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Dagmar Rathcross stood tall, shoulders thrown back, and surveyed the busy coffee shop before focusing in on her.

Lark’s vision grayed at the edges. Ten years, and Dagmar Rathcross had not changed. Not a single thing about her. Not the pristine white hair, not the perfectly groomed bob. There may have been a few more wrinkles under her eyes, but everything else was just the same.

She was even wearing the same colors as eleven years ago. At Lark’s wedding.

“Cousin Dagmar, so nice of you to make time to come and wish us well. Come witness our blessings in this God-ordained union.”

She still remembered how Magnus’s voice sounded when he addressed the matriarch. How low he bowed his head. She remembered how much he’d fretted that she wouldn’t come. That she wouldn’t give their wedding the benediction of her very presence.

Lark remembered executing a perfect curtsy. As if Dagmar had been a queen. Her mother had drilled the darn thing into her head, into her limbs, just for this woman’s eyes.

To this day, Lark wondered if she’d even looked at her executing it. Dagmar had the air of someone who didn’t want to be there, not in Baton Rouge. Not in the state of Louisiana. Not at her cousin’s wedding. Lark wondered why she’d even come. Magnus Rathcross was a second cousin. A distant branch of the family. Rich, sure, but as Lark discovered later, the Rathcrosses of Massachusetts were as rich as God himself and probably more influential than the deity. It certainly seemed so to her, observing the pomp Dagmar’s presence demanded.

And still, Dagmar had come. Had barely spared the bride and groom a second glance and had moved through the reception line with the indifference of a well-fed shark.

Lark had never seen her again. Not in the year she was with Magnus and not in the ten that had followed. She was the one person she’d never imagined seeing again, the one person she could swear would never even recognize her…

“Lark Rathcross, as I live and breathe.”

Behind her, Lark felt Seren become unnaturally still.

Well, you’d known it would end this way. Why had you ever hoped for anything else? Why had you hoped for more time with Seren when the universe already held your secret for ten long years?

She wanted to hide. She wanted to run. After all, she had been running for ages. The instinct that had kept her alive for the past decade bared its teeth and clawed at her throat. Running and hiding had kept her safe. But… Beyond the large windows of the Brew lay the town, with busy cobblestone streets, pretty, colorful houses and small shops huddled together. And around them, the ocean and cliffs guarding the island. Her home. And there was nothing beyond. Nowhere left to run. She had come to the edge of the world.

And with nowhere else to run, perhaps it was time to stand?

To stand just for a little longer. Just till she could get her pride back, since very soon it would be all that was left for her. They’d take her life yet again…

“It’s Thibodeaux, ma’am.”

Where had the strength come from? To keep standing. To speak. To form words.

Dagmar’s eyebrow rose like a spike.

“I have not seen the paperwork, Lark.”

The blow landed. Hard, fast, lethal. Lark swayed. Her vision grayed. One phone call, one text from Dagmar, and he’d be here. He’d be here and Lark⁠—

“Ms. Rathcross, welcome to Crow’s Brew. Is there anything I can do for you, or are you lost? If not, I can be persuaded quite easily to… ensure that you do get lost.”

Seren’s voice broke the glass pane that seemed to surround Lark, a steady hand touching her lower back, gently pushing her out of the way. Lark wanted to melt, to let Seren take care of this, take care of her…

She straightened her spine. Seren—kind, gentle, steadfast Seren—had no idea who these people were. How powerful, how dangerous. Lark couldn’t allow her to do this.

“No, Seren.”

Very slowly, with great intent, in a gesture meant to be seen by Dagmar, Seren slotted her fingers between Lark’s. Ice-cold eyes followed the movement.

“So Ms. Rathcross, will you need my help? With getting lost?”

Seren gave Lark’s fingers a reassuring squeeze before she moved her own higher, wrapping them around Lark’s wrist, loose enough so as not to spook her, tight enough to let her know she was not going anywhere. Lark wanted to cry.

And yet again she kept turning to the same question, the same answer.

All your life? It has always been this woman. This one. Seren.

“I see. No need for help, Ms. Crowhart. I might have been lost, but I was also clearly meant to find whatever it is I found in your… establishment. Such as it is.” Dagmar’s eyes followed the raising of Seren’s hand, and the sharp implement in them turned hot for a second.