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“You should be resting,” Mira said sharply, hovering at his elbow.

“I will rest,” Garrick pointed out. “Right now, these lovely ladies are doing all the work. I'm merely providing moral support.”

“You're providing a headache,” Mira muttered.

“Also that.”

They settled him against a fallen log near the fire, close enough to the warmth, propped up with blankets someone had thought to bring. Mira fussed over him with an intensity that she clearly resented and could not seem to stop.

Garrick bore it with the patience of a man who knew he was winning.

Then his gaze found August.

Something passed between them—silent, weighted with years I had not been present for. August rose and crossed to where Garrick sat. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Garrick studied him. Really looked, the way you look at someone you've known long enough to see past what they show the world.

“You look different,” he said finally.

“I feel different.”

“Less like a man carrying his own coffin around his neck?”

August's mouth curved. Just slightly. “Something like that.”

Garrick nodded slowly. He didn't push for more. “Good,” he said simply. “About bloody time. Did I miss the dramatic screaming? Someone tell me there was dramatic screaming.”

“There was,” August said. “It was undignified.”

“Excellent. I'd expect nothing less.” Garrick shifted, winced, and waved off Mira's immediate concern. “I'm fine. Merely remembering that I have a hole in my side. It's very rude of it to keep reminding me.”

“You need rest,” Mira said.

“I need to be here.” His voice lost its lightness. “I wasn't missing this.”

Mira opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Her hand settled on his shoulder instead—brief, firm, gone before anyone could remark on it.

Garrick's grin returned, softer now. “There she is.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

August returned to my side. Through the bond, I felt something that might have been peace. Or the beginning of it.

Across the fire, I spotted Marigold.

She sat apart from the others, knees drawn to her chest, watching the celebration with an expression I recognized—the particular loneliness of grief in a room full of joy.

I squeezed August's hand once, then rose and made my way around the fire.

Marigold didn't look up when I sat beside her. She just kept staring at the flames.

“Syra should be here,” she said quietly.

The words landed and settled.

“Yes,” I said. “She should.”