Nico was nowhere to be found; his watch was still sitting on the recreation room shelf, Jo had noticed as they’d passed, so it was safe to say he hadn’t yet left.
“What’s for breakfast?” Jo asked softly to Samson.
He seemed to startle at her voice, then startle again when he saw Snow. “I-I haven’t decided yet. . .”
“You made sweet cinnamon toast once and it was divine. . . if I may make a suggestion,” Snow said in a soothing tone. For a long moment, Samson didn’t seem to know how to respond, unblinking eyes locked on Snow and set wide. But before it could get awkward, Samson shook his head and let out a soft breath of laughter.
“You remember that, huh?” He was suddenly moving, picking out a skillet and gathering ingredients. “When was that?”
“Not long after the fall of the Age of Magic.”
The little discussion had drawn the attention of the others in the room. Eslar was the first to come over, sitting on Snow’s other side.
“That morning was a while ago, just the three of us.” Eslar folded his hands, still looking at nothing and no one in particular. “How many breakfasts have we shared since? How many wishes granted?”
“Both are numbers too great to count.” Snow shared a small smile of camaraderie with the elf, one that was quickly abandoned.
Wayne and Takako eventually came over as well, though Jo couldn’t remember when or why. They didn’t say anything, just sort of appeared. Samson cooked, the skillet sizzled, and the room was heavy with silence.
But for the first time, she didn’t want the weight alleviated, because if—when—it was, there would be no turning back.
The food was delicious, as expected of Samson’s incredible skill, but that didn’t diminish the looming sensation that they were consuming a “last meal.” Regardless, they shared it in quiet solidarity, no small talk brave enough or bold enough to fill the gap of wordlessness.
Jo pushed herself away from the counter, dismounting from her stool. There was someone missing, she realized. Someone else who needed to share this last, silent display of unity. She turned toward the hall, ready to hunt the missing teammate down, and nearly jumped from her skin.
“Well, isn’t this somber?” Pan lounged in the doorframe. For the first time since Jo had met the mysterious not-quite-woman, Pan appeared muted. Her hair was done in a natural blonde, strands stick straight and hanging just past her shoulders. Also unlike her usually eccentric appearance, she wore nothing more than a simple, tailored suit, cloth sitting snug around her petite frame. A thin, red ribbon accompanied the high-collared button-up, shockingly bright against the black layers of fabric.
“When did you get here?” Jo asked, the memory of Pan appearing out of nowhere right before the wish jolting back to the forefront of her mind.
Pan merely shrugged. “We should get started.”
“Pan—” Snow began to say.
“It’s time, Snow.”Time for what?Jo wanted to scream. But she could barely find air enough to breathe. “They’ve run out of hours on the clock and the gap is still too wide. Call the meeting.”
All eyes pivoted back to Snow. He stared at Pan, and Pan only, as if waging silent war against the woman herself. Through gritted teeth, Snow finally spoke: “Everyone. To the briefing room.”
Everyone stood silently, obediently, pulled along by an unknown thread.
“I’ll go get Nico,” Jo offered, sprinting ahead of the rest. She slowed just long enough to give a long, hard look at Pan. But the other woman just smiled on, turning to saunter ahead of the pack toward the briefing room.
Jo got to Nico’s recreation room and had a long debate with the door. She waited for courage to find her, and when none came, she pretended just long enough to give a solid knock.
The door cracked open, revealing a sliver of face and a bright red eye.
“Jo. . .” Nico said softly, pulling open the door the rest of the way. The man disappeared behind the door itself, leaving that as her only invitation to walk in. She took it with painfully hesitant steps.
A canvas stood on the easel. Paint was smeared and splattered on it in a pattern Jo needed no magic to interpret. Rage, pain, hurt—it was all there, plain as day. If she could see it, then it didn’t bode well for anything else working on any sort of deeper level.
Nico leaned against the wall behind the door, staring at her listlessly.
“There’s a meeting.”
That was all it took. He crumpled, burying his eyes in the heels of his hands and resting his elbows on his knees as he sank to the floor. She heard the tears before she saw them and was instantly at his side, holding him once more.
“I tried, I tried!” he repeated, over and over with agonizing repetition.
“I know. . .” she whispered, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and back. “No one blames you.”
