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I believe this book wasn’t given to me by Perine as Oleander thought, but by our mother. I’m convinced she’s not insane, after all. I’ve done some digging and found instructions for a tea that should restore her sanity. Sadly, I couldn’t risk attempting to help her until I was already gone. I didn't want to raise our father’s suspicions, or else my escape would’ve been ruined. Please, take care of this last request. Give her my love when you do.

I won’t bore you with sentimental nonsense. You know how I feel about you two fucks.

-W”

The words hung in the air long after he read them. The message itself—blunt, dry, as if Wisteria had written it on a whim—felt more like a gift than a farewell. Oleander stared at the note, trying to reconcile the woman he knew with the revelation it held. But his grief, raw and unrelenting, kept his thoughts from organising. There was so much left undone. So many words that would never be spoken.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

PERINE WILDER

Peri was curled by her window, reading a historical text about Wisteria’s aunt, the original owner of Thistle Cottage. Her notebooks were filled with details of every instance of conflicting information, hoping that she’d find a pattern there somewhere. She just really, really wanted to be sure that she was not walking to her own death—a naive little demoness so easily fooled.

All she could think about was getting answers. It felt like pressing a bruise again and again, each discovery about the Lady of the Lake or the demonesses who’d supposedly been eaten by her sending a fresh throb of pain through her.

Sometimes Peri pushed so hard she thought she might break.

That morning over breakfast—between idle comments about the lovely weather and the richness of the coffee—her mother had said absently, “Oh! We forgot to tell you. Your hellcat was collected last night. Apparently, someone in the Rune Circle requested yours specifically.”

Peri’s fork had clattered against her plate.

Apphia had sighed, shaking her head in quiet admonishment. “Honestly, Peri, after what she did to Wisteria Brightmore? How are we to trust that she won’t turn you into a tree as well?”

The explanation for what had happened to Wisteria was so utterly absurd that Peri could only stare at her parents. A dozen furious retorts clamoured for release, but she swallowed every one of them. Nothing she said would change anything.

The truth was that Zila had helped Wisteria defy the Grand Dukes. Somehow, Peri knew that was the real reason they were taking her hellcat away—there was no concern for her safety. Only a tightening grip around her to try desperately to keep their control over her. And just like that, Zila was gone from her life forever.

She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

Which, all things considered, shouldn’t have been what broke her. A farewell wouldn’t have changed anything. But as she sat there now, fingers curling into fists, it was the only thing she could fixate on.

She had deserved the chance to say goodbye!

Zila’s dismissal echoed through her thoughts, dragging up everything else she’d tried not to think about.

Her parents sat across from her at the breakfast table, eating peacefully as if they were not slowly killing her with their incessant need for control. It was as if she were seeing them for the first time. Something inside of her raged. Twisted and gnarled, a crooked sort of beast prowling inside its carefully kept cage, desperate to break free.

She made a hasty excuse and rushed from the room to retreat to her research. It was all she had left now.

And she was running out of time.

She found a text reiterating that the Lady of the Lake had stopped coming to the Holy Circle many centuries ago, there was no mention as to why but it reminded Peri that even if she decided to return the earring she’d need to find some way to reignite the magic from Oleander’s temporary rune. No matter which way she looked at her problem, her first objective needed to be getting the Hell out of the Holy Circle.

Some nights, the weight of it all pressed down so hard she curled into herself and sobbed until she was raw. Then she would drown herself in potions again, buzzing with a magically induced clarity that let her research until dawn.

She could feel the first parts of her mind unravelling. Sometimes she’d have to read a text three or four times before its meaning made sense to her. Her memories ran together until her reality began to slip, and she knew she was in no state to figure anything out as she was.

But even then, she knew that she was running out of time.

One night, after days of running on sheer exhaustion, she gave up and slumped onto a rug, pulled out the last of the pixie wine from Brennessel, and drank. It tasted awful now, but she didn’t care. It reminded her of Oleander for some reason and that felt nice.

She’d tried to send him so many letters but no matter how she tried there was a magical barrier which kept her letters from leaving.

Tears streaked her face. Despair swallowed her whole.

She forced herself to breathe—long, steady inhales. She dried her face. Took another dosage of the adrenaline potion.