Ramona didn’t know what to do with that, so she didn’t say anything.
“I’m not going to make a scene,” Iris continued. “I’m not here to demand anything from you. I just—” She stopped. Started again, more carefully. “I always told myself there was some reason I couldn’t tell you what I’d done. There wasn’t. I was afraid, and you paid for that, and I’m sorry. I’m genuinely, deeply sorry.”
The ballroom kept going around them. A waltz. The smell of spring flowers forced into impossible bloom. Somewhere to Ramona’s left, a warlock was telling someone about his summer estate.
“I know,” Ramona said. “We were kids, Iris. I don’t blame you for the curse. It’s the secrecy that hurts.”
Iris nodded. Her jaw was tight.
“I’m not ready to be okay about it yet,” Ramona said. “That might take a while.” She looked at her sister, then meant the rest of it too: “But I came out the other side. I know the truth. The curse is broken. My magic works. I have…” She gestured at the dance floor, where Felix had just stepped on Kashvi’s foot and was apologizing at length to both her and Gerald. “I have those people. I’m good.”
Something in Iris cracked slightly at the edges. Not in a bad way. Like an exhale. “Gerald has a purple bow tie.”
“He’s a very dapper bird.”
A pause that was almost a laugh from Iris. Almost. She cleared her throat. “I wanted you to know I came to the ritual because I wanted to be there. Not because of Mom.”
“I know. And thank you for being there. Thank you for all of your help, really. The grimoires and the supplies and… all of it. I do appreciate it, even if I’m not ready to fully…” Ramona lifted a shoulder in a shrug that she hoped communicated her feelings better than words could.
Iris dipped her head, recognizing the gratitude. They stood there for another moment, the gap between them not gone but maybe a little less absolute than it had been.
“I should get back,” Iris said.
“Yeah.” Ramona hesitated. “Tell Daphne and Poppy I said hi.”
Something moved across Iris’s face that might have been relief. “I will.”
She walked away, and Ramona stood there watching her go and feeling the particular texture of something that wasn’t forgiveness yet but might be the thing that grows into it, given enough time.
“Ramona.” Posey appeared at her elbow, flushed from dancing, suspiciously innocent expression already in place. “Come on.”
They danced. Ramona felt a small tickle at her scalp before she’d gone three steps. She reached up to find flowers woven in her hair.
“Posey.”
“You needed them,” Posey said with a smile — and did not apologize.
In a passing mirror, Ramona caught her own reflection. Purple hair with white blossoms winding through it. Green dress. Magic running clean and easy under her skin for the first time since she could remember. She looked like someone who’d just survived a very long winter.
She was refilling her champagne glass — a small magic, just because she could — when the room shifted. The quality of the murmur changed, a wave of attention turning toward the entrance, and Ramona turned without knowing why.
And there.
Standing in the doorway like she’d always meant to arrive this way.
Black tux with subtle purple accents that matched — exactly matched — Ramona’s hair. Tailored precisely. Hair coiffed back away from her face, revealing perfect high cheekbones. Expression composed in the way Ramona had spent seven weeks learning to read past.
Zara.
Zara.
The crowd whispered:who is thatandwhere did she come from, but it was happening very far away, underwater, all background noise.
Ramona’s champagne glass slipped from her fingers.
It hit the floor and shattered, but Ramona didn’t notice.
All she could see was Zara, moving through the crowd, eyes fixed on Ramona like nothing else in the room was real, coming toward her like the tether had been replaced by something that needed no magic at all.
