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“Hmm,” Branwen said, refilling Damian’s glass. “I knew that one was trouble. There’s a hole in her, something missing. I just hoped you’d work it out among yourselves. I could see the end, but I couldn’t see how you’d get there.”

“I’m not sure we worked it out,” I said. “We just got through it.”

We cleared the table with stomachs so full, it made us lazy. Damian washed the dishes while I dried them. Branwen poured tea, and we returned to the table. She handed me a small tin of herbal salve.

“Borage and calendula, for the hand,” she said, placing it in my palm.

I moved to unclip the locket from my neck and return it to her.

“No,” she said. “It’s yours now. As impatient and ornery as Clemency was, I know she’d want the woman who ended him to keep it.”

“But surely it should stay in your bloodline?”

She looked at me, then Damian, her eyes sparkling. A strange, warm feeling climbed my spine.

“You should know by now I’m very good at forecasting things, ” she said. “And my forecast is that if you keep it, you and Damian will indeed ensure it’s passed down to my bloodline.”

I went very still. My hands and thoughts and heartbeat weren’t sure what to do with themselves. Damian paused with his mug halfway to his lips.

“You mean—”

Branwen winked at me.

I looked at Damian. He looked at me. We had a silent conversation that neither of us actually deciphered. The only thing I knew was that I could see his mouth was open, like he’d forgotten to close it.

We left with an ice cream tub full of blackberries and leftover pie. She also handed Damian a small bundle of rowan sprigs, silently. Twenty minutes into the drive back, Damian glanced at me.

“We need to make a quick stop.”

“Sure,” I said.

He took an exit to a road that led to a small cemetery. Damian parked, then grabbed the rowan from the backseat. He led me through the headstones to a grave where another bundle of rowan lay withered.

Wren Blackwell

1988–2024

Damian discarded the dead branches and laid the fresh ones in their place. I stood by his side, my hand in his, as he held a silent conversation with her.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he said, turning to return to the jeep.

“Thank you for bringing me.”

The fog thickened as we drove back, blanching the world to silver smoke.

“Did you ever think about finding your dad?” I asked. “After everything.”

“I found him two years ago.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I sat in a parking lot outside a marina in San Diego for an hour, and then I drove home.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d gone looking for a missing piece, and I knew that all I’d find in him was a guy who never knew a piece was missing.” He took the next curve gently. “Whatever I needed, it wasn’t in that marina. It was already up here.” He didn’t say whether he meant the coast, or his grandmother’s kitchen, or me, and I didn’t ask, because I understood it was all three.

That night, we ate leftover pie and blackberries on my balcony. The view was of nothing but fog, but the string lights along the railing twinkled stubbornly. My phone flared on the table.

Callie: my hand still hurts

Priya: mine too