Chapter 15

Chapter 15

W hen I arrived at the witch’s tree outside the Ravens’ Wood, on the night of Meg’s challenge, three witches awaited me as promised: Ann Downing, Katrina, and Aunt Gwyneth.

There was no sign of Meg Skelling.

The high priestess wore her black hooded cape of office to underscore the seriousness of tonight’s proceedings. Ann was not the only witch to have dressed for the occasion. Mary Sidney had taught me the importance of being properly clothed— armored had been her term—when she prepared me to meet the queen of England in 1591. Then, I’d worn one of Mary’s old gowns, carried a splendid ostrich-feather fan, and balanced a face-framing ruff on my shoulders. Tonight, I’d chosen a crisp white shirt, the cuffs pushed up in recognition of the warm weather, and a black linen skirt that swished around my ankles when I walked. For some reason, my habitual black leggings, though comfortable, didn’t feel right and I went for a witchier vibe. I’d been sure to slide the fine wires of Ysabeau’s pearl earrings through the holes in my ears. It would be comforting to have tokens of Matthew’s formidable mother with me tonight. After I’d wrapped a bright woven belt around my waist and piled my hair atop my head in a loose knot, even Mary would have approved.

Matthew did, too. I’d feared our moonlit exchange would make him distant, splintering our partnership when I most needed his support. But honesty had brought new intimacy as our truths were led to Light, safe from the terrors of Darkness and Shadow.

“I’ll be waiting under the chestnut tree when you’re done,” Matthew had promised me earlier before I left him at Orchard Farm. He’d kissed me, soft and sweet. I could still taste him on my tongue, taking some part of him with me into battle, too.

“Meg Skelling has challenged your fitness for the Dark Path of higher magic,” Ann Downing said without preamble. “Do you accept it? There is no shame in turning away.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” I said, my chin rising above my turned-up collar. “It’s the goddess’s decision whether I pursue the path of higher magic—not Meg’s.”

“Very well. But there are no rules in a Crossroads challenge,” Ann warned. “No magic is off-limits. Nor is there a set duration for the test. The contest continues until one of you yields.”

Neither Meg nor I was the yielding type. We could be there for days.

“Goody Wu will watch over the challenge from here,” Ann explained. “If she foresees there is danger to life or limb, she will call an immediate halt and give her judgment regarding next steps.”

“Remember, Diana, that it takes most of us several attempts at the Crossroads to find our path, even without another witch trying to obscure it,” Katrina said. “To try once and return to try again is not a mark of failure.”

I nodded, eager to get on withit.

We walked to the Crossroads in silence. Once there, Ann delivered her final warning.

“No one knows what Meg’s challenge will entail, or how treacherous the Dark Path may become,” the high priestess said. “When two witches enter the Crossroads, the goddess is present. You will not only be meeting each other, matching wits and wands, but honoring her as well.”

“Knowing this, are you ready to begin?” Aunt Gwyneth asked.

The stakes could not have been higher, and yet I found myself calm. I’d been through other tribunals before this, and survived other fraught moments with the goddess.

“I’m ready.” My wand—a small stick of rowan with a pointed piece of agate mounted at the tip—vibrated in my skirt pocket. It was resting on The Dark Path card from the black bird oracle, a lucky talisman for my encounter with Meg.

“This is where we leave you,” Ann said, drawing the folds of her cape close. “If you require help, all you need do is call.”

I would not be calling anyone. My expression must have told the three witches as much. Katrina’s eyes glimmered with respect.

Aunt Gwyneth pressed her lips against my cheek in a final farewell.

“Catch you on the flip side,” I said. It had been one of my father’s favorite expressions, and I hoped it would reassure my aunt.

“Yes, you will,” Gwyneth said with a smile, a tear threatening to fall from her eye. “Follow the footsteps of the goddess and she will keep you safe.”

I watched until the three witches disappeared from view. Silence fell where the stake was driven into the heart of the Ravens’ Wood. Any hope that a sign would appear that said Diana’s path this way vanished. The polished trunk was just as it had been when I’d visited the place before: simple, straight, and unhelpful.

I scanned the ground, looking for any trace of a path. Here, too, I was disappointed. Gwyneth had told me that there was no way to predict what would happen at the Crossroads. She hadn’t warned me that nothing at all might happen.

I stood, wondering what to do next.

After a few moments of silent indecision, I drew my wand and concentrated on the agate tip until it sparkled with an otherworldly blue-gold light. Hopefully the beacon would lure Meg out of hiding, just as Gwyneth’s memory perfume had lured the ghosts back to the attic.

Here I am! my witchlight cried. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Nothing.

The stake stood out against its wooded backdrop. I took a step toward it, then another, expecting a thunderclap or a falling tree or some other sign of divine agency. I lifted my wand high, hoping that it would illuminate my way in the murky wood.

All I succeeded in doing was casting long shadows.

Light is a resource, not a weapon, I reminded myself, lowering my wand so that Light, Darkness, and Shadow could return to their delicate balance.

My breath deepened, as it had when I’d spoken to Grandpa Tally, moving with the inhalations and exhalations of the Ravens’ Wood and replenishing my power. Though a sense of enchantment settled into my bones, I didn’t lower my guard.

Maybe I needed to utter one of the spells Gwyneth had had me weave to protect me from danger. It wasn’t entirely satisfactory yet. When my aunt had told me to pick a text for my spell’s gramarye, I’d chosen something from the complete poems of the witch of Amherst, and I wasn’t sure they were fit for this purpose.

“ A Moment—We uncertain step / For newness of the night. ” My feet moved toward the stake at the center of the Crossroads and my eyes fluttered shut. “ Then—fit our Vision to the Dark— / And meet the Road—erect —”

“Emily Dickinson? You’re out of your depth, witch.” Meg’s condescending voice reverberated through the air, beating upon my ears from every direction so that I couldn’t locate her.

The treetops above me whipped in a sudden wind and a black bird plummeted from the sky, falling toward the stake in the clearing like the raven had fallen to the pavement in New Haven. The creature was too large to be natural or even preternatural. Meg must have conjured it from some dark place.

“Stop!” I cried, knotting a netted ward to catch the bird before it impaled itself.

The bird tumbled in midair, revealing that this was no magical beast but Meg Skelling, using her black hooded cape like wings.

Meg landed lightly atop the wooden post. She bent her knees and wrapped the cloth around her so that she resembled a vulture. Her face was hidden in the depths of her hood, her features obscured by Shadow.

I directed my wand toward Meg, brightening my witchlight so that I could see her more clearly. The witchlight didn’t improve matters, and I extinguishedit.

“ I see thee better—in the Dark, ” I murmured, weaving a quick perspective spell to enhance my night vision and immediately clothing it in a half-remembered fragment of Dickinson’s poetry.

My eyes adjusted further to the tenebrous environment of the Ravens’ Wood, a play of dark on dark that flattened the trees into silhouettes and the undergrowth to a charcoal smudge.

“If you’re looking for your destiny here, you’re not going to find it.” Meg was puffed up with confidence. “You’re a Bishop, through and through. Go back to Madison.”

A woman wearing a pale yellow shirt with a rounded white collar passed between Meg and me. Her hair was arranged in a loose knot, and a penny-farthing replaced her torso and legs. Gray wings sprouted out of the larger of the two wheels, and as it spun, the wings flapped up and down.

I was hallucinating. I closed my eyes to blot out the disturbing, surreal sight. When I opened them again, the woman was on the far side of the clearing, cycling around the perimeter in midair.

The bicycle-woman must be a shade of the wood. Perhaps she was trying to lead me onto the Dark Path. Though Gwyneth had advised me to stay away from the shades, I darted past the post at the Crossroads in pursuit of her.

“Oh, it’s not going to be that easy.” Meg directed her wand at my feet and the earth below me gave way.

I scrambled to remain upright but couldn’t gain purchase in the crumbling soil. I grabbed for an exposed tree root to keep from being buried alive. I’d been thrown into an oubliette before and lived to tell the tale. Even if the ground beneath me was full of bones, I would somehow get out of Meg’s hole, too.

The ancient tree swayed. A green face looked out from a hollow in its trunk with a serene expression. Here was another shade, this one wrapped in shrouds as though she had been laid to rest inside the tree.

A silver thread shot past my eyes, then a green one. I caught them, and rapidly tied a knot with six crossings.

“With knot of six, this spell I fix,” I murmured, casting the knot into the air. Hopefully it would snag one of the oak’s low branches and I would be able to pull myself free.

No sooner had I released the spell than a woman made of flame reached out of Shadow and clasped my raised hand. Her hair streamed upward, rising from the heat of her body in licks of brilliant red and gold. She held a glass alembic in her free hand, and a miniature mortar and pestle hung from a chain around her neck.

The acrid scent of burning feathers teased my nose. It grew stronger, as did the pressure of Darkness that surrounded the fiery creature.

Meg threw a silver athame in the shade’s direction. “A green-and-silver knot? You think that will stop me? Pathetic.”

Before the athame could cut my spell in two, the flaming shade stepped between the blade and the knot. The blade cleaved her in half and she turned an ashen gray, her hand disintegrating in mine. Darkness rushed into the void where her heart should have been, growing like a parasite.

Horrified, I put all my weight on a nearby tree’s root and clambered out of the pit. I needed to redress the balance of power in the clearing, or I would never find my way out of the wood—never mind finding my path.

I cobbled together other fragments from Dickinson’s poems that I’d read but failed to fully memorize.

“ Come to me, cling to me, ” I cried. “ Shadow, hear my plea. Go and tell the hourglass, Darkness is about to Pass. ”

I plucked at the threads of Light and Darkness that I could see in the gloaming and tied them into a chain using simple knots with only two crossings. I repeated the words of my spell, overlapping the strands until thick smoke creeped into the clearing. Shadow was rallying to my aid.

“So, you do have a touch of talent,” Meg acknowledged, “enough to stop the Darkness. But do you have the courage to fend off the Light?”

Meg directed her wand to the night sky. The waning moon hung over us, surrounded by a watery silver penumbra. Meg twisted her wand like a distaff, winding a moonbeam around the tip. She cast it down from her perch, where it illuminated a patch of ground. Meg captured another, and another. Soon, Light would overwhelm Shadow and throw the wood into disorder once more.

Calling back the Darkness would restore its equilibrium, but I lacked the confidence to do so. I didn’t have the expertise or the experience to win a protracted magical battle, and Meg had a greater arsenal of spells and counterspells at her disposal.

Think and stay alive, I told myself fiercely, repeating Philippe de Clermont’s wise advice.

I searched among the shades gliding through the clearing, looking for potential allies. A shade reading a book approached. She pulled a small cart that carried a piece of distillation apparatus made from two alembics luted together. Fine multicolored threads emerged from small holes in the upper chamber of the stillatory and meandered into the world.

Perhaps the appearance of the thread twister was a sign that I should stitch up the shade who had gone from fire to ash. I searched the clearing and spotted her, walking widdershins through the trees.

“May I use some of your thread?” I asked the reading shade.

She tore her eyes away from her text and looked up. It was like looking into a mirror. The shade’s face was my own.

Without reply, my simulacrum dropped her gaze back to the book, absorbed in the words. I pulled a white thread, then a gray from her alembic.

I dragged them over to the ashen shade who had once been so fiery and brilliant.

“May I mend you?” I showed her the threads.

Charcoal tears of gratitude streamed down her gray face.

I transformed my wand into a large needle and threaded the gray and white threads through the eye. I pierced the shade’s ashen flesh, but the skin was delicate and crumbled into the pulsing Darkness within her ribs.

I would have to weave a patch instead. Swiftly, I drew the thread diagonally across the wound, creating the warp to hold the weft.

From her perch at the Crossroads, Meg swore, but I didn’t have the time to focus on her next move. The shade’s suffering was palpable.

A gust of poisonous green air tore through the trees, sending leaves flying. A moth beat its wings against my face. Another alighted on my shoulder. A third clung to my breast, its antennae moving. I batted the moths away, but whenever my fingers brushed against them, one moth became five. Soon I was shrouded in a cocoon of velvet wings, unable to mend the shade’s riven body.

“ Owl Queen, teach me to see like thee! ” I drew once again on the succinct, evocative words of Emily Dickinson for inspiration. “ Alter Darkness and adjust my sight to midnight. ”

A wild shriek split the night and the moths fluttered away in alarm. Before me stood a woman with a mantle made from downy feathers. Her features were those of an owl, and she held a silver crescent moon in one hand and a net filled with moths in the other.

It was the Owl Queen from the black bird oracle. The shades here at the Crossroads were not arbitrary magical manifestations traveling between worlds. These spirits were specific to me, and the powers of higher magic that I possessed.

“Can you show me the way?” I asked the Owl Queen, elated at the prospect of finding my path to higher magic and foiling Meg’s plans.

This is the way, the Owl Queen hooted. Silence or secrets, wisdom or war. What is your destiny? What’s your life for?

Meg shrieked again in frustration. She was still atop the central post, still intent on keeping me from finding the way forward.

“You will never find your path here!” Meg held a ball of malevolent, green power in one hand and an inky orb in the other. She combined the two into a spitting sphere of Darkness and hurled it atme.

I watched in horror as the Owl Queen prepared to absorb Meg’s malice, fearless in the face of the incoming threat. Her cloak thickened and fluttered in anticipation of the strike.

One shade had already been damaged by Meg’s magic. I didn’t want the Owl Queen to suffer the same fate.

“ Shadow, hold your breath! ” I cried.

Clouds obscured the crescent moon in the Owl Queen’s outstretched hand, dimming its light and making Darkness dominant.

Another wraithlike shade appeared, pearlescent gray against the gloom. She looked like a refugee from a terrible war, her cheeks gaunt and her eyes wide and vacant as though she couldn’t bear to close them in case her terrors found her. Her gray hair cascaded up into the night, the stiff strands resembling bare branches. This shade had a gaping wound at her core. Within the hollow space where ribs, heart, and lungs should have been I saw a forest that resembled the Ravens’ Wood.

But it was the woven circlet around her body that drew my attention. Once, the shade’s circlet had been a closed ring like the tenth knot, but it was in tatters now. The woman tried in vain to join the frayed ends and make the circle whole.

Help me, her lips mouthed, and she extended her arms so that the ends of the circlet brushed against my fingers.

At the touch of the frayed strands, my arms brightened with words and phrases inscribed in black, red, and gold. The shade’s touch had awakened the Book of Life within me. I’d absorbed its contents from Ashmole 782 years ago in the Bodleian, but it hadn’t manifested for some time.

I looked into the shade’s haunted eyes and saw a dull glimmer of recognition.

“Naomi?”

The shade was the withered husk of my father’s sister, hollowed out by Darkness and higher magic. But Naomi shouldn’t have been a shade; she was dead, and should have been with the family’s other ghosts, not trapped in this shadowland. Had a weaver cast the tenth knot around her? Was that why she’d chosen death—not because of some failure of her own but because another witch had set out to destroy her?

Naomi shivered, her eyes blackening as Darkness came nearer, drawn by her despair.

Help me, she cried silently, her mouth wide in an effort to break through whatever barrier kept her from speaking aloud. I am Elsewhere.

My thoughts froze. Becca had been Elsewhere.

Determined to save Naomi from everlasting in-betweenness, I wondered what would happen if I repaired the damaged circlet surrounding my father’s twin. Would she be healed and freed? Or would she be destroyed and banished to an even darker reality?

I had only cast the tenth knot once, to destroy Knox and save Matthew’s life, but I was prepared to do so again. Gently, I took the silver and black strands of the broken tenth knot and began the painstaking work of reweaving it, reciting the ritual Goody Alsop had taughtme.

Naomi’s shivering turned violent, her body writhing. She had suffered enough.

“With knot of one, the spell’s begun,” I said calmly, hoping my tone would relieve Naomi’s agitation. “With knot of two, the spell be true. With knot of three, the spell be free. With knot of four, the power is stored.”

I made knot after knot, one crossing, then two, then three, then four. My left hand gleamed with power, my black, silver, gold, and white weaver’s cords shifting under the skin as I drew on higher magic. But another color had appeared on my index finger in a line of regal purple. It symbolized the goddess’s justice. I was reassured by the sight of it, and knew I was doing the right thing. The hoop around Naomi drew close, and the Book of Life sparkled under my skin. The shade who looked like me, with her book and alembic, returned, drawing raven and silver threads out of her stillatory and twisting them together into a shining cord of Shadow. She handed the end tome.

“With knot of five, the spell will thrive,” I said, weaving the shade’s thread into my knot.

Naomi’s head tipped back as a fresh wave of agony struck. I was chilled to the bone, aware of the imbalance in the wood as Darkness grew. All I could do to help my aunt, however, was continue with my weaving.

“With knot of six, this spell I fix,” I said, making the six-crossed knot. “With knot of seven, the spell will waken. With knot of eight the spell will wait.”

My fingers flew, and I continued to draw on the alchemist-shade’s offering of strong, fresh thread to support my knots.

“With spell of nine, the spell is mine.” This was the potent knot of endings and change, which Naomi sorely needed.

Naomi looked at me with gratitude as the racking pain left her body and its poison was absorbed by the wood. The energy around me shifted, too, tilting perilously toward utter Darkness.

A single knot remained. Would it bring relief to Naomi, or destruction?

“Are you sure?” I asked my father’s sister.

Naomi nodded and closed her eyes with a sigh.

“With knot of ten, it begins again.” I joined the two ends of the silver-and-black ring around Naomi’s frail body, hoping that it would give her the blessing of closure and the ghostly rebirth that waited for her on the other side.

With a cry of joy, Naomi’s shade disintegrated, falling to the ground in a cloud of silver and gray dust. A white raven rose from the ashes, cackling and calling to its kin. Owls came to bear witness to Naomi’s transformation, perching on the branches and hooting with excitement. Two herons passed overhead, casting strange, bent shadows. A vulture sat, silent as a judge, observing the magic I’d made.

The ravens were the last to arrive.

They surrounded the white bird, their black wings caressing her with light touches. They tumbled and rolled in the air, welcoming Naomi’s spirit home.

My eyes filled, and tears fell. Witchwater rose within me, and I released it so that it could wash away the residue of the dark magic I’d used to free my aunt from Elsewhere.

A path opened before me, extending to an oak tree, where the enormous gray owl I’d seen with my mother sat on a low branch. Her eyes glowed, twin orbs of yellow Light wrapped in feathered Shadow.

Feathers lined the path toward the magnificent bird. I stooped to pick them up, and with every new feather, the Book of Life shone brighter underneath my skin, until the line between its story and my own was indistinct and I felt the will of the goddess illuminating my way.

The owl blinked, the light of her eyes extinguished.

When she opened them again, I let them guide me down the Dark Path. I reached the oak and sank my nails into the bark, lowering my forehead in relief.

You chose your path. The goddess stepped from the tree’s shadow. Her face was a web of wrinkles, and furrows marked her brow. The hands that held her curved bow were gnarled and knotted. Your purpose is to use your full power—Light, Shadow, and Dark—in the service of others, just as you used them here. Some might have called on Darkness to subdue their enemy, or on Light to drive Shadow away. You have proven that you are suited to the Dark Path and its mysteries, daughter.

I didn’t know whether to weep with joy or despair at this new bargain with the goddess.

Do you have the courage to continue, sorceress, although there are thorns and brambles ahead? Or will you go back to the smooth, straight way of the mother whence you came?

This was my last chance to return to the life I’d known before. My fears fell away, and my choice was clear.

“I will continue,” I said.

In return for your service on the Dark Path, I offer you the gift of my owl Cailleach, whose wisdom will help guide you on your way, the goddess said. Will you take this gift, or will you refuse her as your mother did?

“I accept.” It was another obligation between me and the goddess.

The gray owl ducked her head in acknowledgment.

“Cailleach,” I said, rolling the name around on my tongue, savoring its flavor of bitter knowledge and sweet mystery.

Cailleach took flight, scudding a few feet above the ground to follow a trail so faint only she could seeit.

You must follow the Dark Path one step at a time, the goddess warned. Do not rush, or you will lose your way.

I cast my eyes toward the owl, and when I turned back toward the goddess, Meg stood in her place. I had been so consumed by the shades that I had forgotten about Meg and her challenge.

“I concede, Diana Bishop.” Meg’s strange eyes gleamed with an emotion I could not name. “You have found your path. So must it be.”

A happy cry sounded through the wood at Meg’s proclamation. Soon, the coven’s three witches were at the Crossroads with Meg and me, offering thermoses of hot tea and blankets to ward off post-challenge chills.

I took a cup of steaming liquid from Gwyneth, grateful that the Book of Life was no longer visible on my skin and that my weaver’s cords had faded into the tracery of veins at my wrist.

“As is our custom,” Ann said, “the particulars of what happened here at the Crossroads must not be spoken of to any witch, even if they are an initiate or adept in the mysteries of higher magic. Do you agree to be bound by this rule?”

I carefully noted the conditions, especially the words particulars, spoken, and witch. I could share what had happened here with Matthew. One day, I could tell my Bright Born children, too.

“I do,” I said, fully intending to exploit the loopholes in the coven law.

Meg agreed, and Ann drew my challenger away, leaving me with my two supporters.

“Congratulations, Diana.” Katrina took my hand and squeezed it. “I am thrilled to have another oracle in our community.”

“Thank you for all you’ve taught me,” I said.

“We’re just getting started,” Katrina said with a laugh, looking at me over her spectacles. “I expect you at The Thirsty Goat on Monday morning. And don’t forget your—”

“Cards,” I said, finishing her sentence.

Katrina departed, and Gwyneth and I were alone in the clearing. She surveyed the Crossroads, took a sniff, and gave me a considered look before handing me a small journal.

“Your first book of shadows,” Gwyneth said. “You’ve more than earned it, based on the magic unleashed here tonight.”

I held the book in my hands, comforted by its weight.

“You’ve made it through an important rite of passage. Take a few moments to write everything down. You’ll want those memories later.”

I thought of the surreal shades who populated the wood. I heard Naomi’s whispered thanks and saw the agony that had preceded it. I recalled Meg’s spells, and how inevitable her victory had seemed. The taste of Cailleach’s name lingered on my tongue, and the words of the goddess echoed in my ears.

“I can’t believe Meg conceded.” A cold finger of premonition drew down my spine and I shivered.

“Nor can I,” Gwyneth confessed, a shadow falling across her features. “But tonight is for celebrating, not worrying. We’ll talk tomorrow about Meg’s surprising decision and make a plan for the rest of your summer lessons. Now we need to get you home. Matthew’s been waiting for you.”

—

When we left the wood, witchlights gleamed in every window of the Old Place, and smoke poured out of its chimneys. Orchard Farm was brightly lit as well, and the scent of cinnamon and chocolate filled the air.

Matthew paced back and forth under the witch’s tree, his hands in his pockets and his hair wild. He was so preoccupied he didn’t detect my arrival. I was given the rare opportunity to study his features and gait before he had rearranged them into something stoic and comforting for my sake.

I knew from the set of his shoulders and the expression of dread on his face that Matthew had been worried. Very worried.

“How long have you been out here?” I said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Matthew’s head rose in relief. He took two long strides and gathered me to his breast.

“Forever,” he murmured, burying his face in my hair.

Matthew held me tight before drawing away, my face cradled between his hands. His keen eyes searched every inch of me, looking for changes, wondering if I’d met with any harm.

“Still me,” I said, pressing my lips into his palm.

Matthew pulled me into a deep kiss as though he needed to make sure, inside and out. His intensity was dizzying, but my need for reassurance matched his, and I put my heart and soul into our embrace.

“I found my path,” I told him. “It has higher magic in it.”

“I know. I can taste its Darkness.” Matthew drew back the lock of hair that always found a way to tumble across my cheek.

I held out my hand. “Will you walk it with me, Matthew?”

“Yes, ma lionne— whether I like where it leads or not.”

Tonight, however, our path was straight and short. We returned to the farmhouse, where Julie watched over our sleeping children.

“You did it.” Julie flung her arms around me, relieved. She promised to come by tomorrow with cupcakes and champagne to celebrate.

We checked on the twins, our fingers intertwined. They were peaceful and deep in slumber. I tucked Cuthbert into Pip’s arms and removed a pair of headphones from Becca’s ears before we closed their doors and retreated to our room.

Without a word, Matthew reached for the buttons on my shirt and helped me get out of my magic-stained clothes. Smudges of Darkness marred the white cloth and a fine powder of Shadow clung to the folds of my skirt. Light had burned a hole through my shoe, and my toe poked through.

He glanced at the book of shadows I’d dropped on the bedroom floor.

But I didn’t want to write down what I’d witnessed in the wood. Nor could I imagine retelling my story, not even to Matthew.

I drew Matthew toward the bed and lay uponit.

“Drink,” I told him, arching my naked body so that my breast was close to his mouth, my heartvein dark and aching to reveal its secrets.

Matthew bit down, his teeth opening the wound that never quite healed that gave him access to all that I was, and all that I thought, and all that I experienced. He latched onto the vein, pulling my blood into his mouth.

At the first swallow, he shivered. I held him tight, wanting him to see as much of the Crossroads as he could while my memories of it were fresh and vital.

Matthew took another sip, then another. My head was spinning, and I lost count of how many times he drank. Shades passed before my eyes, on bicycles and in eggshell carriages. My lips moved, silently uttering the weaver’s litany while I traced the knotted scars on Matthew’s back.

My skin parted further, Light seeping out of my body and into Matthew’s mouth.

I was Darkness. I was Light. I was an ocean of Shadow, waiting to be discovered.

Matthew drew away, amazed. He bit into his lip, and pressed a kiss onto my breast, his blood healing my flesh just as my magic had healed Naomi’s wound.

“I understand,” Matthew murmured between kisses. “Now I understand.”

I turned toward him, curling myself tight as though he were a shell in which I could find refuge.

Matthew started to speak, but I was too depleted to listen. We had days—years—to talk about what had happened tonight, and what we must do tomorrow.

“Just hold me,” I murmured. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never, ma lionne, ” Matthew promised. “Never.”