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“Of course I do.” She moves on before he can ask another question, pointing at several mauve-colored blossoms. “That’s mystglove, but I don’t know why someone would include it.”

“How come?” I ask.

“Because it’s poisonous,” she says softly. “Deadly, even, if there’s prolonged consumption. Witchlings are taught very early on when gathering which blossoms are forbidden to use, and mystglove is incredibly high on the list.” She glances at me. “It’s basically nightshade’s little sister.”

My sword catcher grimaces. “We should get rid of that then.”

He reaches for it, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t touch it. Flowers like that rarely come without consequence.”

I watch in silence as Gwyn moves on from the bouquet to prepare the ritual space, every motion deliberate, familiar. It mirrors the summoning we performed for Rosemarie: a wide ring of salt poured around the tomb, a boundary to hold what shouldn’t slip loose.

Without the distraction of her floral descriptions, I’m back to worrying.

I’m about to see my mother for the first time in centuries.

My hands are shaky, neck slick with sweat.

Gwyn asks Arkyn for his dagger. Without hesitation, he hands it over, hilt first, and she slices into her forearm with practiced ease. Blood wells, dark and vivid against her pale skin. She gives the dagger back to Ark and moves on to the next part of the ritual. Kneeling, pressing her fingers to the marble floor, using her blood to draw runes inside the circle—ancient, sharp-angled sigils that seem to ignite with every stroke.

A breeze blows throughout the mausoleum, guttering several of the candles, save for the ones lit around my mother’s tomb.

Gwyn rises and turns to me, offering her hand.

I take it without question, lacing our fingers together. Her palm is warm, a little clammy, like she’s as nervous as I am to summon my mother.

“Ready?” she asks, voice quiet but steady.

“As I’ll ever be.”

She smiles, but it’s the gentle squeeze of her hand that anchors me, that says I’m with you.

Her eyelids flutter shut as she places a single bloodshade blossom on her tongue. She takes a deep, centering breath, and then⁠—

We chant.

“A fragile line we dare tread to summon Eliana Thaelon from the dead. From shores where damned flowers bloom, we call Eliana Thaelon forth from earthen tomb.”

Like before, the ground begins to shake.

I’m still chanting the summoning spell even when Gwyn abruptly stops. Her lips move without sound, the same way they did when we summoned Rosemarie. It’s like she’s having a conversation with someone I cannot see or hear. It’s eerie, unearthly, and downright captivating.

When her eyes snap open, my breath catches. Her silver gaze is illuminated like two twin pools of liquid starlight, and for the first time, I understand why my father, why Quill, find so much beauty among the stars.

She is radiant, mesmerizing, beautiful.

So. Fucking. Beautiful.

“Riven?”

The breath that was caught in my throat leaves me in a whoosh as a chill skitters down my spine. Gwyn’s hand tightens around mine, or maybe mine tightens around hers, as we turn to face⁠—

“Mother.”

I nearly choke on the word, on the sight of her standing there in her burial dress, less frail than when we laid her to rest. Loose brown waves tumble over her shoulders, punctuated by small braids entwined with lavender.

“How is this possible?” she asks, voice frantic. “Are you⁠—”

“I’m fine. Gwyn summoned you into the Threshold.” I hold up our hands. “She just brought me along for the ride.”