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So that last morning of training, hours before Bryce had appeared, Nesta had entered the ring and found she was alone. Well, not alone. The other priestesses—Valkyries—were there. But Emerie and Gwyn were not. And though Cassian and Azriel had been almost disgustingly nice that morning, she hadn’t been able to shake the heaviness from her limbs, her heart.

Robes rustled to Nesta’s left, and she turned to find Clotho taking a seat beside her. The High Priestess of the library, her face hidden behind the heavy shadows of her pale hood, touched Nesta’s shoulder with a gnarled hand in welcome. Nesta inclined her head in return, knowing that there was no use speaking until the song was finished.

So it came as a surprise when a piece of parchment appeared in Nesta’s lap, its ink still drying. Clotho’s enchanted pen hovered in the air above her knees—though she kept it low enough that no one onstage or in the other pews might glimpse it.

Nesta skimmed the note, written on a letterhead beneath a symbol of two crescent moons flanking a full moon. It said in flowing script: It is appropriate that you should arrive just now. Their song is one to call lost sisters home.

Nesta whispered so only Clotho could hear, “Did you plan it that way?”

She had the distinct impression that Clotho was smiling beneath the hood. The pen danced over the paper, writing, I wish I were that skilled. But no—this is a song we sing each Autumn Equinox. It is a prayer for wholeness, for the return of things and people lost to us, so balance might be restored.

Nesta nodded as the song ended. Gwyn and the other two singers huddled together, talking. Two more priestesses—one of them the golden-haired Ananke—strode onto the dais to join the conversation.

“So this is an important holiday to you?” Nesta asked softly.

All holidays are important, Clotho wrote back, especially the Fading Cycle, the progression from the Autumn Equinox to Samhain to Winter Solstice. Then she added, But in this court, yes—after tomorrow, night claims the majority. Light begins to yield—to die; then the light fully dies on Samhain, traversing the worlds of the dead before being reborn in this world after the longest night of Winter Solstice.

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Nesta muttered.

A huff of amusement from beneath the hood.

“I love Solstice,” Nesta admitted, “and I can see how the longer nights make the Autumn Equinox important for the Night Court. But Samhain? Last year it was so . . . somber.” She’d barely paid attention to it.

It is indeed a somber holiday for some. The veils between life and death, between all worlds, are thinnest on Samhain. But some see that as a blessing; to commune with long-lost loved ones. Some see it as a cause to welcome them home; to celebrate the eternal bonds across worlds. You should come to our ceremony for it—the songs are different. Older, strange. Unsettling, even.

“Are you saying that I can relate to such things?” Nesta teased.

Clotho patted her knee with a mangled hand. Of course not.

On the dais, Gwyn and the other two began singing again, this time starting with a round initiated by the alto in the group. Gwyn followed, then the soprano, each making their way through the tune before joining together in one voice.

This time, Nesta noted how the alto’s voice grew quieter, then silent altogether.

Seeming to understand her unvoiced question, Clotho wrote, She represents the lost sister. By the end, the other two will have sung her back to them.

Such a wealth of knowledge and tradition, all hidden here beneath ancient stone. “Will I hear this at the temple tomorrow for the Equinox?”

No. Most other temples do not remember this song, or see a need for it.

“But you do?”

Clotho stared straight ahead, though her pen moved on the paper. There will always be sisters lost to us—ones we pray each day will find a way home to our sides. Not only in the physical, mortal sense, but an emotional and spiritual one, too. Other temples perhaps do not understand the importance and need for such prayers in the way we do down here. This year, when it seems we need it most, I’ve bade them—a nod to the priestesses on the dais—to put a little magic into their melody. A little wish for the Mother to listen. And tomorrow I will throw a little magic of my own into their song, silent as my voice might now be.

Nesta’s chest tightened. These females had built a community of love and support so they might all heal from the horrors they’d endured, her friend up on that dais amongst them. What did Gwyn feel, singing a song to call home lost sisters, when her twin had been so violently ripped from her? She wished she could ask her friend. Offer whatever comfort Gwyn might need.

Nesta observed, “You should be leading the ceremony tomorrow for Nyx’s Naming Day.”

Clotho shook her head. The High Lady extended me the honor, but I explained to her that I am needed here. In case a sister does come back after hearing the Song of Returning tomorrow.

When had Clotho last left this mountain? When had she last felt the wind and sun upon her face?

Clotho wrote before Nesta could dare ask, I summoned you here so that you might deliver this to the High Lord and Lady. I might not be able to do them the honor of presiding over their son’s Naming Day, but I can offer this instead.

Clotho fished in her pockets and pulled out a braided, silvery piece of fabric. It was delicate as frost, and even in the faint light, it glistened.

Nesta blinked, unable to hide her awe. “What is it?”

As you and your mate were bound by thread during your mating ceremony, so, too, is the child bound to his parents—and to the Mother. This is my gift to them: the thread to use tomorrow.