The sand shifts under my feet. It melts, soaking into itself like water through cloth. The ground exhales a low groan. A staircase pushes out of the wall. Each steep step is rimmed in gold and orange sparks that hang in the air like tiny, impatient fireflies.
I lean down and press my palm to the first step. It’s warm and solid and buzzes with the same current that lives in my chest. The vibration rolls through me, familiar and fierce. An invitation.
The sandy steps are soft but steady beneath my feet. My lungs burn as I race down the stairs. The air cools as I descend. By the time I reach the bottom and drop to my knees on the shadowed stone, my breath comes in jagged bursts.
My purse is where it fell, dusted over with sand. I snatch it up, unzip it, and dump it out. It gives up what’s left of the life I used to have: a half-crumpled pack of gum, a receipt for groceries I’ll never eat, an empty tube of lipstick, along with the last of my witchy tools—a bundle of rosemary, a box of matches, a vialof salt, and the expensive green fluorite crystal cluster Alder gave me.
The fluorite is a gleaming piece of home. The proof that I exist somewhere other than this sand. That I have friends, a life.
The idea that I might never get home, that I might never see Gemma again, never sit on her couch with too much wine in my glass, retelling this wild adventure while she makes me laugh through my tears and helps me make sense of what Declan means to me—the grief at it is sharp enough to buckle me. Tears press in, hot and relentless.
“I’m fine.” My voice snags on a cry as I brush my fingers over the glittering green cubes pushing out of their bed of ice. “I’mfine. I have to be fine. Falling apart now will get Declan killed.”
The Wheel of Fortune card slips free and flutters onto the stone. I scoop it up. The edges are soft, the wheel stamped in glinting gold, a ring of symbols orbiting like little planets.
“Nice of you to show up.” I wipe the tears from my cheeks and grab the card, feel the weight of that mocking promise—change, destiny, divine timing.
A laugh claws out of me, jagged and accusing. “Speaking of the Wheel of Fortune—where is she, anyway? What good is an omen, a goddess, if she doesn’t bother to show up when she’s actually needed?”
Remember…
Fortune’s voice coils through my mind, echoing between my ears.
“Remember what?” My voice cracks between a shout and a sob, bouncing off the Tower’s columns. “How do I remember something I’ve already forgotten?”
The Tower hums around me, low and steady, and the silence it and Fortune offer is worse than any answer.
The word keeps drifting through my thoughts—remember, remember, remember—like it should unlock something if I hold on to it long enough. I scan the scattered contents of my purse as if they’re the pieces of a puzzle. Nothing screams salvation. Nothing whispers instructions.
I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, furious at the wetness there.
“Remember what? My past? A ritual or a spell I’ve read? Some hidden meaning in the tarot?”
The fist-sized cluster of fluorite catches the moonlight, a green wink flashing through the dark.
Remember…
The word reverberates inside me, and this time it lands. I know how to find what I’ve forgotten. I’ve always known. The answer was in my purse all along. I’ve just been too tangled in my emotions, too distracted to see it.
Fluorite cuts through fog. It steadies the spin, clears the static, makes the truth bright enough to see. It’s a stone that will break open the third eye and connect straight to intuition, to deeper meaning, to whatever’s real beneath the noise.
“Of course.” I blow out a shaky breath and blink away the press of tears. My magick has been flailing, pulled in a dozen directions by every messy, jagged feeling inside me. “I don’t need more power. I need focus.”
I curl my fingers around the crystal, pressing it into my palm until the edges bite.
“Oh, Alder. You billionaire angel. If I get out of this, I swear I’ll forgive you for being such a douche.”
My hands move on their own, the choreography etched into muscle and bone. I strike a match and touch the flame to the rosemary. Smoke rises in fragrant curls, bitter and sweet.
“Cleanse me,” I whisper. “Make me mine again.”
I waft the smoke over my arms, my chest, my face, the way I’ve done a hundred times before. I drag the scent deep into my lungs, begging it to scour out the ache. To still my pulse. To free me from the throb of heartache and make me strong enough to hold what’s coming.
The fluorite waits in my other hand. I know I can’t use it, can’t focus, until I strip away the mess inside me. I cling to the ritual’s rhythm. Inhale, sweep. Exhale, sweep.
“Calm me. Cleanse me. Give me strength.”
Tears sting, and grief digs in like it has no intention of ever leaving. But if I fall apart now, I’ll never put myself back together.
