Since Shabbins can only expire when stripped of blood, my hopes that he could remake my mother into a Crow wither.
“You canmakeCrows, Lore.” The quiver in Mádhi’s voice jostles the apple in Dádhi’s throat, crimps my ribs, and hardens Jaytair’s jaw. “What an honor.”
“What a responsibility,” Dádhi intones, cupping my mother’s cheek and bending his forehead to hers.
A whistling sigh escapes Bisnonno. “There go our pretty blue skies…”
While the courtyard erupts with excited chatter, I hear my father whisper, “We’ll find a way.”
“I’m perfectly content with my lot,ah’khar.”
“Want to become a little Crow, Pet?” Imogen asks Borat, who traveled in a satchel strung across Vance’s chest.
In truth, I haven’t seen him flitter out of it, but a glance in their direction shows he’s perched on Aoife’s broad shoulder, giving Imogen hefty side-eye. “I like your younger sister so much more. I vote to trade you for her.”
Imogen and Aoife both laugh. Vance smirks. Even Mestyla, who’s guarded most of the time, smiles.
Who would’ve ever thought a Crow and a sprite would become friends?
Who would’ve ever thought a prophecy would lead to such a diverse family?
Who would’ve ever thought a new supernatural race would be birthed, and an ancient one would be granted additional power?
Sun blades slash across the Cauldron’s smooth surface, splintering into shards of blinding light that stab my corneas.
Of course…
The source of all magic knew.
It knows all.
Whose life is it about to upend and reshape next?
EPILOGUE
ISLA
Amuted whimper escapes my mother’s lips. One she doesn’t even attempt to stifle as she stands beside my chair, absorbing my reflection in the mirror above my vanity. Izolda has just finished applying my stripes—indigo to match my wedding gown. She’s even dusted my bare shoulders and plunging neckline with iridescent powder that gives my tanned skin—thank you, Shabbin sun—an ethereal glow.
The makeup spruces up my sleek gown. Although I wouldn’t say I was disappointed when Phoeppa unveiled what I was to wear, Iwasa little surprised by its simplicity. But then I’d donned it, and it stole both my breath and my heart.
“I feel like a fairytale princess,” I say, turning my head this way and that, smoothing my hands over the wide satin straps that hold a gauzy cape dyed the same ombré shade as my dress—an azure that fades into violet, then indigo.
“Enjoy the feeling”—Izolda sets down her makeup brush—“for it’s your last hour being a princess.”
The tears, which have glazed my mother’s lashes like miniature icicles since Naeva helped me into my dress, arrow down her quivering cheeks.
“Technically, she’s already a queen,” my cousin points out, doing up the bow of the carmine cloak that matches her beaded gown.
Like my outfit, Naeva’s, Mádhi’s, and Izolda’s were designed by Phoeppa but assembled and stitched in Glace, then spelled with Shabbin magic to keep us warm in this land of eternal winter.
Izolda extends a little pillow upon which glimmers a tiara composed of radiant snowflakes. “Fallon?”
With a sniffle, my mother inhales a fortifying breath, as though she needs strength to heft the diamond heirloom and settle it on my head. I twist toward her and tip my chin to facilitate her task, my curled locks cascading down my back.
“Like Dádhi said in his speech back when we tied the knot in Luce, you haven’t lost a daughter, you’ve merely expanded our incredible tribe.”
Reminding her of my father’s speech is the wrong thing to do. Her weeping turns into full-blown sobbing.
