At least this way, I chose the angle.
I stepped closer to the window.
Up close, the frost on the glass was beautiful in a horrifying way—delicate, knife-edged ferns curling outward from invisible points of impact. Beyond it, in the square, the high priestess stood at the center of her gathered shadows like a queen on a very unfortunate chessboard.
She’d folded her hands now, patient, as if she were waiting for a late guest at a dinner party.
My butterfly mark throbbed, sick and cold.
“Maeve,” Keegan said again, lower now, right at my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I tore my gaze from the square.
His face was pale, the curse-blue shadows under his eyes darker than ever. But his expression was steady, jaw clenched, eyes clear and full of something I could stand on.
“You don’t have to go,” he said. “She’s trying to pull you into her rhythm. Make you dance to it. We don’t play her game.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“Then don’t,” he said.
The problem was, I also knew what kind of magic she wielded. I’d seen its fingerprints. In Malore. In the Hunger Path. In the way the mirrors had cracked when she’d tried to shove herself through them.
She didn’t stop just because you ignored her.
“She’s already in our rhythm,” I said quietly. “The Wilds shook. The Wards shook. This town shook. We just pretended it was a tremor instead of someone knocking.”
“Maeve,” my mom said sharply. “Don’t youdare—”
I turned to her.
Her face was white, anger and fear doing an ugly, familiar waltz there. “You saw what she did to Elira,” she said. “You saw what she did to Frank. To all of us. She doesn’t play fair. You go out there, and she’ll crawl into your head, and it will be over before you even know she’s decided how to use you.”
“I’m not Elira,” I said.
“That’s what she’s counting on,” my mom shot back.
The shop felt cramped, suddenly, air heavy with too many people’s breathing and too much fear. The walls, shelves, teapots, and even the old kettle seemed to lean in.
My brain tried to go in ten directions at once.
Dragons. Hollows. Elira anchored in the cottage. Celeste packing a bag somewhere, blissfully unaware. Gideon’s empty place in the circle. The priestess’s voice still humming under my skin like a bad note.
Twobble had pressed himself against the side of a display case, eyes huge, ears flat. Skonk hovered beside him, notebook clutched to his chest like a shield.
I made a decision.
“Twobble,” I said.
His head snapped up. “If this is about me going out there instead, I have to respectfully decline,” he said in a rush. “I’m very small and extremely fireable.”
“Not that,” I said. I gestured him closer.
He edged over warily, casting suspicious glances at the window like he expected a shadow tentacle to slither in at any second.
“What?” he whispered. “If this is about snacks, I swear I’ll ration the cake.”
I leaned down until we were almost nose to nose. His breath smelled like tea and sugar and a little like panic.
