I stand at the counter in the manor kitchen, one hand braced against the cool stone, the other wrapped around a mug that smells like burnt beans and stubbornness. The window over the sink is fogged from steam and early chill, the world outside washed pale and gray. My head still aches in that dull, insistent way that promises it will return the second I let my guard down.
I take a careful sip.
The door swings open behind me.
“Hey,” I say without turning. I already know the cadence of her steps, the way she moves like she owns the floor. For once, I hope that I’m wrong and it’s my aunt instead.
“Amara.”
She waves from the doorway, hair a tangled mess, oversized sweatshirt swallowing her whole. She looks smaller than she did yesterday. Or maybe I’m just seeing her with new eyes after everything that went wrong.
“When did you get in last night?” she asks, heading straight for the fruit bowl.
I swallow, and the coffee goes down wrong.
For half a second, all I see is Caroline. Heat-flushed skin. My hands in her hair. Her voice saying my name like it means something dangerous. My throat tightens hard enough that I have to cough, the mug rattling as I set it down.
“Late,” I manage.
Amara pauses mid-reach, an apple hovering in her hand. Her gaze narrows. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I clear my throat and gesture vaguely. “Simon and I were dealing with roadblocks, displaced folks, a couple of false alarms. You know how it goes.”
She watches me over the apple, taking a bite. “Uh-huh.”
I shift my weight, suddenly very aware of my uniform, the stiffness of the collar, the faint scent of smoke that never quite leaves my clothes anymore. “I was home before morning,” I add, like that explains anything.
Her brow lifts. “Good to know.”
I take another sip of coffee, wishing it would either wake me up fully or knock me out.
She gestures with the apple. “So. Where’s the freak in the designer suits?”
That gets a smile out of me, quick and real despite myself. “Called back to Chicago. Emergency meeting. Council nonsense.”
“Thank the stars.” She makes a face. “He gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Same.”
She laughs softly, lips quirking as she leans back against the counter. “And did you see how close he was to Aunt Etta?”
“Don’t remind me.”
Her grin widens. “Right?”
For a moment, it feels normal. Like we’re just cousins in a kitchen again, trading looks over bad coffee and better gossip. The way it used to be, before everything complicated itself.
I take another drink, then lower the mug. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugs, easy. “Better. Still a little wiped, but my head’s not pounding anymore.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. “Good. I was worried.”
She studies me, then smiles, softer this time. “I’m okay. Really.”
I nod. “You heading back to school?”
“Probably tomorrow. I already missed enough.” She rolls her eyes. “Professor Langley sent me three emails. Three.”
