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“But why? Why mop, why play these useless games, why do any of this? Politicians, museums, police? Why?”

“I have a very complicated family, Ms. Crowhart. Magnus is not an exception. He’s actually the rule of what some of the members are capable of. And so they need a cause. A crusade. And it is much easier to control a few men, or a large swath of a population, for that matter, when they are indoctrinated and busy building false idols.” Dagmar threw her shoulders back. “And since I have no idols at all, I was free to pursue the causes that mattered most to me. The projects that I cared for. And yes, as I admitted earlier, make money. I won’t apologize for that, even if I can see the concept is foreign and perhaps abhorrent to you.”

“There’s no perhaps about it,” Seren murmured and exhaled.

Dagmar averted her eyes. “But by the time this particular ruse was coming together, it had taken on a life of its own and it became a full-time job to keep it all in line, keep it all from being discovered. Mopping, if you will, became a bit too much. I’m here to tell you that whatever deals and plans I had for Dragons before this… incident,” Dagmar stumbled over the word. “I am putting a stop to all those operations. The Rathcross Foundation is removing itself from Dragons. I will work with Judge Astor to identify a few of the more interesting, shall we say, individuals. And yes, I do require that the family name be kept out of that little newspaper of yours.”

“You don’t get to make any requests. But tell me, how do I factor into your master plans, Cousin Dagmar?” Lark practically spat the title.

Dagmar’s face changed. From righteous anger to a guilty, fleeting, slippery expression.

“You didn’t factor into it at all. Magnus and the entire accursed clan have been nothing but an embarrassment⁠—”

“Could’ve fooled me, Cousin Dagmar.” Lark still remembered the woman’s attendance at her wedding. She may not have been entirely happy or joyful for the occasion, but she had been there nonetheless. “Or was I another one of those ruses, to keep the wastrel cousins entertained while you made your money and built your empire and stepped on bones to amass more and more of either? What would you have done with all that power anyway? Your Foundation already controls half of Washington. Maybe next time one of your candidates campaigns, they can run on a ticket of outlawing child marriage? Or is that too on the nose for the great Rathcross clan?”

Lark fought to keep her voice firm, to keep it low, to make sure that her every word was heard, and yet she knew most of it had come out as a cry of pain and desperation. She felt tears well in her eyes again, but these were not hers. These were the tears of sixteen-year-old Lark Thibodeaux as she was led to the altar by her brainwashed parents, like a sheep to slaughter.

She chose to think of them as brainwashed in that very moment, and not straight-up evil, because this was not the time. Lark knew that time would come—the time to fall apart, the time to take reckoning of everything that had happened to her, everything that she had never been able to actually process, because she buried so much inside herself.

How had Victoria put it a few months ago?

“You might’ve buried it all, the pain and the betrayal, Lark, but you also buried all of it alive. And one day, these horrors will come climbing out of their shallow graves.”

She could see Victoria sitting at the kitchen table, her face shadowed, her eyes bright, alight with so much understanding, so much love⁠—

The door banged open, and a tired-looking doctor fell in, his scrubs bloody and his face colorless. Lark gripped Seren’s hand so tight she was sure her own fingers would snap.

“She’s out of surgery. Whether she lives, and that is a major ‘whether,’ is no longer up to us. We’ve done all we could.”

23

SEREN, UNFORGETTABLE ENTRANCES & LONGING

WHAT’S NEXT FOR THE TAVERN?

For the past week, the doors of Crow’s Nest’s beloved staple, its most famous and adored restaurant, have remained closed. After the accident that took place at the Lagoon, Victoria Crowhart is currently in Boston, recovering but still in a coma.

Every evening, the town and its inhabitants gather in front of the restaurant, bringing flowers and lighting candles, praying for the speedy recovery of the renowned chef.

However, after Councilwoman Crowhart shared that her aunt will likely endure a long and arduous recovery once she does wake, the town is concerned about the fate of the Tavern, an institution as beloved as its founder. Several ideas as to who could run it until Mrs. Crowhart returns have popped up on the Caw’s discussion board. Ms. Marsha McMons dismissed most of these comments as “utter rubbish” because “nobody can replace that woman.”

We at The Caw agree wholeheartedly with her statement and wish for happy news for both Mrs. Crowhart and the Tavern.

—Crow’s Caw

After a week in Boston, Crow’s Nest looked like a haven. Or simply heaven.

The narrow streets, the cobblestones, the colorful little houses and rows of businesses. Market Square and its fountain. The town hall, all marble and splendor. Crow’s Blossoms, decked in green, tulips bowing their colorful heads in the windows. The Cupcake and the baked delights that await there, rows of muffins and fruit tarts. The Tavern, its stained glass windows gleaming clean and bright. Crow, Cat, & Possum, still under reconstruction, but so close now.

Then there was her Brew. Her place.

Unlike her sisters, Seren had never experienced the pull of the mainland. Never gotten the traveling bug. Never, ever wanted to leave. She had found herself here on the island. Sure, she did her fair share of going back and forth between Boston and Dragons, business or pleasure, or tragedy as was the case of the past week, but overall, nothing could compare with this town.

Crow House, hers now, could never be replaced by fancier homes.

She had a role to play as Captain of the Fire Brigade. People respected her. People depended on her. Snow removal and fire preparedness. She felt needed. The town turned to her, trusted her, valued her.

And the Brew? Between Rhiannon’s money, her aunt’s help and her own blood, sweat and an occasional tear, she had built something. The cozy little building with skylights and sparkling coffee machines, the croissants and cheesecakes, the panna cotta bore witness to that. And Lark had held down the fort admirably while Seren stayed in Boston.