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A hush settled over us again. If I could master this gift before August noticed, maybe I could save them all.
Ysella extended her hand. “Come. Let us begin.”
I stood. The others moved closer, forming a circle. Candles flared slightly, as if stirred by an invisible breeze. Ysella nodded.
“Close your eyes.”
I did.
“Breathe.”
I drew in the scent of moss, smoke, and something older—like the pages of an ancient book. A hum stirred in my chest. The threads were near.
“Now,” Syra murmured, “listen.”
At first, there was silence. Then—
A flicker.
Light coiled beneath my ribs. Threads shimmered behind my eyes, golden and bright. Woven through the air. Through me.
When I opened my eyes, they were still there.
Marigold grinned. “You’re part of it now.”
I exhaled slowly. “And this is just the beginning?”
Ysella’s smile was bittersweet. “No, Lily. This is the return.”
By evening, the tension had soothed into something looser, steadier. A fire crackled in the center of the clearing, its orange glow casting dancing shadows against the trees. Someone had conjured instruments—hollowed drums, a stringed lyre, something that clicked rhythmically like carved bone. The air thrummed with a quiet kind of joy, the kind born not of certainty, but of hope.
They were celebrating.
Marigold balanced a crown of wildflowers on my head—half daisy, half fern—grinning like she’d won a bet. “It suits you,” she said, tugging a curl into place.
“I look like a woodland sprite,” I muttered.
“That’s the idea,” Ysella teased, plopping a crown of wildflowers onto Syra’s head. Syra rolled her eyes skyward and yanked it off, scattering petals across the ground.
“You’ll hex the blossoms with that attitude,” Ysella scolded lightly, her smile curving as she reached into her own hair and plucked free a sprig of rosemary. She dropped it into a steaming mug and pressed it into Syra’s reluctant hands. “Here. Drink before you sour the mood entirely.”
Syra sniffed the concoction and made a face. “This smells like bog water.”
“That’s the rosemary talking. Calms the temper,” Ysella said serenely, already weaving another crown from the fallen flowers.
Syra took the smallest sip, grimacing. “I’m here, aren’t I? That should count for enough merriment without you poisoning me.”
“Nonsense,” Ysella chirped, sliding the new crown back onto her sister’s curls. “A touch of poison is good for the constitution.”
Across the fire, someone began a low, humming chant, and others joined in—voices layered like threads woven into music. The kind of sound that tugged at memory and marrow. My chest ached with it.
Adeline stood off to the side, arms folded, clearly trying not to enjoy herself. Her eyes darted between the dancers and the flickering treetops, always alert. I understood now: she scanned the branches the way she once failed to for Nicolette.
“Come dance with me,” I said, offering my hand.
She gave me a look. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re already here,” I coaxed. “You might as well pretend to have a soul.”
