The broom shivered once, like an apology.
Then it drifted backward out from under me.
I stumbled, nearly landing on my tailbone.
“Excuse me?” I snapped at it, as if it had a choice. “What kind of magical midlife crisis vehicle are you? You can fly me into danger but not out of it?”
It bobbed again, a slow little dip, and then floated away another foot, as if to say:this is as far as I go.
The wind shifted, bringing with it a whisper of something distant like magic crackling against magic, a faint echo of my grandmother’s laughter, the Hollows humming an octave too high.
Stonewick’s Wards were vibrating.
Elira’s anchor at the cottage pulsed against my awareness, frantic and bright.
Staying here arguing with a broom wasn’t going to change anything.
“Fine,” I said, breathing hard. “Stay. Mope. Grow mushrooms on your bristles for all I care.”
Keegan’s pain still thrummed along our bond, but it had steadied slightly—more a ragged, oh-ow-oh-ow than a single stabbing note. He was still in the fight. Stubborn, bloody-minded, exhausting man.
“I am coming back,” I whispered, more to myself than the broom. “I am. But I can’t do it empty-handed.”
I turned back toward the mansion.
It appeared even larger now, as if my moment of vulnerability had given it permission to creep closer. The tower seemed taller. The windows felt more watchful.
I took a breath.
Then another.
I thought of the dragons in their hidden wing, the way they’d watched me with ageless, implacable eyes and refused to tell me what they already knew. Of Elira’s choice to anchor herself to the cottage instead of passing on, just to keep Stonewick’s heart safe a little longer. Of my mother’s hands shaking as she cast wind at the priestess’s shadows. Of my father’s joy at seeing his mother again, tangled with grief.
Of Gideon’s voice, hoarse and furious, shouting that he wasn’t hers.
If I could get him free, if we could pull his piece out of her path, we might still close the circle. Might still cut the hunger off before it dug its teeth into Stonewick’s roots and refused to let go.
One thing at a time, Maeve, I told myself.
Step one: survive walking into your grandmother’s house.
Step two: find the very complicated man who helped try to destroy your world and convince him to help save it instead.
Step three: survive long enough to tell Keegan he was not, in fact, allowed to die on me.
Easy.
I squared my shoulders and started up the path again.
The pain in my chest didn’t vanish, but it receded to a savage ache, like a bruise pressed too hard. The gargoyles above hunched closer to the edge, wings twitching. One let out a low, grinding screech that scraped along my bones.
“Noted,” I muttered. “No snacks on the premises. I’ll be sure to leave a review.”
The shadows along the path behaved themselves this time, streaming ahead instead of trying to trip me. They seemed… amused, in a cold, rustling way. Like they’d seen this scene before.
Probably because they had.
How many people had walked this path toward my grandmother’s front door? How many had done it willingly, eyes bright with ambition? How many had staggered, dragged, or been carried?
