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Her head rested on my chest, red hair tumbling over me in a silken blaze. In sleep, the tension had finally left her face—no more shadows of magic she couldn't control, no more weight of destinies she hadn't chosen. Just Lily. Just the woman who'd somehow unraveled twenty-seven years of certainty in a single week.
I should have felt hollowed out. Should have felt the panic that comes after burning your life down. Instead, I felt. . . free. Like I'd been holding my breath underwater and finally found the surface.
My mother's pendant lay warm against my palm. In the growing light, I could see the hourglass’ sand flowing upward instead of down. Impossible. But then, impossible had become relative since she'd arrived.
Lily stirred, making a soft sound that did something dangerous to my chest. Her lashes fluttered open, and for a moment she looked confused—taking in the room, the dying embers, me.
“Morning,” I said quietly, not wanting to break whatever spell the sunrise had cast.
She shifted against me, and I felt her smile before I saw it. “Morning.” Her voice was rough with sleep, intimate in a way that made my pulse quicken. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to count each freckle on your face.”
She laughed, the sound low and unguarded. “And?”
“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine if you count the one hidden under your hair.”
“You're ridiculous.” But she was smiling, and her fingers had found the edge of my shirt, tracing absent patterns against my chest.
“Am I?” I caught her hand and brought it to my lips. Her breath hitched, suddenly the air between us thickened with possibility.
“August. . .” she whispered, but it sounded more like an invitation than a protest.
I leaned down, meaning to kiss her properly this time—not with the desperate gravity of last night, but with the slow burn of morning and all the time in the world.
The sound of hoofbeats on gravel shattered the moment like glass.
Lily went rigid in my arms. Through the window, I could see a rider in Hunter colors dismounting.
“Damn,” I breathed, every muscle in my body coiling with sudden dread.
Lily was already pulling away, smoothing her rumpled dress. “What is it?”
“Summons.” The word tasted like ash.
Heavy boots on the front steps. A sharp rap at the door. Garrick called through the hall, carefully neutral. “August? Your father sent a messenger.”
I stood, helping Lily to her feet. Her eyes were wide but steady—already transforming back into the woman who'd faced down the Unraveler himself.
“What do we do?” she asked.
Before I could answer, Garrick appeared in the doorway, his face grim. Behind him stood Marcus.
“August,” the young hunter said, offering a stiff bow. “Your father requests your immediate presence at Hawthorne House. He says it's. . . urgent.”
The word hung in the air like a blade.
“Tell him I'll be there within the hour,” I said.
Marcus bowed and departed. Through the window, I watched him ride away, taking our stolen morning with him.
Lily moved to stand beside me, her hand finding mine. “This is about me, isn't it?”
“Probably.” I squeezed her fingers. “The question is how much he knows.”
Garrick stepped closer, close enough that his next words wouldn't carry. “Could be routine. Could be he's just wondering where you disappeared to. If he wanted to, he could have unraveled her last night.”
The sitting room fell quiet except for the tick of the wall clock. Outside, the world was waking up—birds calling, distant church bells, the ordinary sounds of a day was anything but ordinary.
