Crescent

18

"If you're going to talk anyway, the least you could do is say hello," Ferne chided. Though her tone was light, there was a shakiness to her voice that betrayed something darker lurking beneath. Someone had lit her fuse already, and it was only a matter of time before she exploded and chewed out whoever was still lurking when it happened. She had always been a second mother to the Reite family; her absence left a scar that could only be soothed when she was able to return.

Vera's throat constricted. She wasn't stupid enough to believe Ferne's return to the Reite manor was a coincidence. "I missed you," she whispered, barely more than a murmur. Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked hard until they cleared.

"Did you?" Ferne huffed. "If your grand plan was to run away and scare the family to death so that I'd come home for the crisis, nicely done." She tugged sharply on the thread and tied it off. Wiping her fingers off on a cloth, she stood and held out the bloody needle for Eileen to take. "That will have to do for now. Silas, help her up."

Eileen paled as she looked between the needle and Vera. "I don't think this is your best work, Ferne," she muttered, but she took the needle anyway and folded it into the soiled white cloth. Her spool of thread had already dispersed into a shower of blue and silver fragments.

Slowly, Vera sat up, aided by Silas's hand against her back. The world rocked as she moved, swimming with nausea, but she managed to stay upright. Her ears had stopped ringing, and the distorted sound in her injured side seemed clearer. She touched the ridges made by the stitches. At the base of her ear, they were already beginning to fade, leaving smooth skin behind save for a subtle jagged scar. Ferne had always been skilled at healing as well as art. Any wound she mended would disappear without a trace—though the result used to be more instantaneous. Vera's admiration for her soured with a tinge of jealousy.

"How do you feel?" Ferne asked. The mattress dipped as she perched on the edge of it again. Despite the bite of her words, her eyes were soft as she searched Vera's face.

"My earring," Vera murmured.

Ferne sighed. "You have one on this side." She touched Vera's other ear, tilting her head as her gaze narrowed at the trinket. Her hand dropped back into her lap. "I guess you lost the other when you lost your ear. When did you start wearing earrings again?"

Vera touched the cold metal, grateful for the hum of magic against her skin. "I only had one," she said before casting her glance down. The key no longer rested against her chest. Panic twisted her gut. "Where is—"

"Here." Eileen grabbed the key from the nightstand and tossed it at Vera. "I cleaned it for you. It was covered in blood. And before you ask, Wyn has your bag, but I wouldn't go downstairs yet. He's not happy with you."

Vera fumbled to catch the heavy gold object, her movements slow as if the cotton in her head had spread to the rest of her limbs. The key gleamed in the light, shinier than it had been when she received it and free of every speck of blood she had left on it. Yet it pulled harshly on her hands as if it were dragging her down. Once, it hummed with life. It was still now, as empty as any other key. Something inside her twisted and a bitter taste coated her tongue. It was supposed to be her connection to Zeno, but if it had lost its power, there was no way to deny the consequences.

She had failed. The unseelie still roamed the woods, and if Zeno had been killed, their chances of killing it without him were nigh impossible. Yet part of her shriveled to think of Zeno's parting gift. He was right; why should she continue to meddle when she had what she wanted? Use your head, Vera. Take your prize and let this become some other fae's problem.

But the key was stone cold. Zeno's silent scream rang in her ears and threatened to pull her under the depths. Ichor flowed not just into the rune-coated vial, but spilled across the grass as well. His star-covered hands dimmed as he had clutched his bullet wound. His expression was broken, his mask finally cracked beneath the searing agony. What had truly become of him? Did Wyn let him die?