"Don't thank me yet." His mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "When this is over, we're going to have a very long conversation that you're probably not going to like."
I manage a laugh somehow. Dry, but still a laugh. "You act like I've liked any of our conversations, Everett."
I squeeze his shoulder, then head for the north end of the village. The workshops fade into open snow, white stretching forever. And there it is, shimmering in the aurora, a slice in the world, like someone left a glitch in the scenery.
The Threshold hums as I get close, the kind of sound you feel in your teeth. It knows me, the edges rippling like water.
I stop at the edge, one foot already over the line. Everett's still watching from the square, just a shadow against the lights. I look back, meeting his eyes across the snow.
"I trust you can take care of things for me for a while," I call out. "Don't wait up."
Then I step through. Reality folds in, the North Pole vanishing in a rush of cold air and magic.
Crossing feels like falling and flying at the same time, like being yanked apart and shoved back together in a single breath. Colors smear past, sounds collapse into one long note, and for a second, I'm everywhere and nowhere at once.
Then my feet hit solid ground.
I land on a clifftop, cold Atlantic wind clawing at my clothes. Far off, the lights of Caraway Cove flicker, a little town tucked into the coast.
Somewhere in that mess of buildings is a bakery. And above it, a woman carrying my child. She's waited months for answers I should have given her. She's facing things she can't even name, all because I ran.
I start walking. Then I'm running. Every step brings me closer.
I'm coming, Samantha. Hold on just a little longer.
I'm coming home.
Chapter Seven
Samantha
The silver garland droops across the bakery window, looking about as enthusiastic as I feel. Turns out, decorating for Christmas at eight months pregnant is less about spreading holiday cheer and more about wrestling with gravity while my center of balance has apparently migrated somewhere south of my knees.
I stretch up on my toes, reaching for the hook I put in last year back when my body still obeyed basic instructions. The baby chooses that exact moment to do a full somersault, like she's trying out for Cirque du Soleil and I’m the unwilling stage.
"Really?" I mutter, pressing a hand to my side where what I'm pretty sure is an elbow is jabbing my ribs. "Can you not do acrobatics while Mom's trying to make the bakery look less like a sad, undecorated cave?"
She settles for a moment, then kicks again. Harder this time.
I drop my arms and try to breathe. She’s been at it all morning, jittery in a way that makes my nerves hum. Usually, when she gets this wound up, something happens. A customer with too many teeth shows up. A shadow moves the wrong way. Another one of those notes appears where it absolutely shouldn’t.
The last few months have been a crash course in low-level terror, with Ella stepping up as my personal bodyguard-slash-bouncer. My best friend has gone full mama bear, intercepting oddball visitors, shredding notes before I can get my hands on them, and generally wedging herself between me and whatever supernatural weirdness keeps knocking on my door.
Half the time, it makes me want to cry. Pregnancy hormones are no joke, and they’re definitely not here to play.
Today, I tried to give her a break. She’s got her own life, her own business, and frankly, I’m tired of being the friend who needs a full-time security detail. Which is how I ended up on this solo decorating mission that’s going about as well as you’d expect.
The garland finally gives in, and I’m shuffling toward the box of ornaments when the baby does another flip. Not just a kick this time, but a full-body roll that has me grabbing the counter for dear life.
"Okay, what's going on in there?" I ask softly. "You trying to tell me something?"
That prickling starts up at the back of my neck, the one that’s become my unofficial early warning system. Something’s about to happen. Something big, if my luck holds.
The entry bell chimes.
"Just a minute!" I call, not turning around yet. I’m clutching a strand of tinsel and trying to convince myself that my heart is racing because I’m eight months pregnant, not because I know, deep down, that everything is about to change.
I turn.
