“And what exactly is she planning?”
Noelle shrugged. “World domination.”
I stared down at the little tyrant in her stroller, her tiny fists curled on either side of a stuffed possum Delilah swore was enchanted. My daughter—Luna—blinked up at me with this look—like she’d seen through every thought I’d ever had and found most of them unimpressive.
“You’re gonna be a handful,” I muttered.
“Already is,” Noelle said, sipping herlemonade.
The Gloaming Festival buzzed around us, all twinkle lights and jug bands and teenagers in moth wings handing out flyers about leylines.
It was chaos. It was home.
“Hard to believe,” I said, “two years ago today you were tryin’ to convince me you were leavin’ after the weekend.”
Noelle smirked over the rim of her cup. “I did leave.”
“You went to the post office.”
“Had to mail Shane a postcard. He still thinks the Glorious Antler Man imprinted on him.”
“He’s not entirely wrong.”
She laughed, low and warm, then leaned into my side. I curled my arm around her without thinking, pressing a kiss to her temple. Luna made a soft noise in her sleep, still clutching that ragged possum like it held ancient wisdom.
I glanced down at her again. Couldn’t stop looking at her, really. She had my mouth and Noelle’s eyes, but there was something older in her face too—some shadow of the woods that had never quite let go of us.
“Think she’s gonna be weird like us?” I asked.
“She was born in Willow Grove,” Noelle said. “She never stood a chance.”
“You know,” I said, “for some reason I always thought my kid would be the normal one.”
Noelle snorted. “Yeah…that’s becauseyou’rethe normal one. But I think that’s also why you had to find someone deeply strange.”
“I didn’t find you,” I said. “You fell into my arms covered in gas station coffee and rage.”
“And look how well that turned out,” she said, tipping her head up for a kiss.
I gave it to her, soft and sure, right there in the middle of all the madness. A kid dressed as the Gloamstrider ran past us with a paper mache mask and glow sticks tied to their belt. Abluegrass band played near the bonfire. The air was full of sugar and smoke and pine.
Noelle didn’t pull away. Not fast, anyway. When she did, her eyes were brighter than before.
“She’s gonna know everything,” she said, nodding at the stroller. “Ghosts. Monsters. Love. The kind that doesn’t let go when it gets hard.”
“She’ll be brave,” I said.
“She already is.”
For a minute we just sat there, not saying anything. A couple of teenagers darted by, one of them shouting something about a shadow in the creek. A few of the vendors had started lighting lanterns, the sun dipping low behind the trees. The festival was shifting into its nighttime rhythm—wilder, weirder, even more alive.
Milo lay at our feet, his head resting on his paws, eyes half-lidded but alert. Every once in a while, he looked up like he was checking on the baby, then went back to pretending he wasn’t the most responsible member of the family. A little girl skipped by and reached out to pet him, and he tolerated it with the stoic patience of a seasoned guardian. Noelle scratched behind his ears.
“You ever think about what it means? All of this? Why it’sus?”
I thought about it. I thought about the Shadow Painter. About the moment I first saw Noelle screaming at her phone in the parking lot at Mabel’s, arms crossed, engine steaming. I thought about the feel of her hand in mine, the weight of her body in my bed, the sound of her voice sayingI think I’m staying.
“I think Willow Grove needed someone who wasn’t looking for it,” I said. “And you…you needed something you didn’t believe existed.”
