of quiet authority as a physical ache, as if Miriam carried knowledge that Willow would never manage to grasp.

Willow turned back toward the dining room. The crystal chandelier glittered above the long table, reflecting laughter and polished smiles. Glasses clinked. Voices rose and fell. Willow tried to anchor herself in her body, but she felt floaty in a way that usually warned of danger.

Ash stood several yards away, chatting with yet another tech guy. Willow knew that she should join them—that she should try a little harder —but her head felt suddenly balloon-like. She turned her back to the crowd, her jingle-bell skirt tinkling as she made a beeline for the staircase.

Ash slid in beside her and then around her, blocking her way.

“Nope,” Ash said, crossing her arms. “You don’t get to play that card.”

“What card?” Willow asked.

“The ‘Mom’s crazy, and so am I’ card,” Ash said. “‘The world is too much for me to bear, so please excuse me when I disappear.’”

Willow’s anger flared. She forced her shoulders to go down and said, deliberately, “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you hoping I’d join you for another round of ‘Let’s Humiliate Willow’ instead?”

“You don’t need me for that,” Ash retorted. “You do that all on your own.”

Willow pivoted, walking away from the staircase and down the hall instead.

“It’s just so boring , Willow,” Ash said. “You and Mom both. Boring and predictable.”

“So go away. Let me be boring on my own.”

“Oh, I would, but if you huff off and disappear, Mom will end up hearing about it. Then she’ll get upset.

Then she’ll have another migraine. And Dad will worry, worry, worry about her, and when he’s done, they’ll worry, worry, worry about you, which leaves me—as always—to keep things running smoothly by being productive. Capable. Stable .”

Ash scoffed. “Oh. My bad. You don’t know, do you? Or you pretend you don’t because it’s easier that way.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Willow snapped. “Why would I pretend to be unstable ? Do you remember what they do to girls their parents call unstable?”

“Oh, please.”

“Ash. Seriously?”

They were almost to the library, and Willow felt trapped. The hallway wouldn’t go on forever, whereas Ash apparently would.

“You like to think you’re different from the rest of us,” Ash said, “but you’re not. You’re just another bored rich girl, desperately searching for some bigger meaning where there is none.”

Willow stopped in front of the library’s door. “You think wanting more makes me foolish?”

“I think being nineteen and still believing in fairy tales makes you foolish.”

Heat flared in Willow’s chest. “I don’t believe in fairy tales, and you know it.”

“Magic, then,” said Ash, and her cold smile said that she knew she was tightening the net.

Why did Willow care? Did there have to be a net? What if there was no net?

“You only accept something if you can prove it,” she countered, “but not everything works that way, Ash. You don’t know what I know.”

“Really, Willow? This again? You touched a stupid rattle once, and you had some sort of... psychotic break. Because you’re Willow .” She widened her eyes and did jazz hands. “Special. Delicate. And then along came Mr. Chapman—”

“Ash? Don’t.”

Ash held up her hands. “Fine. Just—if Mom gets it into her head that you’re losing the plot again, guess who’s going to be stuck picking up the slack?”

Willow blinked hard. If she cried in front of Ash...

“Why are you being so mean?” she managed.

“Because you’re my big sister!” Ash exploded. “ You’re supposed to take care of me !”

Willow was dumbstruck. She was, literally, struck dumb.

When she could form words again, she said, “Since when have you ever needed anything from anyone?” She replayed Ash’s words about the baby rattle.

“And I did see something with the rattle. And it was amazing. Until you came along and ruined it.”

“Right. Of course. I scared away the fairy woman in the trees,” Ash said, adopting a singsong tone that was code for, Aren’t you just. So. Dumb. “When I was four, because I’m just that scary.”

“You see something shiny and call it fake. You see something that glitters, and you say, ‘It’s called scattering . It’s what light does. It’s not magic, it’s science.’”

Ash gave a little laugh. “Okay, so I’m a realist. I’m fine with that.”

Willow’s head ached with a pressure she’d have to ignore because, yes, fine, her mother was the one who got migraines. Only one person per family allowed, according to some unspoken rule, and Willow’s mother had claimed that card ages ago.

Sometimes Willow hated her for it, just as she hated her father for being a blowhard and Ash for being a smug, superior tight-ass who was only happy when others were miserable.

“You aren’t a realist, Ash. You’re an emotional vampire who sucks joy from the world.” A strange calm descended. “You show up”—she tilted her head—“and magic leaves.” She made a bursting motion with her hands. “ Poof. ”

Ash’s lip wobbled—almost. But no. Willow must have imagined it. Willow’s vision was just off. Even so, it almost seemed as if Ash cared.

Which she didn’t.

Obviously.

Whatever emotions Ash was or wasn’t experiencing, she wrangled them under control. “Ah,” she said. “The woman in the trees was magic . That explains so much .”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning...” Ash lifted her eyes to the ceiling and inhaled audibly.

“Omigod, Willow, I don’t know. Just, you’ve clung to this story of yours for so frickin’ long.

Could you spice it up a little, at least?

Throw in a sexy fairy bad boy who swoops in and rescues you from your humdrum life, all while pirouetting on green felt slippers? ”

Willow thought of Serrin, and an electric jolt shot through her. But green felt slippers? She lifted her chin and said, “For your information, the boy in my dreams would never —”

She broke off.

Too late.

“Oh. My. God,” Ash said. Her grin curled up, wicked and delighted. “You do have a sexy fairy bad boy fetish. Wow, Willow. Just... wow .”

“Shut up!” Willow cried. “I don’t—” She shook her head. “Just shut up!”

“Let me guess,” Ash said. “Only you can see him because you’re special . Classic superiority complex.”

“If anyone has a superiority complex, it’s you,” Willow shot back. “If something’s not up to your standards, you dismiss it. If you can’t control it? Same thing. You say it’s not good enough, and out it goes.”

“You think I control things?” Ash’s eyebrows flew up. “No, I plan. I think. I prepare. You talk big, Willow. And you dream big, sure. But you never actually do anything.”

“You saw Mom’s face the day she found us with the rattle. She knew something was up. She knew I’d seen something.”

“She saw the same thing I did—a seven-year-old playing pretend.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, Willow, you are. To yourself, so you can keep playing Little Lost Girl and never face reality.”

A creak made Willow turn. Ash must have heard it, too, because Willow heard her inhale. Together, they looked at the oil painting on the wall—once straight but now tilted, its frame rasping as it swung back and forth before settling askew.

For a second, Ash’s lips parted, and Willow could have sworn that uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

Then she reset her stance, squaring her shoulders like a challenge.

“Go on, then. Do your thing and hide.” Ash flicked her hand toward the library. “It’s what you’re best at, after all.”