“I’ve already done an initial survey,” said Greg the engineer, rolling up the sleeves on his checkered shirt to reveal muscled forearms. Beside him, Emily – lawyer for the Briarwood Trust – sucked in her breath. “The damage looks worse than it actually is. As we walk around I’ll point out some of the main issues that need to be addressed, and I’ll draw up a complete report when I get back to the office. You can take that to a builder and get a quote.”

“Thank you so much for sorting this, Greg,” Emily simpered, clinging to his arm and batting her long eyelashes. He must be hot if he met Emily’s exacting standards. I didn’t notice. I was too busy staring at the wreckage of my castle.

In the morning sunlight, Briarwood’s damage stood in stark relief. Broken glass littered the courtyard, mixed with white trails of styrofoam beads from the torn beanbags. A side table that once stood in the first floor hallway now lay in a broken heap in the corner.

The inner doors hung from their thick hinges, splinters of charred wood like the jagged teeth of a monster. Greg stepped through the monster’s mouth and entered the entrance hall.

My mind flew back to the first time I entered these doors. Corbin flung them open, his face bright and expectant. I’d been too surprised to see the guy who’d saved me from the fire at the Coopersville fair that I’d barely been able to take in the grandeur of the place. But then I’d stepped in behind him and Briarwood worked its magic on me.

Now the front hall was unrecognizable. Not a single piece of furniture remained intact. Hard, grey lumps stuck up from the floor where Flynn had dumped scone mix on the heads of the villagers through the hole above the door. Portraits and ornaments had been thrown down from the floor above. Dark streaks along the wall beside the door chilled me. Blood. The whole place smelled like damp and smoke and blood.

Greg pointed to the balustrades and explained that the wood would need to be replaced.

Rowan’s arm brushed mine. I was still mad at the guys for the way they’d been acting, and especially at Rowan for invading my dream like that. I hadn’t said a word to any of them over breakfast or in the car this morning. But now I clung to Rowan, unable to support myself under the horror of the damage. Every bruise and battered corner of Briarwood resembled a piece of myself.

Rowan wrapped my body in his as we moved into the Great Hall. The scent of flour still clung to his skin, even though he hadn’t been in the kitchen in two days. His grip tightened as we stepped across the threshold and faced the damage.

The room where I’d made love to the boys over and over again in my dreams, where we’d fallen asleep on the couches before our mission into the fae realm, where we’d drunk Arthur’s mead and watched movies and acted like a real family… was completely destroyed.

The ceiling had partially collapsed, burying the sofas, tables, and bar in stone and dust and ancient wood. The fire had blown the windows out, sprinkling the whole room with glittering glass fragments. A stiff breeze blew in leaves and grass clippings from the garden. My nostrils stung from the charred, smoky air. One of the massive ceiling beams had come down at one end and pierced the television. On the opposite wall, a tapestry hung in tatters, damaged beyond repair.

“Most of the beams will need to be replaced,” Greg explained, as if that weren’t already obvious. “I’ve got a mate over in Crooks Crossing with a reclaimage yard. He’s just torn a stack of oak beams out of an old barn. I think they’re going to be the right length to work in here. Anyway, we’ll try and find something that matches. The windows will need replacing, of course. And depending on what’s underneath the flagstones, we might have to lift them up, because of the water—”

Too much. It was too much.

Arthur spun around and stormed out. I glanced over at Flynn, but he shook his head. The way Arthur had been acting, it was better to leave him to calm down on his own. A second fire right now would bring the whole place down around us.

The rest of us trudged up the stairs after Greg. Each room we passed brought fresh horrors – the villagers had ransacked the guys’ bedrooms, tearing down the curtains, shredding their clothes, smashing paintings and posters, and slashing the mattresses into ribbons. Flynn picked through his vinyl collection, searching for any that had survived. He kicked the pile in frustration when he found nothing.

“Those poxy bastards can eat my bollix!”

Greg stopped at the base of the stairs leading up to my turret bedroom. “After you,” he gestured. “Be careful when you get to the top – two of the stairs have fallen through.”

My heart leapt into my throat. I couldn’t bear to think what waited for me at the top of those stairs. It would never again be the beautiful room the guys had worked together to decorate, filled with their personal, thoughtful touches. Memories flashed in front of my eyes – Arthur carrying me up the winding staircase. Lying in my enormous bed with Rowan, eating scones and drinking tea and talking about Corbin. Piled in the bed with all the guys around me, comforted by the sounds of their breathing as I drifted off to sleep.

I couldn’t face it now, knowing what it had meant to me.

Flynn raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. Rowan pulled me close, turning me away from the staircase. Flynn went up without me.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Rowan whispered. His lips grazed my ear. I stiffened, but I didn’t let go of him. His dreadlocks fell over my shoulder, a curtain that hid me from the world.

Boots slapped on the stairs as Flynn and Greg returned. I peered out from Rowan’s dreadlocks. Flynn’s face was bone white. My heart sank. Nothing had been spared.

The four of us exchanged pained looks while Greg kept on talking and talking, his hands moving excitedly as he spoke about the rebuild. As if it was possible to rebuild our lives after everything that happened.

As if Briarwood could ever be a home again without Corbin.