Caroline’s expression falters, just slightly. “You’re leaving?”
“Just for a bit. There’s something we need to look into. Town business.”
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push. I know she’s still in that post-heat fog, still processing, still trying to find her footing. I don’t want to add to her load by dumping conspiracy theories on her lap.
“I’ll order the pizza,” Griffin says. “Your usual?”
“Extra olives. And pepperoni. And whatever else is salty.”
“Got it.”
I walk over to Caroline. I meant to just hug her goodbye—quick, simple, appropriate—but when I get close, when I catch that trace of honey and cinnamon still clinging to her skin, something takes over. I cup her face in my hands, tilt her chin up, and kiss her.
It’s not brief. It’s not simple. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything I’m not allowed to say out loud yet. I feel her hands flatten against my chest, feel her lean into me on her toes, and for a moment, the rest of the room ceases to exist.
Amara clears her throat.
I pull back, my face warm. Caroline’s cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted.
“Behave,” Amara says, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.
Silas steps forward. He presses a kiss to Caroline’s cheek—softer, more restrained than mine, but no less deliberate. His hand lingers on her shoulder for a moment.
“Let’s go,” he says to me.
We grab our jackets from the pile by the door and step out into the late afternoon air. The storm has passed completely, leaving behind a sky that’s washed clean and bright, the kind of blue that only comes after everything’s been stripped away.
I don’t look back. If I look back, I won’t leave.
The door closes behind us, and we walk toward the car in silence.
I pull up to Silas’s hotel and kill the engine. He’s been inside for ten minutes. I check my phone—a text from Gallagher about the east side flooding, mostly cleared, minor structural damage on Elm. I respond with a thumbs up and toss the phone on the dash.
The front door opens, and Silas steps out. He’s changed into dark jeans and a gray Henley, his hair damp from a quick shower. He slides into the passenger seat and tosses a small leather bag on the floorboard.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“We need to do a little more research. Specific texts that won’t be available at the town library or the apothecary. Can we head to the manor?”
I don’t even have to think about it. I put the car in drive. “Aunt Etta’s going to love that you’re back.”
“Is that a problem?”
“She made you a pie last time. From scratch. After knowing you for two hours.”
I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. “Is that unusual?”
“Aunt Etta really loves anything to do with the Council, especially since she thinks you’ll nominate her to join them.”
The drive to the manor takes fifteen minutes. The roads are still damp, puddles reflecting the late afternoon sun, a public works crew clearing debris from a storm drain up ahead. I turn onto the gravel drive and the wards recognize me immediately—that old hum I’ve felt since I was a kid running through these woods with Amara.
I park in the circular drive, and the front door swings open before I cut the engine.
Aunt Etta stands on the porch, arms crossed, a smile already breaking across her face. Her white hair is pinned up in a loose bun. She’s wearing one of her signature kaftans, this one deep purple with gold embroidery.
“Don’t just sit there,” she calls. “I can see you both.”
I climb out and round the hood. Silas follows.
