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My wings beat once, then twice, jerking me upward. They start to flutter faster and stronger until Farron’s body shrinks below me.

I hover in midair, my glowing wings as much a part of me as my heart. Here we go. I dart forward, careening through the air with ease. Farron beams up at me as I catch him in my arms, pulling him tight to my chest.

“I should drop you for doing this!” I say, but there’s no malice in my words.

His hair is wind mussed, cheeks pink, and his smile more beautiful than I’ve ever seen. “I told you, I had a hypothesis! This seemed the only way to test it.”

I look up toward the isle we came from. Each beat of my wings carries us skyward. “What made you think this was possible?”

“Our time in the library wasn’t completely useless. There were diagrams of lineages and many paintings of the winged fae. Well, and a fair share of hope.”

“You jumped to your nearly imminent death based on a tiny bit of research and hope?” I yell in his ear.

He pulls back to look at me. “That and the fact that you’re Rosalina O’Connell. That counts for a lot.”

I shake my head, but my heart is buzzing, and each beat of my wings floods my body with new strength. Our little isle floats before us.

Jack’s got his hands on his hips, staring at us with an unreadable smirk. “What do you know. You wanderers are full of surprises.”

I set Farron down beside him, but my own feet don’t touch the ground. He gives me a reassuring nod, then picks up my dropped satchel and passes it to me.

I sling it over my shoulder, catching another glimpse of my powerful, golden wings as I do. “Time to see this through.”

Streaking into the sky, I pass the floating boulders, my gaze focused on that small speck that grows larger and larger.

I’m ready now. Ready to plant my feet and the roses in the soil where the earliest magic bloomed.

Ready to see the reason why the fae first waged war.

30

Rosalina

Ibreak through the last of the clouds and nearly forget how to breathe. The Gardens of Ithilias rise before me, a memory that only exists in paintings and tapestries and the minds of the most ancient of the ancient.

The floating isle is vast. Golden light spills across it, but it seems more than just a sunset. Every rock and blade of grass holds on to the light, reflecting it back in a hazy shimmer. My wings beat once more, steadying, before I lower myself. I inhale, the smell rich and floral as a meadow. I unlace my boots and toss them away, letting my bare feet sink into the soft earth.

Though Sira and her army once destroyed the gardens, like the rest of the isles, the wildness has retaken them. New life has emerged from the ashes. A vast grove of willow trees stretches out as far as I can see. Somewhere nearby, there’s the rush of a river.

A loneliness seems to cling here, and I am more aware than ever that my companions are thousands of feet below me. But I’m not alone. I clutch my satchel, the reassuring presence of the four roses within. The ones my mother saved before the Above was lost. The last remnants of the first world. Now they’ve finally come home.

I press a hand to the satchel’s side. The roses are still alive. I can feel their quiet pulse, a heartbeat of magic against my palm. They remember this place. And somehow, I think it remembers them too. The grass curls upward gently. Petals drift through the air, slow and silent, even though there’s no wind.

It doesn’t feel like arriving.

It feels like returning.

“Let’s get you home,” I murmur, then walk into the willow grove.

With each step, the ground begins to change. There’s no quake or sudden jolt but a gentle shift, a sleepy sigh.

Cherry blossoms drift by, pale pink and soft as breath. The willow trees shift, trunks spiraling into silver bark, branches decorated with pink petals. I reach out, and one brushes my cheek before dissolving into light.

A few more steps and the air warms. Thick, green grass grows beneath my feet. Wildflowers spring to life in a rainbow of colors—sea glass red, sky blue, and ocean spray white. Somewhere, cicadas hum. The trees change again, leaves turning broad and pale green, and the scent of sun-warmed peaches surrounds me.

I turn in a circle, and then the wind tastes of smoke and apples. Leaves fall in waves of copper and crimson. A crisp breeze catches my hair, playing with it like a friend.

Snow. It starts suddenly, soft and silent. The leaves freeze in midair, turning to crystals. My breath clouds. The trees become icy ballerinas, branches pirouetting.