"Yeah, Freckles. You have anything specific in mind?"
She doesn't answer.
Instead, she steps up to the counter beside me, her movement careful but purposeful. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I barely keep myself from leaning into it. I don't pull away, and neither does she. "Can I help with something?" she asks softly, her eyes on my hands as I chop.
"Thought you didn't cook."
She narrows her eyes at me, and it's cuter than it should be. "I can't, but I'm offering to help, so give me a task. One that doesn't involve cutting or heat."
"Something you can't screw up?"
"Preferably."
I sigh and pluck up the herbs I picked earlier in the day. "Pick the leaves off the stems for me."
She takes the stems from my outstretched hand and begins plucking the leaves, her movements slower and more careful than necessary. I don't correct her. This feels like an olive branch, and I like having her next to me. While she works, I glance at her. The furrow between her brows, the thinness of her fingers, and the wisps of hair escaping her curls all capture my attention.
"Have you thought about renaming the store?" I ask.
She cuts me a sharp look. "I don't know. Why?"
I pause in my chopping. "Because it's your store now. Shipton Shop doesn't really ring true since you're not a Shipton."
She goes back to plucking herbs, this time a bit sharper than before. "Why are you so hung up about the store?" she asks, not looking up.
The pan is on the stove now, with butter, onions, and garlic softening. Irritation rises in me, sharp and messy. "Why aren't you? You lost a business, and now you have a business. You could do anything you want with it. It could be your dream store, so why are you so uninterested?"
"Because I did have my dream store," she snaps, her voice faltering. "It was exactly what I'd always wanted. I built it from the ground up. Everything I had went into it." I push the pan off the stove and faceher. She still stares at the herbs, but her hands aren't moving. She tilts her head up. Her eyes are glassy when they meet mine.
"Do you know what happened to that dream? It got taken and sold off by an ex who'd rather see it destroyed than leave anything for me to be happy about."
"Ivy, that's—"
"What?" she cuts me off. "Not going to happen? Is that what you were going to say? You don't know that. You keep saying I'll be allowed to stay on the island and that it'll work out, but in my experience, things don't. In fact, they go terribly wrong, and nothing even remotely good comes from it. So no, I don't plan to change the shop name, buy new inventory, or redecorate. Or do anything that will eventually get undone when I'm not allowed to keep it."
She drops the herbs onto the counter and wipes her hands on a towel, muttering that she's not hungry anymore before heading up the stairs to the loft.
I stare after her. Part of me is rooted, turning everything she said over. Another part aches to follow, to wipe away her tears, to wrap her in my arms. I want to assure her I would fight anyone who tried to take anything from her. My hound growls inside me, wanting to be near her. She's crying, and I don't know if going to her would help or hurt. Not knowing? It's agony. And it’s something I'll do anything to fix.
Ivy
Two days have gone by uneventfully for once. Conall caught a few small but disturbing things hanging around the cottage, but nothing like the mimic he killed. We haven't really talked since my meltdown in the kitchen. I don't want to talk. I think I've finally hit my limit. This has been a crazy experience, and I just want to get to the part where we fix the wards and the island residents likely kick me out since I'm not covered in scales or talons or whatever.
I thought about not coming to game night, but Layla, Ada, and even Dolly have been nothing but nice to me, and ghosting them when they've clearly been looking forward to this feels too heartless. So I walk along a narrow dirt path cut from the main road.
Fireflies spark over the tall grass. In one hand, I hold a bottle of wine by the neck. The other skims along the tops of wild daisies and cattails, tickling my palm. Every step causes the grass to brush my ankles and legs. I chose a flowy sundress and sandals for this. The soft rustling of the grass behind me, along with steady footfalls, is my only indication that Conall is following behind.
We crest the small hill we've been climbing. At the bottom, a white farmhouse surrounded by a picket fence glows with warm light from its windows. Ada stands in the front garden chatting with Layla. I stop for a moment, taking in Ada's translucent wings and Layla's eyes, now yellow with thin strips for pupils.
Conall steps up beside me and sighs. "Why are you doing this again?"
"Because this is what people do. They get to know their neighbors and all that crap."
He raises an eyebrow. "Where did you get that bullshit?"
"I don't know. I saw it in a movie a few times. It's worth a shot." He studies me for another tense moment.
I ignore the look and start striding down the hill. Except instead of walking away with dignity, my foot instantly slips. My eyes squeeze shut, already bracing to tumble down like Jack and Jill in the nursery rhyme, when a hand closes over my arm.
