“Not just their bonds. Theirchoices. Every deliberate decision they made to love each other, to stay, to build something worth protecting.” Lunaria smiled—fierce, determined, nothing like the charming deflection she usually wore.
For a long moment, the elder just stared at her. Then, slowly, something that might have been hope flickered across that frozen face.
“Deia would have liked you,” Marguerite said quietly. “She was the same way—convinced she could solve any problem if she just worked hard enough at it.”
“Did you know her?”
“I was twenty when she died. Young enough to be idealistic, old enough to understand what my family had done.” The elder’s voice dropped. “She tried to tell me what Cornelius was planning. I didn’t believe her. Didn’t want to believe her. And then...”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.
“I’m sorry,” Lunaria said. Not for Marguerite—she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive the elder’s years of complicity. But for Deia. For the brilliant witch who’d died alone in this pavilion, murdered by a man she’d trusted, her life’s work left unfinished.
“So am I.” Marguerite gathered herself, that rigid posture returning. “I’ll tell the other elders what I’ve told you. Georgia already knows most of it—she was silenced, but she’s not stupid. Sue...”
“Sue knows more than anyone,” Lunaria finished. “She was Deia’s apprentice.”
“Yes.” Marguerite’s lips thinned. “She’s been playing a very long game. I suspect she’s been waiting for this moment.”
“Probably.” Lunaria thought of the ancient elder with her cryptic comments and insufferable smugness. “But that’s a problem for after we survive the Convergence.”
Marguerite nodded and turned to leave. She paused at the pavilion’s entrance, looking back over her shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I hope you win. I hope you destroy that thing and break the curse and give the Holts back what my family stole from them.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I’ve been carrying this guilt my whole life. I’d very much like to stop.”
She left before Lunaria could respond.
THIRTY-THREE
LUNARIA
Lunaria was still standing in the pavilion entrance, watching the gate settle shut behind Marguerite, when she heard the soft tap of a cane on stone.
Sue Tidewell crossed the garden path at the pace of a woman who had never been in a hurry in her life and never intended to start. She was ancient—well past a century, if the rumors were true—and she moved as if the weight of time had simply passed through her rather than settling onto her shoulders. Her eyes, when they met Lunaria’s, were sharp and dark and entirely unsurprised.
“Took her long enough,” the old woman said, jerking her chin toward the gate. “I’ve been watching Marguerite Sable carry that secret since before you were born. Wondered if she’d crack before or after the Convergence.”
“Elder Tidewell.” Lunaria stepped aside. “Were you listening?”
“Old ears. Not as keen as they once were.” Sue smiled, which meant nothing; the woman missed nothing. She crossed to the orrery and studied it with the unhurried attention of someone greeting an old friend. “I trained with Deia for eleven years. I know every stone in this pavilion.”
“Then why didn’t you?—”
“Do what Marguerite didn’t?” Sue’s voice was dry. “I tried, child. The Hollow King’s compulsion is thorough. Deia’s death silenced me the same way it silenced Georgia—I couldn’t speak about what I’d seen without the words turning to ash in my mouth.” She paused by the orrery’s central console, one knotted hand resting lightly on the stone. “But I could prepare. I could wait. I could make sure that when the right person arrived, they’d have what they needed.”
Lunaria thought of Georgia’s box. The ring. The journals that had been waiting, perfectly preserved, as if someone had made very sure the preservation wards would hold.
“The wards in the cellar. That was you.”
Sue didn’t confirm or deny. Just looked at the orrery with an expression Lunaria had no name for—grief and pride and the bone-deep satisfaction of a very long wait reaching its end.
“He’s most vulnerable in the crossing window,” the old woman said. “Deia figured it out. Forty seconds—maybe fifty—when the Hollow King is neither fully in our realm nor still anchored to the void. After it, he’s too solid to burn.” Her dark eyes found Lunaria’s. “You’ll have one shot. Don’t waste it trying to be certain. Certainty is a luxury the crossing window doesn’t offer.”
“Forty seconds.”
“Give or take.” Sue straightened, pulled her cane from where she’d leaned it against the console. “Deia died with that knowledge in her head and no one to tell it to. Sixty years it’s been stuck in mine.” She moved toward the door. “Don’t make me carry it for sixty more.”
She left without waiting for a response, her cane tapping across the stone and fading into the evening garden.
