1. 1

The trouble all started the day the cat appeared in her garden, as most trouble did.

Ladybug jerked up sharply from where she was bent over her worktable, hearing the somewhat-familiar yowl of the little cat she fed each day.

It wasn't her pet, not truly. The cat was a stray, as feral and untamed as the wilds beyond the neatly manicured medicinal garden it had chosen as its home. Ladybug put out a dish of food each morning and evening, hoping against hope that the cat would decide that particular day was as good as any to retire from its life outdoors. To leave behind an era of roughing it, living like a little gremlin in the dirt, choosing instead to snuggle with the owner of a big Victorian before the fireplace and eat her homemade food in the warmth of the big work kitchen instead of under the garden bench . . . but that day had yet to arrive.

She had only ever managed to trap the beast once — taking it to the vet to be spayed and vaccinated, and since then, the small cat fled at the tiniest hint of her approach. Anzan had proven able to scoop her up with little effort, possessing both the preternatural ability to sneak silently and an Araneaen's terrifying speed, forcing down her dewormer and other necessary supplements throughout the year. He'd also rigged a solar-powered heat system for the shed, giving the garden cat a warm shelter through the harsh winter, and likely delighting both the groundhog who lived beneath the outbuilding and the birds who nested in the eaves.

She fretted less as a result, but hearing her little friend's sharp sound of distress now sent Ladybug hurrying to the work kitchen window in alarm.

They'd hit that patch of unseasonably warm weather in February, when the sun shone brightly each afternoon, melting the dregs of snow and ice that remained from January, turning the outside into a muddy, mucky mess. It was only a matter of time before another cold snap reminded them that while spring might be on the way, winter still had a bit of icy breath in store. The warm spell meant more animals bustling about, and there could be any manner of predator in the garden.

The cat was there, Ladybug could see from the window, her little tabby body curled beneath the stone bench on the flagstone pathway, hissing up at something unseen. It could be a hawk, or a coyote, or a loose dog. Whatever it was, they needed to go. Stepping through the doorway, she prepared herself to shoo away some sky predator, or perhaps a wandering tomcat, searching out a receptive mate.

A black shape leapt down from its perch high atop the garden wall, landing gracefully before her on the flagstones as she yelped in surprise. It was a tomcat, but the realization did not leave her feeling any less unsettled. The tabby fled.

The black cat circled and stretched, trapping her in his citrine-green gaze, meowing insistently. A strange prickle moved up her neck. No. It can't be. Ladybug, never breaking eye contact with the unwanted newcomer to her garden, felt for the door behind her, stepping backward over the threshold and quickly swinging the door shut on the still-meowing cat.

That was the beginning of everything. The beginning, and simultaneously, the last day of peace in her home.

Behind her, Anzan watched silently, shining black eyes blinking like a ripple on a wave.

"Little bug? Is something wrong?"

His voice was measured as always, but there was a hint of levity there, one perhaps only she would recognize. Steady and low, with the reverence he always paid her . . . but there was something in his inflection that telegraphed his amusement with the tableau he'd stumbled upon during his never-ending quest for more caffeine.

"No!" she answered a touch too forcefully, turning from the door. "Nothing at all. Everything's right as rain." Maybe you're wrong.

Despite the relative warmth and shining sun, Anzan was bundled in one of the modified black turtleneck sweaters that had temporarily replaced his favored black t-shirts. Two arms were busy pouring himself what was undoubtedly his tenth cup of coffee of the day, while the remaining two had crossed over his muscular chest, waiting for her to say something.

Ladybug could feel the weight of his many eyes watching as she crossed back to her worktable, heat moving up her neck. It's fine. You have orders to fill. Just put it out of mind. On the other side of the door, the black cat continued to meow. Anzan hadn't moved from the coffee machine. His lower arachnid half was utterly still, his many jet-black legs completely unmoving, his equally dark hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder, and if it weren't for the white markings on his heavy black carapace, he might have been able to disappear into the shadows of the room. He was still watching her, but she refused to look up.

"Little bug . . . do you want me to —"

"No," she cut in again, shaking her head and ignoring the hand he raised, indicating the door. "No, there's nothing you need to do. Nothing's wrong. Just the invigorating sounds of nature on this very nice afternoon."

The cat began to scratch. The sound of nails scrabbling against the wood was punctuated by a particularly long yowl, dramatic and demanding. Ladybug grit her teeth. She heard the almost imperceptible snort of Anzan's laughter, held in only to spare her dignity.

He thinks he's going to come sashaying in here and sleep on the end of the bed. He thinks you're a pushover. We'll see about that.She had her ear buds and would tune out the racket as soon as Anzan left. Sighing, she looked up at last.

"You know, if we open your veins, you'll probably bleed coffee. I don't understand why you don't just bring the machine upstairs."

She never turned away from the root before her, diligently cutting away the eyes to use for future shoots, but she sensed Anzan crossing the kitchen. One of his solid arms slipped around her waist, careful not to disturb her work, his cool lips lowering to press a kiss to the back of her neck.

"It gives me a reason to come down to see you," he murmured against her skin, nosing into her hair before pulling away suddenly. "Does it bother you? I will stop if you do not wish me to, little—"

"Don't be silly."

Carefully placing her cutting knife on the board, she spun in his arms, teetering on her tiptoes to reach his mouth. Uncertainty scrunched his brow, and she reached up to smooth the furrow away, tangling her fingers in his silky, black hair. It was true. If he didn't come down for coffee throughout the day, she'd not see him until evening, despite both of them being in the house all day. Alone, together.

"Of course, it doesn't bother me. I just don't want you to feel as though you're not allowed to move things, that's all."

She would never get tired of looking at him. Ladybug knew that was likely a rude thing to say, let alone to think, objectifying him in such a way, but she couldn't help it. Watching his intense focus as he fixed things around the house, his sharp features slack in sleep the few times she actually caught him napping, even the self-satisfied grin he wore when he occasionally convinced her to leave her worktable and snuggle with him randomly in the middle of the day. She would come back to her kitchen a short while later after placating his need for closeness with her hair plaited like a crown, the unruly tangle of frizz elegantly transformed in his numerous hands.

He was her favorite work of art, proof of the miracle of existence, the ultimate magic, right here in her kitchen — filling his coffee cup a dozen times a day. Currently, he had an arm around her waist, hand resting on her hip, another palming her cheek, the third holding his coffee, leaving the fourth hand free to tuck up into the confines of his sweater, making a show of shivering against her.

"I don't understand how you can work down here," he grumbled against her hair, breaking the moment as she rolled her eyes. "Little bug, I can see my breath."

Ladybug pulled back, laughing. He was ridiculous. "You are ridiculous."

Winters in Cambric Creek were unpredictable, it was true. The precipitation could veer wildly between driving rain and blowing snow, heaping outside her doorway, or forming deep enough puddles at the back of the property that on more than one occasion, ducks and geese had been persuaded to think they were miniature ponds and had stopped for a swim. The temperature could mirror the harshest days in the Arctic Circle, with the windchill making any time spent out-of-doors dangerous, or it could rival the middle of spring, as it did that week.

Anzan had simply pronounced himself unfit for the season, and despite his size and the thick black fur that dotted the joints of his arachnid legs, she was beginning to think he was right.

"What are you talking about?! It's almost 60° out there. The sun is shining. Look at the windows! It's so warm they're all steamed up!"

"I'm not sure. That might be frost."

"Ridiculous," she laughed again as his teeth chattered, dropping against his chest and closing her eyes, breathing him in.

Their sort shouldn't be living in polite society. Killers, every one of 'em!

Ladybug squeezed her eyes tighter, bracing against the voice that had been echoing in her head for nearly two weeks.

The old lizard woman had been in line in front of her at the post office, whispering none too quietly to her troll companion, pausing regularly to glare back at Ladybug. She had been minding her own business, thinking about how she might prioritize the order queue that morning, not eavesdropping at all on the other post office patrons, but that line in particular was uttered with such vehemence, accompanied by such a venomous look, that Ladybug heard. Heard it, then watched their heads turn in unison to give her one last sharp look before taking their place at the window, the full meaning occurring to her at last as she watched their backs.

Her mouth had dropped in shock. Anzan? Are they talking about Anzan? After all, Anzan was no killer. She knew him. He was kind and gentle, thoughtful and intelligent, and the women didn't know what they were talking about.

She'd been halfway home that day when it had occurred to her that the lizard woman and the troll might not be the only neighbors whispering about him, and by extension, about her.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The Brackenbridge house being the source of gossip was hardly a new occurrence. There had been plenty of neighbors over the years grousing about what those witches are getting up to, especially when she'd been a very small child and gatherings at their home had been a regular occurrence. Just before Authricia had become high crone, when her mother was still alive, when friendly witches arrived with the makings of a potluck and as much laughter and gossip was traded around the fire as actual spellwork. Then again, years later — after her mother had died, every time Willow went out of remission and Jack Hemming's car found its way to their driveway, and of course, the noisy, dramatic day Holt left . . . the Brackenbridge witches were no stranger to being the target of whispers.

But this felt different.

We're not welcome anywhere we go, for the violence of our kind is well known to all.She remembered Anzan's words to her that afternoon of Mabon. She remembered his quiet desperation the first day the huge Araneaen had appeared before her door, bowing on the sidewalk to her, how he had nowhere else to go, moving into the shabby attic apartment that same afternoon.

Because of people like that,she'd thought furiously that day. It wasn't as if the town itself was brand new. Cambric Creek had been incorporated decades earlier, a multi-species community from the start, and this old biddy should have gotten used to seeing her different-looking neighbors out and about ages ago. Age isn't an excuse for ignorance.

She had practically stomped to her car that afternoon, stomped into the house once she'd arrived, giving the neighbors a completely new reason to speculate about what the Brackenbridge witches were up to.

Ladybug didn't care. She had changed, this last year. It seemed nauseatingly cliché to say that her life had changed because of Anzan, that being in love and being loved in return made her better, simply by virtue of no longer being completely alone, but she was different.

She'd come to the realization that it wasn't love that had been the deciding factor, for she needn't look any further than her own memories of sobbing young women and wild-eyed neighbors visiting their home for a love potion or a spell of retribution to know that love was the catalyst for as much pain as it was pleasure.

Anzan saw her. There had been no one in her life who truly saw her since the aunts had died. She hadn't transformed into one of those witches with a gift for the gab just because she was partnered, and leaving the house was still an exercise in trying her best to understand that hidden subtext the whole world seemed to know. She hadn't grown comfortable in crowds overnight, hadn't learned how to be helpful without seeming obsequious, hadn't changed at all, really. And he didn't care. He saw her exactly as she was, and the act of being seen made her feel more substantial. Less afraid to take up space in the world, and the substantiality made her more certain of her place in it.

She was a Brackenbridge witch, and she would not be made afraid in the place she called home.

"I'll bet it's even warm enough for us to take our walk tonight."

He seized in her arms, hands locking around both her wrists, his coffee cup never sloshing.

"It's a good night for someone to be snug in a cocoon," he threatened, burying his nose beneath the edge of the turtleneck, as if the mere thought of going outside made him colder.

"It's a good night for someone to remember it's his turn to cook dinner and keep his webs to himself," she laughed, pushing lightly off his chest. His numerous eyes blinked in a wave as she lowered from her toes after kissing him again, his features as serious as ever.

"Don't work too late, my little bug."

The cat was still yowling when Anzan left the room. Ladybug leaned over the worktable, scooping up the purple case housing her earbuds, tuning out the noise determinedly, allowing the comforting, familiar sound of a decade-old lesson to aid in re-finding her focus and pushing the rest of the world away.

He can make all the noise he wants. I'm going to ignore him until he goes away, and there's nothing he can do to change my mind.

A good plan in theory, but she ought to have known he wasn't going to make it easy.

Ladybug learned the hard way the following morning, listening to the few messages that had been left overnight, proving that she couldn't yet afford to discontinue the voicemail box subscription. She opened the back door mindlessly, stepping out with a bowl of the cat food she diligently made herself each month, grinding chicken bones and livers with fish oil and other supplements. She was mid-bend, placing the bowl beside the bench, when a black streak shot out from the bushes, making for the house.

"No, you don't!" she yelped. Swinging back to the door, she caught the edge and pulled it shut just in time, blocking the beast from slipping inside. "No!" she shouted, stamping her foot on the flagstones. It was an inelegant display, but she'd never been especially elegant before. "You are not coming in."

Turning back to the bowl she'd dropped, Ladybug was relieved to find it hovering a few inches off the pavement, the ground chicken thighs floating in the air like a pink smear, plopping wetly when she snapped her fingers, breaking his spell.

"Thank you for that," she muttered through clenched teeth. "But it doesn't change anything. You let her eat in peace, understand? And go away."

But he didn't go away, as she feared he wouldn't.

One of the pitfalls of living in a historic home was the lack of modern amenities, such as an ensuite bathroom. She'd grown up using a bathroom several doors away from her bedroom her entire life, so continuing to do so in adulthood was not a hardship, but on cold February mornings, as she scurried down the hall wrapped in a towel, damp hair bouncing down her back, she wondered if it might be the next major home improvement upgrade they tackled.

Since that first Mabon they celebrated together, Anzan had undertaken project after project in her house, doing the majority of the work himself. The old Victorian, the Brackenbridge witches' pride and joy, no longer boasted a sagging roof and uneven front steps. The tuckpointed chimney flue was no longer an alarming crumble, the mournful roof had been methodically replaced in sections, and the staggering front porch was completely refurbished.

"Araneaens are taught many necessary skills, my little bug," he'd told her solemnly, "for one never knows when they must construct their own dwelling under the cover of darkness."

It was an ominous pronouncement at the time, but she couldn't pretend she wasn't glad of his unexpected handiness. An ensuite bathroom might well be in his purview, she thought, stepping out of the shower that chilly February morning.

The cat was sitting in the well of the stained-glass window just outside the shower, his black-furred face pressed to the glass. He mewled pitifully and Ladybug jumped at the unexpected black shape, dropping her towel in fright. He fled as she shouted, stamping her foot yet again, feeling as if she were the unwilling and unwitting star of some social media prankster account.

She was still trembling with the sudden rush of adrenaline when she left the bathroom, only to find Anzan in the hallway, shaking his head infinitesimally. She could practically hear his tsk of disapproval as she huffed back to the open bedroom door.

That same night, Ladybug found herself suspended in a hammock-like web in his attic office, swinging gently from side to side as Anzan kissed his way up her legs, pausing at her knees.

It had been a long, defeating day. A book had fallen over on a shelf in her work kitchen — in and of itself, not a calamitous thing, but the book had knocked over a canister, which had tipped into a top-heavy jar, a terrible domino effect of spoiled potion ingredients and broken glass that she couldn't even blame on the cat outside. By the time Anzan had sped down from the attic at the noise, she'd been close to frustrated tears. When she learned he'd pulled himself away from a meeting to do so, the tears had fallen in shuddering, noisy sobs.

She didn't know what she was still doing wrong, and she had desperately missed the camaraderie of having a coven just then. There was no one to talk to, no sister with whom she could commiserate, no crone to provide advice. The life of a witch was already a lonely one, but this — this was intolerable. She didn't mind feeling like an outsider, of never fitting in . . . but the absence of belonging was like a hole within her. She may have not fit in, but she had belonged to something, once.

Not that it makes a difference. You were an outsider even when you were still a member. How would they help now? They wouldn't, she answered for herself miserably.

Business had improved, her order queue a steady, consistent thing, but it wasn't enough. She had no idea how to attract new customers to purchase the completed batches of every item she made, and that was the frustration. Each recipe called for exact amounts. Halving and quartering were not an option if she wanted to maintain quality, leaving salves and ointments, all with expiration dates, eating up her finite shelf space.

She'd gone seeking Anzan out at the end of the agonizing workday, finding him still behind his numerous screens. It was a relief to push away the aggravation of the morning, going limp in his sticky confines, swinging in a web as he kissed his way over her hips. This was all she required to center herself, to remember that she had everything she needed right here — the two of them, alone together.

His lips had just reached the crease of her thigh when a thump over her head made her eyes pop open.

"What was that?"

Anzan sighed heavily, pulling back as she struggled to sit. "That, my dearest one, is the sound of a cat on the roof. He must have followed the light."

She closed her eyes stubbornly, reclining against the web once more. She could ignore the noise, Ladybug told herself. She could focus on the sensation of Anzan's lips kissing over her pelvis, the crook of her knee being pulled back slowly . . .

Thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump.

"Is he learning how to Riverdance?" she snapped, pushing up again, the moment broken. The next thing she knew, she was being cut free, Anzan's long, curved claws shink-ing through the webbing.

"Perhaps you will find it easier to relax in your bedroom, little bug." His voice was steady, but she didn't miss the muttered "although I suspect not," a moment later.

The black cat was sitting on the front steps when she pulled into the driveway the following afternoon, was there sitting on the back garden wall when she opened the back door a while later. When the sun went down, rather than giving up for the day, he sought them out, going from window to window all around the house.

She was at her wit's end. Why did you think you could outlast him? He's immortal. All he has is time.

It all came to a head at the end of the week, the day Anzan finished his work week early and she left her order queue, and they ordered takeout. Movie night. Her favorite night of the week, their time together, uninterrupted, peaceful and comfortable.

The long room at the back of the house had been made Willow's makeshift bedroom once she'd grown too weak for the staircase. Since her aunts' deaths, the room had been transformed several times over the years — an ill-planned crafting room, a carryover hanging space for dried herbs, and at one point, a home for the stacks and stacks of books she'd inherited from a passed-on member of the coven, who'd been close with Authricia.

When Anzan had haltingly asked what the plans were for the space, she had enthusiastically given consent for him to turn the room into whatever he wanted.

A home theater was not what she'd anticipated, but the finished project — displayed after leading her blindfolded down the hallway, guiding her by the hand and standing silently behind her once she was in the room — had delighted her completely, a wonderful gift.

She was no stranger to his gift giving at that point.

Araneaen culture was matriarchal, he had explained, females placed at the head of the family and revered. Although marriage contracts were often brokered in infancy, young Araneaens were expected to follow a courting protocol, showering their intended with gifts and tokens.

Ladybug had never been entirely comfortable receiving gifts outside of her immediate family. She always worried that she wouldn't display the correct enthusiasm, that her face would telegraph the wrong emotion and that she would cause inadvertent offense to the gift giver. The anxiety she felt over the correct appreciative performance only made things worse, and the stress of receiving gifts from people who did not know her well was hardly worth it. But Anzan's gifts had delighted her from the start.

She had learned much about him in the last year. He was quiet but watchful, and the gifts she received on a near weekly basis were always tailored exactly to her and what she would enjoy — a hard-to-find potion ingredient, a clump of rare herbs or flowers, still attached to their roots and dirt, resting in a small burlap sack on her worktable. She didn't need to worry over whether her expression telegraphed the right level of enthusiasm, for she would be over the moon with excitement, flapping her arms like a goose and squealing.

. . . At least, until she wondered where he had procured such a find. She had begun to suspect that her partner had a habit of sticky fingers. Another necessary skill, he'd likely tell her, and although she didn't wish to encourage his kleptomania, but she couldn't say she disliked his presents.

The home theater, on the other hand, had been as much a gift for him as her, and that made her more excited and far happier than nearly anything else. At times, she still felt as if he considered himself a boarder in her home. It was her home in his mind, and she was merely gracious enough to allow him a room.

"It's our home, now," she would remind him periodically. "The house belongs to me, fine. But a house is just a house. We're making it a home together."

That he had taken this space and claimed it for himself, turning it into a spot for him to enjoy something he loved with her, was the best gift he could have ever given her.

"A wisecracking hit man on the run takes shelter in an likely place — hiding in plain sight with his college roommate in suburbia. This orc-for-hire doesn't realize he's about to get a crash course in caring for gnomish toddlers — or discover the true meaning of family." Anzan looked up to her with wide blue eyes, their smaller mates fixed on her with beady, black intensity. "An orc and a gnome! Can you imagine what that dwelling must have been like?"

"I suspect from your enthusiasm, we're about to find out," she giggled, uncaring of the evening's movie fare, only that he was happy and comfortable.

He loved movies. It didn't matter what genre. It didn't matter how old it was or what species it starred, didn't matter if it was the third in a franchise for which he had no prior context. The twists and turns in thrillers always shocked him, no matter how predictable. Romcoms made him pull her closer and hum into her hair, comedies left him breathless with held-in stoic laughter, and he couldn't seem to get enough of human and non-human relationships.

The common mundanity of commercial entertainment had been restricted to only what he'd been able to stream on his work computer during all the years he spent living on the fringes of society, which wasn't much. Ladybug was thrilled to help him make up for lost time, no matter how many French vampire costume dramas and Naga spy action adventures it required.

They had just settled in for the evening — Anzan on the specially designed floor support he'd ordered for himself, giving him the ability to fold his legs beneath him on a mat and rest his upper back against a cushioned arc, as Ladybug curled against him on the side of the sectional sofa he'd placed adjacent to his own seat. It was a delightful setup, as close to snuggling on the sofa together as they were able to manage. It might not seem normal to an outsider, but to her, this was near perfection.

He had just queued up the film when they heard it.

What was now a familiar yowl from the window, first from one corner, then from the other, further down the wall. It was the black cat, up on the window ledge, moving from pane to pane, attempting to look in at them.

It wasn't as easy to ignore at this time of evening, particularly at the back of the house when there was no other noise, and the cat knew it.

"Ladybug, this is getting out of hand."

She dropped her head back, closing her eyes. Go away. Please, just go away.

"Do you remember that time you were convinced we had house brownies?"

She lifted her head wearily, looking askance at Anzan. She did not need to be reminded of her paranoia the previous winter, when the gathering shadows of the evening played tricks with her mind, and she was convinced they were in need of an exterminator. "Yes," she mumbled unwillingly.

"I think, my little bug, this situation would be best handled similarly." He looked pleased with himself already. "Tomorrow, I shall place webbing around the outside of the house. If this feline wants to jump up to the windows, they will quickly find they cannot jump out as easily."

"That's not a good idea," she sighed, dropping her forehead once more, this time to rest against his turtleneck sweater-encased pectoral. "I don't want him to hurt you."

The sound Anzan made in his throat was a mélange of disgust, shock, and offense, and she couldn't help but laugh at the gurgle of it.

"Hurt me?! I assure you; I am not afraid of garden cats. This creature is a nuisance. It thinks it is fast? I will show it the meaning of true speed. We will catch it once and for all and dispose of it humanely." He quickly threw up two hands when she pushed from his chest with a gasp. "By which I mean," he quickly added, "I shall fetch the cat carrier in the morning, and you can drop the beast off at the shelter. It will be gone from your garden for good."

She smiled at the thought of Holt at the animal shelter, being adopted by a family with small, rambunctious children. That would serve him right.

"No," she sighed. Regardless of how much Holt deserved to be treated like a mangy stray, the repercussions for doing so would not be worth the short-term amusement. "I'm serious."

She winced as another sharp yowl came from the other side of the window. The speed with which Anzan was able to leave his seat, circling the room and closing the drapes would've made her dizzy if she wasn't accustomed to it. He might actually be able to catch him. And then what? Could you live with yourself if Holt hurts him? He doesn't understand.

She'd still been slumped over against the back of the couch when he returned, hitting the power button on the remote for the projection screen. Once the motor finished running, pulling the white screen back into its home on the ceiling, he gripped her chin, forcing her head up.

"I think our movie night this evening needs to instead be a story time, don't you?"

Ladybug sighed again, tucking her legs up beneath her, mirroring his pose. Anzan, silent and stony-faced as ever, waited patiently, giving her no out. Beyond the window, the garden was quiet, for the moment.

"His name is Holt." Her voice wavered over the name, not fully closing the final consonant, in an effort to prevent speaking the name aloud. "He belonged to my Aunt Willow. Well, he didn't belong to her . . . he was bonded to her . . ."

She trailed off, floundering already. How was she to describe the relationship the cat in the garden had shared with her beloved aunt? How could she convey the nuance to an outsider to their world, no matter how willing Anzan might be to listen? Ladybug scarcely understood it herself. They made magic together. They loved each other. They saw through the future together. When he had to leave her, it broke something inside of them both. She shook her head, starting again. Keep it simple. Just give him the basics that he'll be able to understand.

"He's an imp. A witch's familiar, the very first of his kind. He used to live here when he and Willow were still bonded. He's very old and very dangerous, and I do not want him to hurt you. Please promise me you won't try to trap him."

She nodded to herself at her conclusion, pleased with her ability to keep things succinct. Now to wait for his promise.

Anzan said nothing for a long moment, and then another. He looked down on her stonily, his stoic countenance slowly giving way to an expression of exasperation when she didn't continue, his blue eyes narrowing. She watched the black ripple of his other eyes, his face screwing up into a scowl.

"Little bug, please forgive me for this, but that was the worst story I've ever heard. If I'm going to be kept from enjoying my movie with you this night by this allegedly terrifying feline, I expect to be entertained. At the very least, educated."

"Oh, that is so mean!" She swatted the back of the sofa, her shoulders shaking in laughter as he shrugged unapologetically.

"It's as if you've never heard a story before," he argued as she laughed against him. "A beginning, middle, and end are expected, to say nothing of a bit of suspense. You went from the prologue straight into the moralizing with nothing in between."

Ladybug gasped, swinging one of the pillows against his chest. This, too, was an evolution of the past year. The Anzan who had joined her for Mabon would have never joked in such a way, would have never insulted her, even in this lighthearted manner, would be prostrate at her feet for even thinking the things he was now saying without a breath of remorse.

"Aha! The truth comes out! You want to be a movie critic, not be entertained!"

"That may be so," he went on gravely, "but I assure you, little bug, this would have never been green-lit. Now, let's start over." He made a show of settling into his cushion, gesturing grandly for her to begin again. "When did he live here? For how long? What has possessed him to attempt getting back in now? Am I to assume he left on less than desirable terms?"

Ladybug laughed again, although that time it was devoid of humor. She didn't want to relive the evolution of Holt's presence in her household, but he was right. He deserved to know. This can't be your home together if you keep things from him that affect it.

"Oh, the day he left was a disaster," she scoffed. "I'm pretty sure the neighbors remember; they were all standing out on their porches watching it. He was clinging to the doorframe as Aunt Authricia hit him with a broom. You think he's noisy now? You should've heard him then."

Beside her, Anzan lifted the bowl of popcorn from where he'd set it on the floor, replacing it between them on the sofa.

"Act one, then."

If she were paid in sighs, Ladybug considered that she would be an independently wealthy woman.

"Fine. But first you must understand about familiars," she began earnestly. "They were born of old magic, from the other side of the veil. The first witch to call one forth did so at great peril. You know once a connection has been opened—"

"It is not so easily closed," he finished for her, nodding. "This I know well. Is that not considered dark magic?"

Ladybug weighed the question. It wasn't one that could be answered with a yes or no. He's your partner now. He deserves to understand who you are, what you are. What are you, if you're not a witch?

"It's not as simple as that," she finally said. "Dark and light . . . it's all the same magic. What matters is the intent. The intent of the witch, the intent of the spell, the intent of the potion. I can kill just as easily as cure with the ingredients I have in my kitchen right this moment. I choose to be a healer, and my intent makes the difference."

He nodded after a moment, digesting her explanation.

"Familiars. They were born into this world from the other side, but once they crossed through the fire, they could not return. They are bound here, bound to the witch to whom they're assigned. Not every witch gets one. That's the most common misconception, I think. Familiars only go to exceptionally talented witches, or ones with rare skills. I've heard of some families who have bought a familiar's favor and they're passed from mother to daughter, but Holt came to Willow deservedly."

She paused, sucking in a slow, centering breath. The popcorn was some unidentifiable umami flavor, one of the few they agreed on. He found her preferred caramel-coated treat noxiously sweet, and she had no love for the sharp, metallic tang of the blood-flavored popcorn he'd once foisted on her under the guise of a snack. It's fine. You're here with Anzan and it's fine. Another breath before continuing, the emotion overwhelming her almost immediately.

"My Aunt Willow was an extraordinary witch. She was kind and patient and so, so loving. I miss her so much." Heat began to press in at the edges of her composure, and she was obliged to stop again, this time sucking in a hard breath and expelling it just as forcefully. "Divination in and of itself is not especially rare, although it takes extreme dedication to be any good. Willow saw things. She saw them clearly, with none of the uncertainty normally associated with divination."

"Fortune telling," he interrupted again. "We had an elder in my clan who practiced this."

Ladybug exclaimed in wonder. It was rare that Anzan shared any of the details of the life he'd known before arriving at her doorstep, and every nugget she gleaned gave her a better understanding of him, the environment he came from, and his people. She already knew that his homeland was very far away, on the secluded coast of a turbulent sea, but he only ever occasionally offered her more than the vaguest glimpse of his early life. See? This is why you need to share with him. Some day, he'll be comfortable enough to do the same to you.

"Every year during the tidal festival," he went on, "Many tents would be woven upon the sand as the waters rose. The oldest reina in the clan would have her tent set upon a jetty, that could only be accessed as the waves pulled out. The brides who were brave enough to skirt the water would have their fortunes told."

"And did you go to have your fair fortune read?" she asked, grinning up, barely able to contain her giddiness at the confidence. She tried to imagine him, young and gangly, all awkward limbs and sharp elbows, going to the divination tent. Perhaps his elder foretold of you.

But her enthusiasm was not met by his own good cheer. A sardonic chuckle was his reply, softened only by the hand that stroked her hair.

"No, my little witch," he chided, shaking his head as if she ought to know better. "That was an honor only for the brides. A mere palp would never be granted an audience with an elder of such esteem. And besides, our lowly fortunes were well known."

Ladybug blinked rapidly, breathing slowly, hoping her face did not reflect the heartbreak she felt, hearing him refer to himself as a mere anything. Marriage or exile. That was the way, in his clan. Unmated Adraneaen sons were cast out of their village, away from their friends and family and entire way of life; cast out into a world predisposed to be hostile to their kind. Cast out like you. And if he'd not been, he'd never have found his way to your door. The Fates worked in mysterious ways, and she knew better than to doubt their wisdom.

"Your aunt told fortunes this way, then?"

She smiled softly, closing her eyes against the sensation of one of his hands playing in her hair. Ladybug knew she would go to bed that night with a crown of braids, the tangible signature of his affection. With another hand, he threaded their fingers together, and her eyes opened once more.

"Sometimes she did. She would read tarot cards or look into her scrying ball, whichever the client preferred. But it was more than just a carnival trick. Willow saw things in her dreams and in fires, in the reflection of glass. She saw that all on her own, even before Holt came to her."

"So, because she was a talented soothsayer, she was given this familiar?" he questioned before stuffing his mouth with popcorn, black eyes moving like falling dominoes.

She shook her head, biting her lip. "No. Not quite. That was the way it might have happened, maybe. That was perhaps the future that would have been in-store otherwise. She might have been assigned a familiar through more traditional methods . . . but that wasn't what happened. Holt saw her."

Another handful of popcorn, slower this time. Ladybug noticed the hand that was absently braiding the edge of her shawl had stilled, fingers barely twitching. The hand in her hair had slowed as well. Always in awe of a good movie. I guess this counts.

"He saw her in the fire," she went on. "Like I said, first you must understand about familiars. They don't have power on their own. Well . . . they do, in a way, they're connected to the root of magic, but they do not have the power to wield it without a witch. For a witch, a familiar is a conduit. Like a-a battery, or like a fiber optic line. They help a witch connect to her source of power; they assist her in harnessing her magic. But they don't have power of their own, not truly." She swallowed hard. "He does."

Ladybug held up a hand when Anzan's mouth dropped open, just as easily taken in by the twists and turns of her clumsy narrative as he was with spy blockbusters.

"Don't ask me how. I don't know how, not really. None of us did. Willow used to say he was made of magic," she laughed wistfully, almost able to hear Willow's soft voice saying the words. "Authricia said it was because he was born twice of the fire. But however it came to be, he has a power of his own, and it is deeper than any witch I've ever known." Another breath to steady herself, followed by a fortifying handful of popcorn. "He has the skill of pyromancy, and he saw my aunt in the fire. He came to her of his own accord and bound himself to her. This all happened before I was born, so there's the beginning of your story, if I'm going to be graded later."

Anzan nodded appreciatively. "You are doing yourself and your kin a credit, my Ladybug. The second showing is much better than the first." She gasped in mock outrage again as he smiled wryly. "I get the feeling that this feline was not necessarily a welcome addition to your family's household?"

She gave a small shrug, chewing for a moment. It was hard to say. "I didn't know Holt as a young child. He went to the Collegium with Willow, before I was born, and they lived together out of town after she graduated. My mother came back to Cambric Creek to have me, and then we moved away once she found work."

"Was your mother a seer as well?"

Ladybug smiled, her insides twisting with the bittersweet sadness that always came when she spoke of her mother.

"No. She was an herbalist, like me. We lived here in this house after I was born, and she finished her full accreditation with the coven. She got a job working in the lab of a burn unit at a big hospital system when I was just a few years old. I-I followed in her footsteps, I suppose."

The tears were impossible to hold in then. She thought of her mother often of late. She had been just a girl when she had died, and while there was no doubt in her mind that both aunts watched over her still, she often wondered if her mother did as well. So much had changed that year, if her mother's spirit had gone on any sort of extended holiday, she might scarcely recognize the woman who stood each day in their family work kitchen. You would be a stranger to her. She probably wouldn't even recognize you today.

"Willow came to live with us for a while," she went on, gratefully accepting the tissue he produced with one hand, while two others enfolded her own. "She came to get treatment at the hospital where my mother worked."

Those years she remembered well. The cancer center had a wide glass atrium, and she would sit with her aunt on the second floor, facing an artificial lake, watching the ducks as Willow received that first round of chemotherapy. When her aunt's hair began to fall out, Ladybug had been in charge of collecting the icy blonde locks from the sheet on the floor while her mother shaved Willow's head in their small kitchen. The billows of hair had been woven into a small doll; one Ladybug still had.

"Holt wasn't with her, though," she went on, momentarily lost in her memories. "She wasn't well enough to practice, and our apartment was small . . . I'm not really sure where he went. I never asked. After my mother died, when I came to live here permanently, he came and went. Authricia . . . well, it's not that she didn't like him. She held him in very high regard, but she didn't trust him, not entirely."

She could almost hear her great-aunt's contralto voice ringing through the room. Walk wary of magic that is beyond understanding, little one. For it owes allegiance to no one.

"But even when he wasn't here, they were very close, Holt and my aunt. Very close."

"Were they lovers?"

She smiled wryly at the question, shrugging again.

"I don't know. I was only a child, after all. Possibly? Probably? That wouldn't have been uncommon, from what I know. The relationship between a familiar and their witch is intimate, dependent on trust. If they were lovers, they certainly wouldn't have been the first pairing to share that relationship. They were . . . codependent. Enmeshed. Close in a way that was detrimental. Familiars are meant to help their witches leverage their ability and find clarity, but Authricia said all Holt did was cloud Willow. She was meant to use her ability as a seer for good, to help people and businesses, to help build a prosperous community."

"She did not use her skill for such things?" Anzan pushed her hair over her shoulder, blotting her cheeks with another tissue, like an overprotective mother hen.

Ladybug took her time answering. After all, how could she be expected to have a full understanding of the way things were then? She had been an awkward, grief-stricken child with no friends. She already felt as if the whole world spoke in a hidden, second language she didn't understand, and Holt and Willow communicated in a way comprehensible to only themselves.

"It's not that she didn't. She focused on raising me," Ladybug said finally. "Once she was named my legal guardian. She took my mother's death very hard. They were twins, after all. Authricia wanted her to work for the city, to use her gift in the planning office. Our family has always been close friends with the Hemmings, so that wouldn't have been hard to arrange. Holt wanted her to stay focused on whatever nonsense he had her convinced of. They would speak of some vague future that had been set in motion, but it didn't make sense to anyone but them. I don't even think Willow understood it half the time. They argued over it. Over me," she chuckled sheepishly, pausing to blow her nose.

"Little bug, I already dislike this feline. If you give me another reason to do so, I cannot promise that I will heed your warning of his alleged menace."

"There's no need for you to ambush him in the bushes," she laughed. "She told him I was her only priority."

She remembered that day as well, as Holt and her aunt argued in the garden.

"She is more important than any of that! Don't you understand, beloved? Raising her with goodness, to understand what is right . . . that's more important than anything."

She'd been standing at the kitchen's open doorway listening, only just home from school, still gripping her lunchbox, not understanding why Willow and Holt were having a row, only that she was the cause. Ladybug remembered shrinking, her excitement over the announcement that her class would be visiting the arboretum withering as she listened to Willow calling after him, the black cat streaking away through the bushes a moment later. He'd left that afternoon and hadn't returned for more than a week.

"She didn't leave him or Authricia any choice but to get over it," is what she told Anzan. "And then, not long after, their bond was severed."

She paused as Anzan leaned in, palming another handful of popcorn.

"Finally, the climax," he crowed, as she swatted him with the end of her shawl.

"You are ridiculous. I'm going to remind you of these lofty expectations the next time you put on some dreary period piece with five parts."

"I shall let you choose the film for the rest of the month as long as you get on with it."

She laughed again, taking a handful of popcorn when he held the bowl out.

"Well. I'll warn you now, this is not a happy story. Most fairy tales aren't. Have you noticed that? They're meant to teach and to warn. Mothers die and children are eaten. A happy ending is not required, only that you're warned away from some danger."

She paused, chewing, feeling as if she was looking back at her family's sad history as if it were a dollhouse before them. She remembered exactly where everyone had been that day, what she'd been wearing, the way the afternoon sun cut through the leaded glass windows. She could pose them in the room; let Anzan see exactly how it was.

"The cancer came back. Willow was getting treatment here in town this time, at Healer's. No sense in going to an out-of-town facility when it didn't work, she'd said. She was so thin . . ."

The small smile he'd worn had dropped, dark eyebrows coming together as she continued. "Little bug, you do not need to revisit this if it is not pleasant for y—"

"She was nauseated all the time," Ladybug went on, ignoring him. "She was just a wisp, even before she was sick. Holt was here that day, feeding her. Trying to get her to keep something down."

She closed her eyes on the tears, her throat too thick to continue for a long moment. In her mind, she could picture it, posing them like dolls. They had been in this room, on this very sofa.

"I know you don't want it, but you need to keep your strength up. You're so weak that you can hardly keep your head up, love."

Ladybug had been across the room sitting at the table, working on her botany flashcards as Holt cajoled her aunt to sip at the broth. Willow had looked impossibly small and frail in the corner of the sofa, with Holt sitting before her on the edge of the ottoman. Willow had been insisting she didn't want the spoonful of broth the familiar held to her lips when Holt had gasped, back arching. Ladybug had looked up from her flashcards at the noise. The bowl of soup dropped. Willow's voice rose weakly in panic as Holt contorted before her.

Ladybug winced at the memory, her eyes still closed, watching the scene replay in her head like one of Anzan's movies. She had been an awkward child who distressed easily, and that had not improved with gangly adolescence. The inhuman wail coming from the man she'd known her whole life as her aunt's companion had terrified her, and she'd gone running for Authricia.

By the time they'd returned, Holt was on his knees before her aunt, both sobbing, and it was Willow who was comforting him, a jarring reversal of their positions only minutes earlier.

"You're a guide, beloved," Ladybug remembered her aunt telling him through her tears, their foreheads pressed together. "Not a nurse. It's time to let me go."

He had been reassigned by the coalition that governed his kind, their magical bond torn asunder, as grim a prognosis for Willow's recovery as there could possibly be. Even at that age, Ladybug had understood what his reassignment meant. Holt would leave and her aunt would die, the wheels of magical bureaucracy never sparing her broken little family a thought as it moved on.

"I will not. We have work to do together. Preparations that must still be made. I won't leave you, not now. Not like this. I won't accept any other witch as long—"

"There is work to do," Willow had cut him off, weak, but full of conviction. "And you will still be here to see it through. To be at her side when the night is darkest."

Authricia had teared up when she'd realized what was happening, what it meant for Willow and their household, but a high crone must remain steadfast.

"Holt, it's time to go."

Ladybug had cowered behind her great-aunt when the familiar refused, but Authricia had remained uncowed.

"They will come for you if you do not leave on your own accord. You will put her in danger. All of us, this entire coven. Do not undo all the good work you've done together."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She had been reminded of why Authricia had warned her against him years earlier when Holt had risen, staring Authricia down. The room had seemed to vibrate, the strange power he wielded almost visible in the air. It is intent, Ladybug, that directs magic. Remember the rule of three. Authricia had been named crone for a reason, however, and she'd not backed down as Holt slinked around the room.

"I will not work with some stranger so long as she draws breath. I don't care what the coalition tries. You will have to banish me."

"Do you think I won't?"

Authricia's voice had been a thunderclap and Willow was sobbing, one of the most terrifying days she could remember.

"But he finally left?"

Anzan's voice shook her from her reverie and Ladybug blinked, shocked to not be a panicking adolescent still, that she'd been narrating and not reliving the events.

"He did, eventually. He and Authricia threatened each other some more and she shooed him out the front door with her broom." She laughed hollowly, remembering the way the cat man's black claws had dug into the door frame. "She hit him right in the face. Knocked him out of the house."

Anzan's arm had come around her as she relayed the story, and she took the opportunity to snuggle a bit closer. They'd not built a fire that day and she'd had the thermostat set low, but the night beyond the window, she could tell, was cold.

"And that was that? Why has he returned now, do you think? Is that when your aunt passed, little bug? No, this is painful for you. I'm sorry. We can stop talking about it, if you wish."

Ladybug shook her head, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. That was hardly the end. That same night that Holt had left, a car rolled into the driveway. Jack Hemming's wife had given Ladybug what she suspected was meant to be a cheery smile, telling her to get her coat, that she was taking Ladybug and Trapp for ice cream.

Trapp Hemming was in her grade, and they'd shared a majority of classes since she'd come back to Cambric Creek. Trapp was popular with students and teachers alike, somehow managing to be both the class clown and teacher's pet, but he'd always been kind to her. She wondered now, as an adult, if that had been because his father had directed him to do so, but anytime she ran into him in town, Trapp was still just as sunny, just as kind. It didn't matter if he'd been told to be nice to her by way of a parental threat — he had been, treated her like a friend, saving her from a likely future of being bullied by others. She'd been bullied plenty in the junior coven, and not having to tolerate it at school had been a blessing.

She'd done as she was told that night, fetching her coat and shoes. Trapp's father passed them in the doorway, saying nothing as he walked to the back of the house, and her aunt's sobs had begun anew before they'd even left. That time, there was no holding back. No equanimity for the sake of an adolescent niece or bravery for a departing companion. Telling her oldest friend in the world that she was dying was not a time for composure, and Ladybug had been glad for the escape.

Death could be beautiful, she knew now. It could be peaceful and merciful, but the ugly emotions that preceded it never were. The goodbyes and the grief that followed were weights, tangible and heavy, and she knew that she would carry them forever.

"No, that wasn't the end. Holt left. He was assigned a new witch. Remember what I said about how witches get familiars? Well, we don't know what happened with Bethany. She either came from a family who paid, or she had a natural aptitude that Holt crushed out of her. He contrived for her family to move here; can you believe it? Planted the idea in their head to pick up and move to Starling Heights so that he could be close to Willow. He came to visit her every week."

She paused, not knowing if she ought to continue. For the first time in days, the house and the garden behind it were silent. Maybe he's listening. He's probably turned himself into a dust mote and is listening to the whole story. It was likely within his power. Ladybug decided she didn't care. This was Anzan's home, and he deserved to know the truth about the cat seeking entrance to it. Let him hear.

"Willow didn't die. Not for years. She would make a small recovery, get better, stronger. It would last for a while. The cancer always came back, though, and it would take more out of her each time it did. Authricia thought—" she broke off, closing her eyes, remembering her great-aunt's fury over what she suspected. "He was keeping her alive. Willow. When he would come visit. He was using blood magic to keep her alive for years. My Aunt Authricia was sure of it. Then she did banish him. Didn't let him come back until the very end."

She let Anzan catch her tears again, dabbing her cheeks with a tenderness that belied his size and alleged bloodthirstiness. She remembered that day as well. Holt had not returned to their home with his occasional manic zeal, nor as an adversary. He'd been subdued, resigned, as if he'd already gone through his mourning. Ladybug sat there holding her aunt's hand, and Holt had pressed his forehead to Willow's as they counted down the minutes of her life.

I will carry you with me until there is nothing left in this world.

"Jack spoke at her funeral. It was very nice. The Hemmings and the Brackenbridges have always been close. After she was gone, Holt left for good," she finished, wiping her face with her sleeve. "He didn't even come to the service. And I don't know why he's back now."

She looked up at last. Anzan was stricken, his chiseled face a misery.

"Little bug, I'm so sorry. You didn't need to relive all that for—"

"It's good to talk about them," she cut him off. "They were real and they were here and they had full lives. And I loved them all so much. They deserve to be talked about."

She went to bed that night with her head heavy from the tears she'd cried, but she didn't regret telling him their story. She would carry her grief with her forever, but so, too, did she carry their love. They walked beside her still, and they always would.

Beyond the window, for the first time in a week, the garden was silent.