Page 9
And this time it was accepted.
The woman who stepped onto the cobblestones moved like winter itself—slow, deliberate, inevitable. She was older than Syra, perhaps in her late sixties, with silver hair braided in a crown around her head. Her face held the kind of stillness earned from a lifetime of surviving things that killed other people. A leather satchel was clutched tight against her side, and even from the second floor, the weight of magic radiated from her like heat from a banked coal.
Beatrice Sharpe.
Hope and dread tangled in my chest until I couldn’t tell them apart.
“They’re here,” I called, already moving toward the door.
Footsteps thundered through the house—Marigold racing down from the third floor, Adeline emerging from the kitchen, Syra appearing in the doorway with her arms folded and her expression carefully neutral.
We’d all been waiting. Pretending we weren’t, but waiting, nonetheless.
Mrs. Hartwick opened the door before Mira could knock, stepping aside without a word, one hand already reaching for the coat hooks as if arrivals were simply another chore. She’d stopped asking questions weeks ago. It was safer for all of us that way.
Mira looked up as I descended the narrow staircase. Exhaustion hollowed her face, but her eyes were bright.
“Lily.” She pulled me into a fierce, brief embrace. “We came as fast as we could.”
“I know.” My voice came out rough. “Thank you.”
Garrick appeared behind her, that familiar smirk already playing at his mouth despite the fatigue etched into his features.
“Three days in a coach that smelled like something died in it,” he said cheerfully. “Our fearless Mira here complained the entire way—“
“I did not complain,” Mira cut in, color rising to her cheeks. “I made reasonable observations about the vehicle’s structural integrity.”
“She threatened to make the driver walk,” Garrick stage-whispered to me. “It was magnificent. I think I’m in love.”
Mira’s jaw tightened, but she deliberately didn’t look at him.
“And our new friend here,” Garrick jerked his thumb toward Beatrice, “hasn’t said more than ten words since Manchester. But certainly, delighted to assist.”
The grin softened as he looked at me properly. “You look dreadful, by the way.”
I smiled. “You’re one to talk.”
“I make exhaustion look good.” He dropped the bags with deliberate carelessness. “It’s a gift.”
“It’s insufferable,” Mira muttered, moving past him toward the sitting room.
Garrick watched her go, something almost wistful crossing his face before he caught me looking. The smirk snapped back into place.
“She adores me,” he said. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Adeline stepped forward then, and the moment she saw her brother, her composure cracked.
“Garrick.”
“Addy.” He pulled her into a hug that lifted her off her feet. “Miss me?”
“You’ve been gone for three weeks,” she said into his shoulder. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
He set her down but kept his hands on her shoulders, studying her.
“You look different.”
