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“All probably fictitious,” Charlie added. “The stories get more outlandish every year. Half of them think he’s a vampire, and the others think he’s Dr. Frankenstein.”

The rumors were uncannily correct. Everything made perfect sense to Zayan, since he now knew the real story. Bluebeard and his father were one and the same, and all those poor women were downstairs in the crypt. But he couldn’t enlighten everyone. He didn’t dare. Hoyle and Charlie didn’t seem to be in on the atrocity, but he still wasn’t sure, and Charlie was in charge of that magical boat. Thierry clearly was a direct channel to Bluebeard, so he would be no help when the time came to escape. Maybe he and Tom could simply ride off on their horses and start a new life together in the village, or in one of the mysterious cities of Greenhaven. He certainly had enough money squirreled away to give them a start. But would the villagers ever trust them, tainted as they were by their connection with the castle?

His mind spun with possibilities, each more ludicrous than the last. He’d backed himself into a corner, and there was no escape. He knew it was all maudlin, faking enthusiasm in his laboratory and shamefully doing the same with Tom, but what could he do? Every day, by not revealing the truth of Beatrice’s absence, he was building a prison of collusion with the Mage, isolating himself within walls of depression that were too high to escape.

Zayan’s dreary muddling continued into the blush of spring when, true to form, Tom reached out his hand and lifted him bodily back into life.

The first buds were showing on the trees, and crocus blooms carpeted the hillsides with a splendor of gold and violet, when Tom burst into his laboratory and said, “We need to do a project together.”

And like the flowers outside the castle walls, he felt it. It was time to leave the winter behind and recapture his joy.

He said, allowing himself to feel something for the first time in months, “I’d love to, Huggybear.”

“Oooh, I love when you call me that.”

He let himself laugh as Tom wrapped him up in one of his signature hugs and lifted him off the ground. He slopped the distillate he was holding all over the floor, but that didn’t matter in the least.

“That felt nice,” he teased, “but I think you can do better. Let’s practice tonight. But now, tell me your idea.”

Tom spread his arms, grandly making the big reveal. “I want to make a love potion.”

“You’re joking,” he said, but he knew Tom was serious. This was exactly the type of harebrained idea his silly Huggybear would think of.

“I never joke about the towering edifice of knowledge that is chemistry,” he said, struggling to keep a straight face. “But really, I think we can do it. There’s a huge tradition of herbology centered around love and romance, and that orchid we found in the swamps has been opening whole new worlds of the chemistry of cellular delivery. But most importantly, you have that stone, the Stone, waiting to…what’s the term?”

“Exalt.”

“...waiting to exalt all that passion into a magic potion. How about it?”

“I can ask the Mage…”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Tom said, putting a finger on Zayan’s lips. “You’re making gold now with your own two hands, and in my book, that makes you a working alchemist. Let’s fake it and see what we can do. If it works, maybe we’ll let him sell it in his precious spas.”

Zayan dithered for a moment about the inevitable blowback. Bluebeard wouldn’t be pleased with this flagrant expression of initiative, but hey, at this moment he didn’t care.

“Sounds fun. Let’s do it.”

“Put that flask down and let’s talk. I have lots of ideas.”

Zayan let his snark take over, now that he had it back, and said, “Of course you do. I would expect no less.”

“Cheeky, but seriously, I’ve thought about this. I don’t think we should do a classic love potion, you know, a make-the-handsome-stud-fall-in-love-with-me potion. That never goes well in the storybooks. I think we should try to make a being-in-love potion.”

His boyfriend was so crazy and wonderful. All he could say was, “What does that even mean?”

“It will strengthen the feeling of love, like renewing vows in liquid form, or better, love-you-more in a scent. Eau d’amour. Colonia de corazón. See? It practically markets itself, and I can test it on myself.”

The look in Tom’s eyes at that moment made everything worth the effort. Part puppy dog, ready to play, part fierce mother wolf, protecting at all cost. Part shy mongrel, devoted but vulnerable. Tom had all but said it in words, but oddly, he wanted to hear the words.

“Um, does this mean…?”

“Of course it does, silly. I love you, you and all your moody brilliance. And stop that immediately! You don’t need to say it back, but I think you do love me too.”

He felt it there, waiting to be acknowledged, so he didn’t hesitate, saying, “Yes, I guess I do. Love you.”

“I know. I feel it every time we’re together. Sorry about the emotional ambush, but you know how I am. It was burning me up and I couldn’t keep it bottled up inside any longer.”

And just like that, with three little words couched in so many more, he felt like himself again, or at least he saw a trajectory toward finding himself. He said, “You’re right. This is all so like you, but thanks. The time was right—is right—to say it out loud. I do love you, Huggybear, you and your, um, unrelentingly cheerful brilliance. So tell me, how are we going to put this love potion to the test?”