Chapter 22

Bowen’s heart pounded as they made their way down the steps, the group ahead of them already launching into “In the Bleak

Midwinter” sung in Welsh.

But he kept hold of Tamsyn’s arm, holding her back until they were at the very rear of the group, the others a series of bobbing

lights headed for the road through the forest.

“They won’t notice us missing for a while,” he told her in a low voice, trying to lean in close and keep the bloody stupid

holly crown on his head at the same time—quite a feat, really.

“So you have a plan?” she whispered.

He did, in a manner of speaking. Basically, it was take YSeren back into the maze, say some words over it, and hope for the

fucking best, but he wasn’t sure that’s what Tamsyn wanted to hear right now, so he just kissed her temple and murmured, “Of

course I do.”

They followed the group at a distance, Bowen singing along, Tamsyn humming, until they reached the part of the drive where

the road began.

As the others marched on, full of Fire’s Draught and caught up in their own merriment, Bowen took hold of Tamsyn’s elbow and tugged her onto the lawn and then into the maze.

It was different from how it was in their time, not nearly as tall, and there was no statue of Hecate, but he still knew the

way, and Tamsyn followed, the light of her candle flickering, casting the whole scene in a ghostly light.

It had stopped snowing earlier, but now, a few flakes began to drift down again, and as they paused at the part of the maze

Bowen remembered from the night they’d come to this time, he took a moment to look at Tamsyn, so lovely in her velvet cape,

the snow settling on the hood that covered her dark hair, the candlelight sparkling in her eyes.

“I don’t know that this will work,” he told her. “I don’t even really know what to do, if I’m honest. But we have to try.

And... and no matter what happens... even if we never make it back to 2024, and we blink out of existence...”

He didn’t know how to finish that statement. There was so much he wanted to tell her, so many things she needed to know, things

he should’ve told her when they had had the time.

But then she leaned forward suddenly, pressing her mouth hard to his, before pulling back and saying, “I trust you, Bowen.

More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. And if this doesn’t work, it’s not your fault. Just like Declan wasn’t your fault. You’re

the best man I know, Bowen Penhallow, and I’m so glad I broke my rule for you. You were worth it. All of this was worth it.”

It felt like a spell, the way those words worked on him.

It felt like magic.

Because it was.

Bowen kissed her back, gently, then reached down and unpinned YSeren from her dress. The brooch was heavy and cold in his

hands, but he couldn’t feel any magic in it, and his heart sank even as he kneeled in the frozen grass, holding YSeren in

his cupped hands.

His magic may not be working the way it should while he was here, but wasn’t hope its own kind of magic? Wasn’t love?

Because both of those things flowed through him as he knelt there on the snowy lawn with Tamsyn in front of him, both their

eyes fixed on the brooch.

“Whatever can be undone, so be it,” Bowen murmured, repeating Carys’s words and hoping—Christ, hoping more desperately than

he’d ever hoped for anything before.

But there was no flash of light, no feeling of falling or sliding. The jewels glittered in his hands, but they were cold.

Powerless.

“Let me help,” Tamsyn said, resting her hands under his, but he knew it was no use. Whatever had been in YSeren in the future—in

their present—it was gone now.

No, not gone.

Not created yet.

The idea came to Tamsyn at the same time. He could tell from the way her head shot up, her eyes locking on his. “It’s not

magic now,” she said. “But something made it magic in our time. Made it powerful. Maybe something that happened tonight.”

His breath was coming fast, and the snow was falling harder now, but Bowen nodded because what she was saying made sense. St. Bugi’s balls, that was it. The thing was just a brooch now, an ostentatious bit of sparkle, but at some point, a witch had made it into a powerful artifact.

Had he been that witch?

Taking a deep breath, Bowen closed his eyes, feeling for his magic, but there was nothing there. It just felt... cold.

Empty.

Was this what Declan had felt like when that spell had first taken him? When had he realized how badly it had all gone?

Pushing thoughts of Declan away, Bowen concentrated on YSeren, willing something, anything, to happen.

“Are you going back to the future?”

Startled, he glanced up and Tamsyn whirled around, looking over her shoulder to see Emerald emerging from the maze, her hood

pushed back, her eyes wide and just the littlest bit glassy.

Fucking Fire’s Draught always caught you by surprise the first time.

“That sounds funny,” she went on, stumbling a little as she made her way to them. “‘Back to the future.’”

“Not as funny as it sounds to us hearing you say it,” Tamsyn muttered, almost more to herself, and Emerald frowned in confusion

before brushing that away.

“I thought you’d get to go back now that your parents are back together,” she said to Bowen.

“Grandparents—how old do you think I am?” Bowen replied, more than a little offended, but Tamsyn just hit his arm and said, “We did think it was getting them back together that would send us back, yes, but it wasn’t. It’s something to do with this jewel, but that’s not working, either, so you can see where we’re a bit stressed at the moment, Emerald.”

“This bloody ugly brooch?” Emerald asked, stepping forward. She held out her hands, and Bowen handed it to her without thinking.

She might as well look at the thing, it wasn’t like there was anything she could—

“Oh! I know what to do!” Emerald cried out, and then took off deeper into the maze at an alarming rate of speed, for a drunken

teenager.

For a second, Bowen and Tamsyn were both frozen, kneeling there in the cold grass, stunned into inaction by Emerald’s sudden

flight.

And then...

“Fuck a duck, the book!” Bowen shouted, and jumped to his feet, hauling Tamsyn up with one hand and tearing off in the direction

Emerald had run.

His cloak tangled around his legs, though, and Tamsyn was in heels, both of them making awkward progress as they turned this

way and that through the hedges, calling Emerald’s name, listening for her footsteps, but the snow had muffled everything,

and the moon wasn’t bright enough.

Bowen slammed into a hedge, cursing as a branch scraped his cheek, then turned, Tamsyn still right behind him, until finally they made another turn, and there she was, Emerald, standing in the middle of an open square in the maze, Y Seren in one hand and that damned booklet in the other.

And she was already saying something.

“Stop!” Bowen shouted.

“I’m helping!” Emerald called back, and the jewel started to glow in her hands.

“Bowen,” Tamsyn gasped, clutching his arm. “Maybe—”

There was a sudden flash of light and a sound like a bomb had just gone off, leaving Bowen’s ears ringing and Tamsyn wincing

as she pressed her face against his biceps, her breath heaving in and out of her lungs.

When the light and the ringing had both faded, they looked to the spot where Emerald had been, but there was nothing there

except for YSeren, lying cold and dead on the grass.

“Where did she go?” Tamsyn asked, her voice hoarse, and Bowen shook his head, despair making him nearly sick as he picked

up the brooch.

That fucking spellbook. That nonsense written by a charlatan, with just enough real magic to be dangerous.

Declan all over again.

“Emerald!” he called, hoping against hope.

For a moment, all he could hear was the wind, the gentle whisper of snow falling on the hedges, and then, in the distance,

a scream.

No.

A wail.

Coming from the house.

Tamsyn’s hand still in his, Bowen started running in that direction, coming out just by the drive.

The front door was still open, light spilling out, and the wailing was louder now, the whole house shaking with it.

He and Tamsyn made their way up the slick stone steps into the castle, and Bowen nearly had to cover his ears against the

incessant howling, the shrieking, the clattering of suits of armor from somewhere deeper within the house.

“It’s like it was before,” Tamsyn said, raising her voice over the cacophony. “When we first got to Tywyll House.”

She turned to Bowen, her face pale, her eyes huge and stricken.

“It’s Emerald, Bowen. Emerald’s the ghost.”