Edmund braced a hand on the dashboard. “Good heavens, woman, this isn’t the Grand Prix!”
Juliette only laughed, eyes bright as she turned the wheel sharply around a corner. The car tilted alarmingly before bouncing back, the engine whining like a small determined dog. Isla’s attempt to keep distance between herself and Andrew failed miserably as the motion threw her against him again, and his arm instinctively went around her to keep her from falling forward.
For a few breathless seconds, the world narrowed to the warmth of his arm surrounding her.
Then the car evened out. “See?” Juliette called triumphantly over her shoulder. “Smooth as butter! I just needed a moment to get used to her again.”
“Smooth as gravel,” Edmund muttered darkly, but Isla saw that even he couldn’t quite hide a grin, even though he hid it by looking out of his window.
Though the car now ran gracefully, Isla couldn’t help but notice that Andrew’s arm didn’t quite move away.
“Have you heard any more about the visiting professor from Oxford, Edmund? His failure to arrive seems rather worrying.”
“It is,” Edmund replied grimly. “I’ve men out looking for him, but we’re stretched thin.”
“Hey,” Juliette piped up, “I know this conversation’s important, but let’s not talk shop this evening—it’s a night for a bit of fun!”
Edmund’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You know,” he said, “my granny was Scottish. She used to call this nightOidhche Shamhna—said the veil between the worlds was thinnest then. Always left a candle burning, just in case.”
Juliette raised a brow. “Oidhche—what was that?”
“It’s Gaelic,” Edmund replied. “Oidhche Shamhna—the night of Samhain. The traditional Gaelic festival that marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. Folks used to say it’s what Halloween grew out of.”
Juliette smiled, though thankfully her eyes stayed on the road. “So your granny was keeping the spirits happy while the rest of us were just keeping warm?”
Edmund chuckled. “Aye, something like that.”
Isla relaxed, listening to their soft chatter. Juliette had been right—it was nice to go out.
After exploring the shops along the Shambles and eating apple turnovers and scones at Betty’s tearoom in York city center, Isla strolled beside Juliette, their laughter mingling with the cool evening air. Behind them, Andrew and Edmund walked in easy conversation, their voices low and companionable.
They turned a corner and York Minster rose before them, vast and breath-stealing, its pale stone catching the last of the daylight. The great towers soared upward, their edges gilded bythe fading sun, while the stained-glass windows shimmered faintly in the high arches like captured jewels.
The air seemed to hum softly around the cathedral—ancient, reverent, and alive with the ghosts of centuries.
Juliette sighed, linking her arm through Isla’s. “Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?”
Isla nodded, her eyes tracing the lacework of stone against the sky. “Yes,” she murmured. “But in a rather wonderful way.”
As the group continued on, Isla wanted to ask Juliette something personal. She still felt awful about her blunder with George yesterday—drawing attention to hisFatedstatus—but curiosity continued to drive her on. Juliette was her friend, and the questions had been sitting on her tongue.
“Why do you hate your Aetheric gifts, Juliette?”
She felt her friend stiffen under their linked arms. When Isla glanced over, Juliette’s usually bright, teasing face was drawn tight. Isla kicked herself again for anotherfaux pas.
“You don’t have to answer that,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Juliette sighed, her breath misting in the evening air. “No, no. It’s fine. To be fair, you’ve told me plenty about your past. It’s just—well, I tend to avoid mine too, just ... in a different way.”
Isla nodded. She’d suspected as much. Juliette’s cheer was genuine, yes, but often she suspected it was armor too—a bright shield against something darker.
Juliette gave her arm a squeeze. “All right, if I’m going to tell you this, I need to do it my way. Otherwise I’ll cry and ruin my makeup, and that’s not happening. So—humor me. I’m going to talk about myself in third person—like she’s some tragic heroine in a novel. Deal?”
“Deal,” Isla said.
Juliette inhaled and began, voice lighter than the weight beneath it. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful nine-year-old girl with long golden hair that curled all the way down her back. That’s me, by the way—in case you hadn’t guessed.”
Isla laughed softly.
