Without allowing her concentration to waver—even for a moment—Isobel continued to alter each element of their surroundings as it occurred to her, knowing she had to create something Varen himself would never conceive. She needed to build a dream he would know had come from her. The real her.

So she imagined the craggy tree limbs sprouting countless buds, and in an explosion of pink, a million tiny blossoms burst into bloom. The sudden eruption of color sent the crows fleeing into the overcast sky, their simultaneous liftoff releasing a cascade of petals that tumbled like confetti between her and Varen.

Laced with the scent of cherry and vanilla, the flurry replaced the flecks of falling ash. More petals poured from the sky where the crows swarmed in a mass of black, their cries of shock turning to shrieks of fury.

But Isobel ignored the Nocs, and, focusing next on the statues, those lifeless forms that represented her memory—her presumed loss—she shattered them all into still more blossoms.

Pink spilled onto green, petals settling into a patchwork carpet.

High above, the Nocs drew in tighter and, circling, formed a dense whirlpool. Flapping, cawing with growing agitation, the birds focused the eye of their spinning storm directly overhead.

While Varen looked to their gathering ranks, Isobel took the opportunity to cast the sky above the ghouls—the final unturned element—a brilliant blue.

Blue azure, she thought, recalling the shade Varen had named her eyes in his final letter.

Without consciously meaning to, she’d rendered for him the world he’d wished for in that note. Her world, complete with the warm summer sky he’d longed for in the moments after he’d believed all was lost.

Varen’s gaze dropped away from the birds, returning to her in confusion.

The flecks of pink caught in their clothes and their hair, collecting in the collar of Varen’s black coat and on the cuff of the sleeve she still clutched, even though he’d long since lowered his hand from her cheek.

“How can you write me out,” she whispered, “if you never made me up to begin with?”

Fear flashed in his eyes. Varen recoiled. As his arm jerked from her grip, their surroundings shifted again.

The crystal blue of Isobel’s sky melted to coal-fired orange. The horizon blazed crimson. Shivering, the canopy of flowers dissolved to dust. The grass beneath them withered, and the trees crackled dead in one fell swoop.

Her spell broken, Isobel reached for Varen, unwilling to let him slip through her fingers again. But the army of Nocs chose that moment to descend. Swooping low, the birds cut between them in a fierce current of feathers and ripping talons.

Lifting her arms to shield herself, Isobel swung away from the sharp hooks that tore at her. The creatures attacked from all angles, their wings whooshing loud in her ears, rubbing out all other sound.

“Varen!” she shrieked.

An arm hooked her around the middle from behind, drawing her close.

Yanked to one side, Isobel felt herself leave the fury of attacking birds and re-enter a realm of muted noises and blurred shapes—the veil.

But how—why had—?

“Gluttons for punishment, aren’t we?” a low, static voice whispered in her ear. “We both just keep coming back.”

Looking down as the arm that held her loosened, Isobel caught sight of claws.

“Wait,” she gasped, but the Noc—Pinfeathers—had already released her.

She felt a familiar tug at her midsection and flew forward. Everything blurred into one colorless smear, and with a whoosh and a snap, she rejoined her body. She opened her eyes to find herself lying on the floor in the gym, but still in the gray-white between-space of the veil.

Reynolds stood over her, his image the only clear form against the fuzzy backdrop.

Those dark eyes glared down the curved length of his rusted blade, aimed straight at her.

Through the open rift behind him, a flood of screeching black shapes—crows—rushed out to fill the ceiling.

Like blots of ink dropped into water, they began to unfurl into smoke tendrils.

Then the wisps and coils took on new shapes, pouring into an army of tall silhouettes that drew in close, encircling them both.

Staticky whispers joined into one unintelligible hiss.

“I thought I told you,” Reynolds growled through gritted teeth, “not to engage.”

14

Emergence

Isobel focused on the sharpened blade tip that hovered less than an inch from her nose.

In her periphery, she saw the dark ring of collecting figures close in tighter, their whispers growing louder. She heard one of them hiss her name.