Every day, I wandered the dusty halls of the Bodleian, pouring over brittle books and yellowed collections, chasing down any scrap from Alice and Margery’s time, desperately trying to scratch at the curse’s edges.
Gentry, bless him, was undeterred by my stubbornness.
Every evening, without fail, he would float the idea that I move into his guest room.
“At least until we figure out how to break your curse,” he said one night, as he tidied up the study space we had commandeered for ourselves. He worked tirelessly beside me, somehow balancing teaching his classes with spending every spare moment combing through archives and genealogy records.
The beautiful thing about England was its memory. Families had lingered here for centuries, their histories stacked in trunks and attics like forgotten treasures. Sometimes, we even got to dust them off. But so far, none of it had been enough.
I sighed, tucking away the battered journal I’d been scribbling in before slipping it into my messenger bag.
Gentry straightened up, pulling off his glasses and setting them carefully on the table. He studied me with a tender furrow between his brows. “Would it really be that bad?” he asked quietly.
“Gentry—” I started, the automatic protest forming.
“No, Astoria,” he interrupted, voice low but firm. He stepped closer, until I could see the flecks of green in his brown eyes. His gaze dropped to where my fingers fidgeted against the worn strap of my bag. “Would it really be that bad?”
The late evening light poured through the window behind him, catching the dust motes in a slow, golden dance. Hisshadow fell over me like a shield. “You don’t have to stay once this is over,” he said, voice rough, “but please... please, let’s get you out of the hotel.”
For a moment, the world stilled. My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, warring between reflex and reason. Gentry had already given me so much. More than kindness. More than loyalty. He cared for me in a way I wasn’t sure I remembered how to accept. Maybe I never really had. Besides Day, of course. But even Time was fickle. Even Time could vanish.
Gentry, though?
Gentry was constant.
He sent a text first thing every morning. He met me at the hotel doors with coffee and tea, rain or shine. He tried to pay for every meal. He stayed up late, hunched over grimy ledgers and worn maps, chasing the shape of my curse across centuries. And recently... after I had trusted him with my father’s letter, he had booked us a short weekend trip to Sussex, digging into the tangled roots of the Reeves family line. Hoping, always hoping, for answers.
Grim’s betrayal still hurt. A wound left wide open, festering the longer I sat and stewed on it. Throwing myself into defeating the Tempest curse was the only thing keeping me afloat...
That, and Gentry. I was beginning to realize just how much I’d begun to rely on him. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
It was enough for him.
He smiled softly and ran his fingers down my shoulders, giving a light, reassuring squeeze before turning to gather his things. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the curse—till Death himself their fate is torn—what if you’ve already broken it? Leaving him?”
“I don’t know…” It felt too easy, for something as strong and violent as the Tempest curse. But what if it was as simple as that? Would I know?
“We can noodle it out over dinner, I’m starving.”
After dinner, Gentry invited me to check out his place. I agreed, mostly because I’d run out of excuses. He had asked plenty of times over the past few months, and each time, I’d skillfully dodged. This time, he was insistent.
Gentry lived in a newly built modern flat a few miles from the university, tucked near the edges of Summertown. It was beautiful, sleek and modern.
Which was the most surprising part of it all.
Gentry gave off bookish, stuffy scholar vibes at first glance. But his home? It was all clean lines and cool tones, black fixtures and polished steel appliances. Everything immaculate. Not a speck of dust. Not a pencil out of place.
We were standing in his spare bedroom, straight lines running the length of the carpet from the vacuum.
“I’ve mostly been using it as an office,” he said, stacking loose papers and gathering a few scattered books. “But there’s a guest bed already set up. We can grab anything else you need, if you’d like to stay. A chest of drawers, maybe.”
I drifted toward his desk, running my fingers lightly across its smooth surface. A few framed photos lined the back wall behind it. A young Gentry, grinning proudly, holding up a fish almost bigger than he was. Gentry and a girl I assumed was his sister, both laughing mid-splash in some sun-drenched lake. A group of young men in battered rugby kits, faces sloppy with joy and bruises. I smiled faintly, warmth pulling at my chest, until my gaze snagged on the last photo.
I leaned in, frowning.
Gentry stood beside an older woman, her dark skin glowing against the vibrant swirl of colors in her kaftan. Heavy, beaded hoop earrings glinted in the sun. A thread of cold recognition laced through my gut.
I plucked the photo gently from its place on the wall, studying it closer. “Who is this?” I asked, voice rasping too sharp around the edges.
