“She looks happy,” she says, nodding toward Mari.
“She is,” I answer. “I’m trying not to ruin it.”
Elodie hums softly. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re holding a kettle right before it boils over.”
“I’m fine.”
She raises a brow. “Liar.”
I sigh, then take the mug of cider handed to me by the vendor with a soft thanks and let the warmth bleed into my palms. “I haven’t seen him. Not since that night.”
“You don’t have to say which night.”
“I didn’t think I would feel… abandoned. Not like this.”
Elodie leans in a little, voice low. “Hardin has been hurt more ways than most can count. He’s afraid that touching something good will leave a scar.”
“I’m not a wound.”
“No,” she says, “you’re something worse. You’re hope. And that scares him more.”
I close my eyes briefly. The cider tastes of cinnamon and disappointment.
Later,when the sky’s gone the deep indigo of moonless magic and the lanterns begin their ascent into the air, Mari finds me again. Her cheeks are flushed, fingers stained faintly from ink and glittering powder. She holds her lantern with both hands, careful, reverent.
It’s shaped like a heart. Not the cartoon kind. More anatomical. Strikingly realistic in the way only a six-year-old’s raw honesty can be.
“This one’s for him,” she says softly, tilting it toward me.
I don’t need to ask who.
She tugs my sleeve, eyes shimmering in the light.
“Can I wish now?”
“Of course, baby.”
She walks to the circle, where other children have gathered, lanterns in hand, their little faces upturned to the sky. The town’s bell chimes once, deep and clear, and they all let go.
The lanterns rise.
Soft glows, shaped like birds and stars and trees and a thousand other things drift upward, caught on the Hollow’s breath, lifting higher than they should, held aloft by something older than fire or air. Mari’s rises last, the heart flickering with a pulse of pale gold, and for a moment, I swear the wind hushes around it.
She whispers something I can’t hear.
Then it’s gone, floating higher, until it’s a dot in the sky among a thousand others.
Back at the cottage,Mari’s asleep by the hearth, curled in a blanket with crumbs from honey biscuits still on her chin. I cover her with the thick quilt and kiss her forehead, then climb the stairs, feet slow on the old wood.
The attic smells like dried lavender and parchment. I light three candles and settle on the floorboards, pulling the grimoire from beneath the loose panel I’ve taken to using as a hiding spot.
The cover hums under my fingers. The lock clicks open with the touch of my palm, and the pages fan open on their own, stopping halfway through the book at a chapter titled “Heir of Untamed Flame.”
There’s no ink here. Only symbols, moving slowly across the page like ripples in still water.
Then they still.
Beneath them, a single line appears in delicate, curling script:
