Instead, I picked at the loose thread on the hem of Grim’s sweater—the one I’d taken to wearing. It was dark blue, heavy, the yarn thick with a cable-knit pattern across the chest. I’d seen him wear it a hundred times over the years. It was lived in. Cozy. Twice my size.
Perfect for hiding.
"But I thought… Feo said…" Day mumbled, his brows knitting as his eyes darted around the room as if he was chasing a memory he couldn’t catch. "So why break it, then?"
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, the taste of iron blooming on my tongue. It was best not to linger on the what-ifs. There were a hundred reasons why I should break the curse:It killed my family. It stole my grandmother’s sanity and my mother’s joy. It wreaked havoc on a world undeserving of the vile natureof it.The biggest reason of all was simple, and damning—the Tempest curse made me a murderer.
But that’s not the answer I gave. Because in that tiny, breathless moment between processing what Day had said and wondering whyI—Astoria Devlin Tempest—had to be the daughter to break the curse,the truth was…
"I’m tired, Day," I said, simply.
He nodded, his bright eyes never leaving mine. It felt terrifying, having my emotions laid bare. I hated being vulnerable, but it was true. I’m tired.
Tired of watching everyone I love die.
Tired of moving through life without rhyme or reason.
Tired of avoiding anything and everyone, hoping that if I just made myself small enough, I might somehow survive.
"Besides," I said, pushing off the floor and brushing the dust from my pants, "I made a deal with the devil. And for the first time in my life..." I looked up at him, feeling the truth settle as a stone inside my chest. "I’ve run out of time."
twenty-nine
The night was uneventful, and by morning, I woke to an empty nightstand—again. Anger struck sharply as I patted the surface with closed eyes, searching for Grim’s usual note. Today, of all days, I thought he would be here. Today, I thought he would havewritten.Unless…
I shoved the quilts aside and pulled his sweater over my head, slipping my feet into thick wool socks. Day’s snores echoed from the living room down the hall, while Reaper dozed in a tangle of limbs across Grim’s bed.
About to dart down the hall to check the kitchen counter, I noticed his office door ajar, a slant of light escaping the crack of space.
Elation surged, pushing my body forward before my mind could catch up. My hand closed around the knob, hesitating. All it would take was one moment of bravery, and then I would be standing inside Death’s space.
I pushed the door open.
It was him. All of it. The scent of oleander and salt perfumed the air, a tether straight to my chest. I closed my eyes andinhaled deeply, grounding myself in it, before tiptoeing inside. The room was empty, even though I half expected to find him sitting at the desk. He wasn’t here.
And I didn’t need to search the cottage to confirm. Ifelthis absence—a hollow ache, as if my heart had carved out a space meant only for him.
It was a large room compared to the rest of the cottage. The desk sat in the center, two windows flanking it, dressed in heavy plum velvet curtains. One wall was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, bursting at the seams with books piled high, and strange objects stacked on every surface.
A telescope stood poised in front of one open window.A standing globe spun lazily in the corner.His desk was buried under scrolls, vials of murky liquid, feathers dipped in pots of ink, and even…
A letter,addressed to me, sitting atop the chaos of his desk. Thick parchment, crisply folded, placed with deliberate care.
My Darling Tempest
It would be wrong to open it. My stomach twisted into knots, my gaze clinging to the sharp edges of the fold. The paper felt impossibly light between my fingers, as though it might drift away if I breathed too hard. He must have written it and gotten sidetracked before delivering it. The thought sent a fresh wave of longing spiraling through me. Suddenly, it struck me—I didn’t even knowhowGrim delivered the letters. Did he come home every night, placing them on my nightstand himself? Or was he sending them through some quiet flicker of magic?
The former seemed improbable. But the thought of him pausing in the doorway, his gaze catching on my sleeping form…
A shiver skated down my spine.
In every version of my life, Grim’s attentionburned.
It was intimate. Singular.
A connection I realized, with an aching clarity, I did not share with anyone else.
In a haze of reckless hope, I lifted the letter. Closed my eyes. Unfolded it…
