Zeph had entered through the east range of the monastery, until he reached the infirmary, and carried Arwyn to the bed. He laid her down gently. Shouts of directive orders were given. “She needs healing! She’s been wounded! Fetch Searly! Fetch Elin!”

Those were his shouts, his orders, although no one was around to hear them. His own echoed voice was his only greeting.

The room was mostly bare, lit by a few low-burning lanterns. A stash of clean linens lay neatly by a bowl of water on a table on the far wall, and the bedside table had been cleaned off, housing nothing at all.

Arwyn moaned and his eyes came back to her. Sweat beaded on her forehead like glistening pearls. His hands shook, his heart trembled. “I’m going to pull the tip of the arrow out, luv. No, don’t close your eyes. Stay alert. Stay with me.” He gently turned her on her side. “You’re going to be fine.”

Arwyn cried out when Zeph removed the broken arrow. His hand covered her wound as he knelt beside the bed. Blood coated his palm, warm and sticky. He had to shut his eyes against the sight of it, the scene reminding him of when Elin had been stabbed by Lolith, how the blood coated his skin exactly the same way. It frightened him that he might fail at saving Arwyn the way he had failed at saving his sister.

He swallowed thickly. “Heal,” he murmured. “Heal.”

Heat and light emanated from his palm. He pressed harder, easing onto the edge of the bed, the cloying scent of blood permeating the air. “Heal,” he chanted. “Heal, heal, heal.”

Voices carried from somewhere outside the infirmary doors, footsteps of a dozen men or more coming closer. Zeph was past hearing them, his sole focus on Arwyn. “Stay with me,” Zeph pleaded. “Do not die. I forbid it.” He swallowed again, unable to quiet the tremor that swept throughout his limbs. “Do you understand? I forbid it.”

“Zeph,” Arwyn mumbled.

The heat from his hand became hotter, brighter, but her wound would not mend. She burned with fever, her teeth clacking together.

“Shh.” He was now on the bed with her, tucking her against him in order to warm her as she drifted in and out of consciousness. “Tell me how to heal you, luv,” Zeph begged. “I am not at all good at it.”

Why would he be? He hadn’t used his healing abilities for most of his life. Healing wasn’t something valued by the Unseelie. Or by Lolith. His mother and father were the only ones to ever nurture that side of him, and that had been too many years ago—he had forgotten too much. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t save his sister. Or heal himself when he’d been injured by the Unseelie King.

But he had healed Searly when he’d been whipped and beaten. He could do it again. He could heal Arwyn. He could. He had to.

“I’m so c-c-cold.”

“Shh,” Zeph said again.

He hated the way her brows pinched in an expression of pain, and the way she shivered so violently. He repeated the chant, “Heal, heal, heal.” His voice grew angry with each passing minute she lay in his arms with no improvement. She was a delicate thing, all muscle and fine bones. Though looking at her now she was just—frail.

Venenum a te release. Whispered words spoken in his ear, a voice as familiar as yesterday, and Zeph’s stomach fluttered. An odd flush of something tingled through his body.

“Mother?” he asked in a tremulous voice, and then immediately swore underneath his breath. His mother was dead, and he was losing his mind. Pinching his eyes shut, he held Arwyn tighter.

Venenum a te release.

His eyes snapped open, darting around the room.

Venenum a te release. Venenum a te release. Venenum a te release.

The room echoed in the whispered phrase, and Zeph didn’t know if he had finally succumbed to insanity or if the spirit of his mother was truly present.

 

Zuriel carried his sister through the door of their home. “Mother! Eliniana’s been bitten! Help!”

Their mother rushed into the parlor. Upon seeing her daughter’s face, which had gone ashen, she dropped whatever she’d held in her hands and rushed toward them.

“What happened? What bit her?” She took her from her son’s arms and carried her to the kitchen and laid her upon a long wooden table. “Tell me what happened.”

“A snake,” he said, trying hard to hold back his tears. “Is she going to be all right? I tried…I tried to pull her away, Mother, but the snake…it was so fast…”

“She will be all right. I need your help. Can you do that? Can you help me?”

He nodded, tears wetting his cheeks.

“Place your hand over the snake bite and repeat these words with me… Venenum a te release.”

 

“Zeph”

Zeph blinked at his sister, who hovered over him. A window of his childhood had been flung open. Surprise flashed behind his wounded eyes. Then they drifted to the robed monk standing just behind her. “Searly,” he heard himself say. A blur of others behind him. He’d never heard them enter. “When did you all come in?” he rasped, confused.

“A while ago,” Searly answered, his tone queerly pitched.

Elin eased forward like she was unsure if she should. He looked down at himself, covered in blood and sweat. He couldn’t blame her. He looked wild and untamed.

Ignoring his own appearance, he brushed the hair out of Arwyn’s face, still pale and wan, but no longer shivering.

“You were—chanting.” Tears welled in Elin’s eyes and her voice sounded jagged. “You were in some sort of trance, I think.”

He moved cautiously, careful not to jostle Arwyn. He needed to see where the poisoned arrow had entered her shoulder. He had managed to knit her wound and stop the bleeding. And her fever was no more. Zeph felt oddly emotional, like a man reprieved from the gallows.

He had healed her.

He shook his head repeatedly, desperate to reconcile what had taken place. The presence of his mother…that had been real. Hadn’t it?

“Zeph,” Elin asked, “are you all right? You look unwell.”

“I think…I need…to wash the blood off me,” he said, easing himself out from under Arwyn and covering her up with the wool coverlet. His heart was filling up with something strange and uncertain and the room was too crowded for all of them.

“You’re not going to tell us what happened to Arwyn?” Elin asked.

He pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. “We were talking in the forest…by the river, and then she was…” The image of Arwyn slumped against him, frightened and confused, swam in his mind. He struggled to remain calm. “She was shot with an arrow. I knew it was poisoned by the way she reacted to it. I think the arrow was meant for me. It was one of Lolith’s hounds. I killed it. And if I could, I would bring it back to life so I could kill it again.”

He removed his hands from his face and was struck by how everyone stared, unmoving, but not unmoved, particularly how the half-breed stood in the back of the room, watching, like a raven on a tree branch.

Elin stepped closer, her hand reaching for him, to console no doubt. “And what happened to you?”

He stepped to the side, away from the reach of his sister. “I need to wash the blood off,” Zeph said, his voice sounding both jarring and vulnerable, like a cracked bell.

He quit the room then. Not one of them attempted to stop him.

Later, when Zeph returned to the infirmary, he stood, looking out the window into the starless night. Arwyn lay asleep, resting peacefully. Zeph closed his eyes and thanked whatever benevolent god spared Arwyn’s life. Everyone, save Elin, had left, but when he had returned from donning crisp, white attire, even she slinked out the door on those oh-so-quiet feet. He thanked the benevolent god for that as well, for he was not in the mood for council.

The fear of almost losing Arwyn still swirled around him, like dust in an old cellar. Even now, he couldn’t take in a full breath of air; his lungs were heavy as cold mud. When was the last time Zeph had had the luxury of staring into a starless sky with peace of mind—to have common thoughts about common things? If only he could…

“Zeph.”

Oh, buggering hell. Could he have a moment to his thoughts? Was that too much to ask?

Turning, he gave his intruder a withering glare. A lesser man would have cowered and begged off. Unfortunately for Zeph, he wasn’t dealing with a lesser man. “What do you want, half-breed?” he asked, his voice clenched like a fist. “I’m rather busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Controlling my temper.”

“Ah. Good luck with that. Perhaps a walk with me might do the trick.”

“Pardon?”

“A walk, Zeph. I would like to talk to you. And I wish not to disturb Arwyn.”

“A midnight stroll? Alone? Do you think that’s proper? What would the monks think?”

The edges of Lochlan’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”

Zeph returned his gaze to the window, careful not to let the half-breed see the edges of his mouth lift a fraction. Lightning winked across the flat black sky, and distant thunder rumbled. “I’d rather not leave her. Not just yet,” he finally answered.

“Zeph—”

“She almost died today.”

“She’s completely healed. Thanks to you. We won’t be gone long. And I have someone outside the door. Searly’s nephew. He’ll stay until our return in case she’s in need of something. She’ll be safe here. You know that.”

Zeph did know that. Still. The residual fear still lingered, and he could not shake it. He walked to the side of the bed and watched Arwyn’s chest rise and fall. Her lavender hair spilled around her pillow in fine, smooth loops. He twined a piece of it through his fingers, feeling the silkiness of it. Someone had cleaned her up, changed the bed linens, and changed her clothes.

“Elin,” Lochlan said, as if he could read Zeph’s mind.

Zeph nodded, making a mental note to thank his sister later. He let his eyes roam over Arwyn’s delicate features. He smiled at the veil of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like a sprinkle of gold. Had he ever told her she was beautiful?

“Zeph?”

Zeph blinked and released the lock of hair. Clearing his throat, he put on his cloak of indifference and proceeded to the door. If it had been any other night, Zeph would have told the half-breed to go take a walk by himself, preferably off a plank. As it was, he was too tired to put forth the effort. “After you,” Zeph intoned.

Once they were in the hallway, a young man, who had been leaning against the opposite wall, stood to his full height.

“This is Favián, Searly’s nephew,” Lochlan introduced, leading Zeph toward him.

Zeph distractedly nodded in Favián’s general direction.

Favián answered with a nod of his own.

“This is Zeph,” Lochlan explained. “Elin’s…” He paused to glance at Zeph. “Her brother,” he finished.

Favián said something, but Zeph wasn’t paying attention. He felt odd, like he was wearing his skin inside out. He glanced over his shoulder, to the door he’d just stepped through. He didn’t want to go for a walk. He wanted to stay right where he was.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the panic in Arwyn’s, and something inside him would swell until he thought he would burst. And every time he had to temper that feeling like a bed of banked coals before he ignited like a flame.

“Zeph.”

At the sound of his name, Zeph realized he had retreated whence he’d came, his hand on the latch to the room that housed Arwyn.

“This way,” Lochlan said with a sly grin.

Zeph released a steadying breath, counted to ten, and counted ten more. It was a pure force of will that he moved away from the infirmary door. One day, he thought to himself, he would wrap his hands around the half-breed’s throat with delight and he would…squeeze.

 

The two of them ambled forth down one hallway, then another, both with their hands tucked neatly behind their backs. They walked sedately, side by side, slow and purposeful, but separately…like they were accustomed to being alone, even in the presence of others.

Lochlan waved his hand at the lanterns on the walls, making their flames burn taller, brighter. The brighter flames meant more heat. The heat wasn’t an entirely unwelcomed feeling. The expansive corridors were rather drafty places, though they were exposed to the outside elements once they crossed from the east range to the west. Zeph felt his throat constrict the further away they ventured from the infirmary, and was of a mind to end this midnight stroll when Lochlan stopped outside a doorway that lacked a door and uttered a quiet, “After you.”

Zeph lifted one dark brow. “And what room is this?”

“A dwelling room,” the half-breed explained dryly. “Searly and I are the only ones to ever use it anymore.”

The doorway was low and Zeph was rather tall, so he had to bend at the waist to pass through, as did Lochlan. Once inside, they could stand to their full height. It was a large space, longer than it was wide. The walls and ceiling were made of rock and mortar. To the left, two openings were cut out for windows in different sizes; one small, the other nearly the entire length from floor to ceiling. If the moon had shown this night, the moonbeams would have been all the light one would need. As it was, it was hidden behind ribbons of black clouds, so lanterns had been lit, casting a pleasing honeyed hue. A large bench seat extended from the doorway to the corner wall to the right, upholstered in red with stripes of blue, and Zeph couldn’t help noticing how the same fabric had also been used as a rug to cover the floor. Three low standing tables were strategically placed between the bench and wall, and seven gold embroidered cushions were, Zeph assumed, extra seating, tossed about on the floor.

This space was meant for entertaining, though, perhaps a more apt word for monks would be—gathering. But Lochlan had said he and Searly were the only ones to ever use the room and…

Zeph’s throat bobbed, a realization dawning. He had killed one of their fellow monks some time ago. Regret clawed at a heart that had long since stopped feeling, or so he had thought, and Zeph no longer wished to be in this room, a room, that if he hazard a guess, the murdered monk had been in many times before, laughing and enjoying his fellow brethren, and Zeph had taken that away from him.

He started for the door.

“Sit down,” Lochlan said, blocking his path.

“I want to leave.”

“Sit. Down.”

“I need to get back to Arwyn.”

“Yes, let’s talk about that.”

“Let’s not.”

“I can make you sit down,” Lochlan said.

“And I can make you move,” Zeph hissed.

A fit of anger was as lethal as poison, Zeph knew, but so be it. He had lived in a fit of anger for most of his pathetic life. He would not be forced to stay where he did not wish to be. Especially by this churl!

Zeph’s shadow rose like an unwelcomed tide, covering everything around them, like a sea erasing footprints, leaving only stillness and breaths. Lochlan, to his credit, did not cower, nor did he flinch. He stood tall, undeterred, and at length, neither hedged a withdrawal from their stance.

That is until Lochlan let out an audible sigh. “I do not wish to fight you.” He removed himself from Zeph’s path and walked to the other side of the room, where he fetched a wine sack and a goblet, pouring himself a healthy dose. He dipped his head back to swig rather than sip.

Zeph’s shadow retreated, his ire abating now that his path was no longer hindered. The honeyed hue of the flickering light returned, as well as the warmth. “Bloody hell,” Zeph murmured, scrubbing his hands over his face, then crossing the room in a huff. “Is there enough in there for me?”

Lochlan glanced over his shoulder and made a fine show of holding the wine sack to his ear, shaking it. “There might be some left for you.” He fetched another goblet, pouring the remaining contents into it, and extended his arm out to Zeph.

Zeph accepted the wine without words. However, he had no intention to sit, so he examined the sights of the night by leaning against the wall and gazing out the window, which was something, Zeph realized, he liked to do. There was always something to see if only one looked closely enough. Or perhaps, what he was truly doing was looking for ways to ignore what was on the inside.

“Arwyn means a great deal to you,” Lochlan said. It was a simple statement, a declaration. So why did it feel so infinitely personal to Zeph’s ears?

Gritting his teeth, Zeph chose to remain silent. What he felt or didn’t feel for Arwyn was no business of Lochlan’s.

“You mean a great deal to her as well, you know.”

“Don’t,” Zeph said.

“Does she know?”

Zeph forced himself to sip his wine, feigning ignorance. “Does she know what?”

“How deeply you care for her?”

“She was injured. She was…” Zeph swallowed. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. She’s an innocent. That is all.”

“I saw the way you looked at her.”

“Leave it be,” Zeph said.

“Why?”

“Because it does not matter.”

“I see,” Lochlan said.

Zeph made no qualms of scoffing rather loudly. “You see nothing.”

“I have been watching you closely. Earlier this morning with your sister, and then later this eve with Arwyn, and with both encounters I saw a great deal. It pains me to say it, but I finally understand where the confliction lies within Elin and Arwyn regarding you.”

“Well,” Zeph said. “If you remember, I was leaving when Arwyn—”

“If you leave, you will destroy them both,” Lochlan admitted. “And I think you have destroyed them enough.”

Zeph breathed deeply through his nose, still staring out into the inky night. “What am I supposed to do? I cannot stay. I cannot. And yet…”

“And yet?”

Zeph looked over his shoulder. Lochlan was staring…intently. Zeph said in defeat, “I cannot leave either.”

“I know.”

Zeph, again, returned his focus to the outside. “They could be in danger if I stay. But if I don’t stay and something happened to one them…”

“I know.”

“What am I to do?”

Lochlan let out a puff of air and took a seat. “I think it is mad that we are having a conversation at all, so if you are asking what I think, which is doubly mad…”

“Can something be doubly mad?” Zeph stole a glance over his shoulder.

Lochlan grinned. “As I was saying, you should stay. You need to mend your relationship with your sister if that is a possibility. Your twin sister. I imagine there is a bond I cannot possibly understand. I do not know what happened to you as a child, Zeph, or how it changed you. Speaking from experience, however, I do know what it is to do something so egregious…” Lochlan’s voice grew to a sharp raspy sound, like a door hanging on a rusty hinge. Clearing his throat, he continued, “So egregious that nothing we do could ever absolve us.”

Zeph raised a curious, albeit hesitant, brow.

“I killed my father.”

Zeph stared at the man sitting down, staring into his cup, clutched in both hands, looking forlorn and every bit as lost as Zeph felt.

“Beg your pardon?” Zeph queried, for surely, he had misheard.

“I said…” Lochlan looked up. “I killed my father.” Each word was akin to a physical blow, though nothing as brutal as Lochlan’s eyes, for in that moment, they resembled twin pools of still water from which Zeph saw himself.

He could only blink, disbelieving. Shaking his head, he asked—no, he demanded—Lochlan to explain himself. “What do you mean, you killed your father? Was he cruel? Did he put hands upon you?”

“No,” Lochlan said. “He would never.” Zeph didn’t miss the quiver in the half-breed’s chin.

“Then why?”

Lochlan dropped his head into hands and for a long moment, he was still as a grave, motionless. An intense silence came between them, as if there was a third presence in the room.

Zeph took a seat after all and fixed his eyes on the wall, the truth falling across him like a velvet curtain. “It was an accident,” Zeph theorized.

“How do you—”

Zeph looked him in the eye. “You live in a monastery because your best friend is a monk and you would rather be here than anywhere else. My sister…I have to believe she cares for you because of the man you are, even though you are a…” Zeph snarled. “Half-breed. Also…” Zeph cleared his throat, “Arwyn holds you in high regard. You are not a murderer. You may have killed your father, but it was an accident. I am certain of it.”

Lochlan shook his head. “He wouldn’t have died had I never been cursed, had I never been born. I touched him on my thirteenth year. I didn’t know what would happen.” Lochlan stared at his hands. “Five hundred years I have lived with a curse. My father’s death marked the day it began. It doesn’t matter that it was an accident. He died because of me.”

“He died because of Lolith. She is the one who cursed you. And you killed her.”

Lochlan nodded. “I know.”

“Good. Stop with the guilt. It is unbecoming. You have so much more unlikeable qualities to overcome.” He finished his wine and stood. “May I get back to the infirmary now? Or are we not done strolling?”

Lochlan waited a moment before standing, grinding his teeth into dust if the sound was any indication. Eventually, Lochlan got to his feet, and stepped around him. On his way out the door, Zeph wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Lochlan mutter, “I do so hate you.”

I have known what it feels to conquer a man in battle

To lift a weapon and turn it on another

I have been trained by my father, a warrior

I fear no man

However,

A fear hides deep within me

It has nothing to do with bows and arrows

Swords or daggers

It pierces my heart all the same

For I feel it every time I breathe

Slicing deeper until I am sure I will die

Bleeding me dry

Who can save me from this fear?

This fear I cannot identify

 

~Favián’s journal

 

Favián sat outside the room where Arwyn slept while he wrote in his journal, trying to quell the unfamiliar feeling that had been gnawing at him since he’d arrived. His uncle had spoken a great deal of Lochlan through letters over the years, so Favián felt he knew him somewhat, though Favián learned he and Lochlan were not the only guests within the monastery. After a very detailed account of who everyone was and why they were here, Favián was amazed that he had remained upright. It was not every day that one was surrounded by mystical creatures. Had he not already known about Lochlan, he may have believed his tío was having him on.

So far, aside from meeting Lochlan, he had only met Elin. He wasn’t going to count the brief introduction to Zeph in the hallway. He would reserve judgment on that one until he got to know him. But Elin, he had liked her instantly. Her kindness and goodness quite literally glowed around her. She had put him at ease, conversing with him as if she had known him all her life. Since he considered Lochlan part of the family already, having read about him since he was a child, he’d never felt more at home when they had dined earlier together that day. That’s when all the commotion had happened, and he’d learned that Arwyn, the elf, had been shot with a poisoned arrow. Later, when Lochlan had asked him to wait outside her door until he and Zeph returned, he hadn’t hesitated to oblige. Of course he would wait.

Favián paused and listened, sure he had heard something. A soft moan. She was waking up. He made quick work of putting away his quill, placing it inside a small pouch and tucking it and his journal underneath his belt. Then he made sure the inkwell was securely capped, that small secret compartment inside his necklace, and rose to his feet.

Tapping gingerly on the door, he waited for a sound, a voice, something, before he entered a lady’s sick chamber unannounced. He could hear his mamá’s voice now, scolding him for even thinking of entering, but as he looked down both ends of the hallway, there was no one else about to see to her needs.

He tapped again, this time a bit louder than the first. He put his ear to the door.

“Yes?” a small, raspy voice said.

Favián cleared his throat. He hadn’t really thought beyond knocking. What was he supposed to say? He cleared his throat again. “Erm…do you need anything, señorita?”

He heard her say something; unfortunately, he was unable to make out quite what. “I’m sorry?” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Do come in,” she said, louder and much more authoritatively.

Favián turned the latched and pushed open the door. Slowly. He had never been alone with a woman in her bedchamber before. He had no idea how he was supposed to behave or what he was supposed to say.

“You are new here,” she said.

Favián could not find it in him to look at her as he nodded. For propriety’s sake, he should at least keep his eyes averted.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“F-Favián. Searly’s nephew.” His eyes were cast low, taking a sudden interest in the style of his boots…and the rather dull coloring of the floor: stone gray, smooth from wear.

“Oh, how nice to meet you. I am Arwyn.”

Favián’s heart ratcheted inside his chest. Her voice was a melody, a beautiful melody.

“Favián?”

He blinked at the sound of his name. He had yet taken his eyes off the floor. “Y-Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Sí,” he said, and because he felt he needed to explain why he was there, he added, “Lochlan asked me to wait with you until they returned.”

“Until who returned?”

“He and Zeph.”

“Lochlan and Zeph are together?”

“Sí.”

“Alone?”

“Sí. They went for a walk.”

“How long was I asleep?” she muttered.

Favián didn’t answer. He was more than a little uncomfortable being alone with her. When he had agreed to wait outside her door, he’d rather assumed it would have been for a short time and he would simply be on one side of the door and she would be on the other.

“Favián.”

“Hmm?”

“You can look at me. It’s all right.”

“If mamá knew I was in here with you, she would—”

“Favián,” Arwyn said, making an ardent attempt not to laugh. “It’s all right. Really.”

He smoothed his sweaty palms over his breeches, took one fortifying breath, lifted his eyes, finding hers, and finding a faint, slow smile clinging to the edge of her mouth like an age-old secret.

“Tell me,” she said. “Will you be staying…” She winced as she tried to sit up. “…long?”

“Sí. Allow me to assist,” Favián said, stumbling over his feet before reaching her. He managed to break his fall by grabbing hold of the edge of the bed. “Sorry,” he murmured, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

She watched him curiously while he awkwardly righted himself then awkwardly fluffed her pillows. He cleared his throat for the third time and stepped away from the bed. He placed his hands on his hips and let his eyes roam around the room while she adjusted herself in a more comfortable position. Helping her to sit up wasn’t an option. Where would he even place his hands? Under her arms? What if he accidentally brushed against her…

Did it suddenly become hot in here? Favián pulled at his cravat, desperate to loosen the strain around his neck.

“Are you all right?” Arwyn asked once she found a new position.

“Sí.” It was a garbled sound even to his own ears, and Favián had to shut his eyes and pray that God would have mercy and would take him now, full body…just lift him right out of this room and put him out of his misery.

“Perhaps you would like a drink of water?” she suggested.

Water! Excellent idea. He marched toward a table across the room where a ceramic pitcher and cup were stationed. After pouring himself a cup, he gulped it down and poured himself another.

“May I have a cup as well?” she asked, a hint of a smile in her voice.

Favián froze, realizing his behavior was not that of a gentleman. She was the one in the sick bed. “I beg your forgiveness, señorita.”

He kept his back to her while he poured a fresh cup. His hands shook so badly that water splashed over the edges. He used a linen cloth to clean it up then he made his way toward her. His eyes floated up briefly and darted away. She was too beautiful. It hurt to stare.

She took the cup. “Thank you. Do I make you nervous?” Her tone was not mocking, simply…curious.

Favián, for all the skill he had as a fighter, he had zero skill with a woman, especially a woman who was like her. How to admit that? He thought about lying, saying he had a fever, which could explain why he was breaking into a cold sweat, but his eyes drifted up and found hers again. They were watching him ever so closely. Inexplicably, he knew that if he lied, she would know. Somehow, she would know. So he nodded his head and murmured, “Sí.”

Still, she studied him, like she was listening to what he said between his words and beneath them, tilting her head and leaning in. Then she smiled. It was the most breathtaking and devastating smile Favián had ever seen.

“You and I,” she declared, “are going to be good friends.”

“We-we are?”

“Yes!” She beamed. “We are.”

Favián swallowed. Because now it was clear. The fear he could not identify before, the one he had written about, the one that would pierce his heart, it had a name.

Arwyn.