“Just say the word, and you can rest,” the faerie says, as if Beatrix will merely be going to sleep instead of forfeiting her soul. It’s a striking impersonation of kindness. Beatrix almost believes it. But there’s a sickly sweetness in the faerie’s tone, hiding something rotten underneath.
“What are you so smug about?” Beatrix asks.
The faerie leans close. Her eyes gleam in the darkness. “Tell me, what were the chances you’d find him again, in a different century, in a different country, without even searching for him?”
An icy dread settles in the pit of Beatrix’s stomach, somehow heavy and hollow all at once. “Impossible.”
The realization cascades through her. It was impossible. Oliver said it himself, walking with her along the canal in Venice. She didn’t listen, because she was impossible, too. She only smiled up at him and said—
“Nearly.”
Beatrix’s heart plummets. “You?”
The faerie grins, a proud and wicked thing.
“Youbrought us together?” She feels hot, queasy. “Why would you do that?”
“You refused me, Beatrix. Threw away a perfect immortal existence for a miserable human life. I had to show you the truth. So, I gave you what you wanted.Exactlywhat you asked for. Love. Joy. Sorrow.”
Beatrix’s blood runs cold. Her words did this. “Did you kill him?”
The faerie laughs. “My methods are not so crude. He was already dying when he crossed your path in London. I only ensured you met him again.”
Beatrix stares at the faerie, a question in her heart she is so afraid to ask she considers swallowing the words and burying it deep. But she could never bury it deep enough. “Did he love me? Or was that all your doing, too?”
The faerie scoffs. “Love. Is that all you care about? Yes, the pathetic thing loved you, until his last breath.”
Bile rises in Beatrix’s throat. Oliver is gone.
The faerie leans close. “Are you ready to end this?”
Beatrix looks to the river, as still and dark as ebony glass.
I take it back.
Those four little words have brought her to the Wye, brought her to this decision. Four little words that mean so much more than they say.
I regret my wish.
I regret my life.
I regret loving him.
“I made a mistake,” Beatrix says.
The faerie smiles, wide and feral. A wolf’s smile.
“I don’t take it back. My love. My life. I don’t regret them.” The words send warmth surging through her, as if the realization has thawed something inside her.
The faerie’s smile falters.
“I don’t regret choosing this existence.” It has been a hard life. It has been work. But it has been real and it has been hers and more than she could have ever hoped for.
The satisfaction in the faerie’s gaze vanishes, replaced by something Beatrix has never seen there before. Shock. Her vision swims, and a tingling warmth blooms through her chest, spreads through her limbs. “What are you doing to me?”
“This is your doing,” the faerie spits.
The warmth turns to pinpricks, as if her entire body is waking from sleep. “I didn’t agree!”
