Elain had always preferred the quieter corners of Velaris, where sunlight pooled like honey against the cobblestones and shop windows glowed with warmth. This shop was one such place, tucked between a bookseller and a lace merchant, its doorway framed with climbing ivy that seemed to thrive even in the chill of early spring. Inside, the air smelled of soil and dried lavender, of parchment packets and promise. Wooden drawers lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each labeled in careful script: jasmine, roses, thistle, mint.
Elain stood at the counter with a small basket hooked over her arm, her gloved fingers trailing lightly over a display of foxglove seeds as she discussed bloom times and soil acidity with the saleswoman. “It’s for a south-facing terrace,” Elain was saying gently, her voice soft but assured. “The client wants something that will spill over the stone in summer, but still look intentional in the colder months.”
The saleswoman nodded eagerly, clearly pleased to have such a knowledgeable customer. “You have such an eye for it,” she said. “Not everyone understands how a garden must be planned three seasons ahead.”
Elain smiled at that, a quiet, luminous thing. She was reaching for a packet of delphiniums when movement in the reflection of the shop’s glass caught her attention. A familiar tall figure paused just beyond the doorway, dark hair gleaming in the filtered sunlight, violet eyes scanning the shelves with casual interest. Rhysand. To be honest, she hadn’t seen much of him or Feyre lately. They had been occupied, it seemed, with yet another renovation project. Their sixth mansion, if Morrigan was to be believed.
Elain had given them their privacy without hesitation, preferring the warmth and familiarity of the River House anyway. It suited her. The open windows. The view of the Sidra. The gardens she could coax into bloom. Still, seeing him here, in something as ordinary as a seed shop, felt almost surreal.
Elain excused herself from the counter and crossed the shop floor, skirts whispering softly around her ankles. “Rhysand,” she greeted, inclining her head with practiced politeness. “What a surprise.”
His mouth curved in that easy, charming smile that had won over half of Prythian. “Elain,” he returned warmly. “I might say the same. Though I suppose if one is looking for beauty, this is precisely where one would find you.”
She let out a faint breath of laughter, used to his flattery by now. “And what brings the High Lord of the Night Court to a humble shop?”
“Ah,” he said, glancing toward a glass display case near the counter. “Not seeds, I’m afraid.”
Her gaze followed his, and that was when she saw it, a delicate necklace laid against midnight velvet. The chain was fine as spun starlight, the pendant a teardrop of deep blue stone encircled by tiny diamonds that caught the light like scattered constellations. It was exquisite. Refined without being ostentatious.
Rhysand noticed the shift in her expression immediately. “Do you think Feyre would like it?” he asked, tone almost casual.
Elain stepped closer to the case, studying the piece with a careful eye. “Of course,” she said without hesitation. “It’s gorgeous. The color would suit her beautifully.” She glanced up at him, curiosity flickering. “What’s the occasion?”
His smile softened, less theatrical now, more private. “No occasion,” he replied. “I wanted to surprise her.”
Before Elain could respond, the saleswoman behind the counter gave a delighted little laugh. “Oh, he spoils her,” she chimed in, already reaching for a velvet box. “He’s a regular when it comes to her. Always something thoughtful, always something stunning.”
Elain blinked in mild surprise. Feyre loved surprises?
“She does?” Elain asked lightly, though her brows drew together in faint confusion. “Whenever our birthdays came around when we were little, Feyre would beg us to tell her what her gift was. She couldn’t stand not knowing. She would follow Papa about the house for days trying to guess.”
Rhysand chuckled at that, the sound low and rich. “People change,” he said simply. There was no boast in it. Just quiet certainty. The saleswoman carefully wrapped the necklace in tissue and placed it into a midnight-blue box tied with silver ribbon. Rhysand accepted it with a polite nod, exchanging a few final pleasantries before turning back to Elain. “It was lovely running into you,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you from your flowers.”
“And I won’t keep you from your surprises,” she replied gently.
He dipped his head and slipped from the shop as seamlessly as he had entered, the doorbell chiming softly in his wake. Elain remained there for a moment, fingers resting lightly against the glass case where the necklace had been. It struck her as faintly strange, but then again, managing a court and a marriage could not be simple. Perhaps this was how he balanced it: small gestures in the spaces between wars and councils.
Elain glanced toward the small clock mounted above the shop door and felt her breath hitch. The hands had crept far past the hour she had promised. She had lingered too long and guilt fluttered in her chest like startled birds. “Oh,” she murmured under her breath, already gathering her basket and seed packets. She offered the saleswoman a quick, apologetic smile and hurried from the shop, skirts gathered delicately in one hand as she stepped back into the bright wash of afternoon light.
Velaris hummed around her, warm and alive, but Elain moved through it with uncommon haste. The cobblestones seemed uneven beneath her slippers; the Sidra’s distant sparkle did nothing to soothe her.
She prided herself on punctuality. On reliability.
The house stood in one of the quieter residential lanes, ivy climbing its pale stone walls in soft green spirals. It was charming without being ostentatious, with tall windows and wrought-iron balconies that caught the sun. Elain had visited before, of course. The woman who lived there was older, elegant in the way some women became with age, her beauty refined rather than diminished. There was always a silk shawl draped around her shoulders, always fresh flowers on the mantel.
Her husband had struck Elain as attentive, almost doting. He hovered near her at tea, refilled her cup before she asked, touched the small of her back when guiding her through doorways. He lavished her in subtle ways. Not unlike how Rhysand did with Feyre.
Elain mounted the front steps and knocked, smoothing her skirts as she waited. The wind stirred the ivy leaves faintly. She waited another moment. No answer. That was… unusual. Perhaps they had not heard. Elain tried the knob gently and found the door unlocked. She stepped inside, closing it softly behind her. “Hello?” she called, her voice carrying politely through the entry hall. “It’s Elain. I’ve just come from the seed shop—we discussed the terrace arrangement, remember?”
Silence met her. Not the comfortable kind that lived in well-kept homes, but something heavier. Suspended. Then, a sound. Faint movement. From the drawing room. Elain’s pulse quickened, though she could not have said why. She moved down the hallway, her steps instinctively quiet. The door to the drawing room was ajar. She pushed it open slowly and slipped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click.
What she saw stilled her entirely.
Broken glass glittered across the floor like scattered ice, catching the late afternoon light in sharp, fractured reflections. A vase lay shattered near the hearth, water bleeding into the rug beneath it. And in the midst of it, kneeling amid the ruin, was the woman.
Her silk shawl had slipped from one shoulder. Her hair, so carefully arranged when Elain had last seen her, hung loose and disordered. Her face was blotched, cheeks damp, eyes rimmed red as if she had been crying for some time. She did not look up at first.
Elain’s basket slipped from her hand onto a nearby chair as she hurried forward, skirts whispering across the glass-littered floor. “Are you alright?” she asked immediately, kneeling beside her without hesitation.
The woman did not answer the question. “Help me pick this up, will you?” she said instead, her voice thin and strained, as though it had been scraped raw.
Elain reached instinctively for a larger shard of glass, careful of its edges. But as she leaned closer, her gaze caught on something else, something that made her hands go still.
The woman’s sleeves had fallen back slightly.
Bruises marred the pale skin of her forearms. Dark, blooming shapes in various stages of healing, some yellowed at the edges, others deep and fresh. Finger-shaped. Deliberate.
Elain paused. The world narrowed to the quiet sound of their breathing. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
The woman was already looking at her.
There was no hysteria in her expression. No tears now. Only something rawer. Quieter. Her eyes held Elain’s, and within them lay a plea so silent it barely existed at all. The knowledge settling like cold water in her lungs. And for one suspended heartbeat, she held the woman’s gaze. And then, Elain looked away. Her fingers resumed their careful work, gathering the larger pieces of glass into a small pile.
“Be careful,” she said softly instead. “You’ll cut yourself.” Beside her, the woman’s breath faltered almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something crossed her face, not anger, not quite.
She closed her eyes. As if she had hoped for something different.
And before Elain could say something else the drawing room door slammed open so hard it struck the wall behind it with a sharp crack, the echo ricocheting through the house like a gunshot. Elain whipped around, heart leaping into her throat, skirts whispering as she rose swiftly to her feet. He stood in the doorway. The husband. His posture was composed, too composed. Dark coat immaculate, cuffs fastened precisely at his wrists. Not a hair out of place. His expression held no overt anger, no visible agitation. Only a cool appraisal as his gaze swept the room: the shattered glass gathered in neat little piles, the damp rug, the two women standing too close together.
Beside Elain, the older woman stood abruptly as well. And then, almost without thinking, she moved. She stepped behind Elain. Her fingers caught at Elain’s sleeve. It was a small thing. Light. Almost imperceptible. But Elain felt it.
The faint tremor in that grip. The strange, dissonant image of it, this elegant, older woman, who hosted teas and wore silk and pearls, now half-concealed behind someone younger than her, seeking shelter in the narrow line of Elain’s body.
The man’s gaze sharpened as it took in the tableau. He stepped into the room fully, the door swinging shut behind him with deliberate care this time. “What happened?” he asked mildly, though his eyes lingered on the broken vase. “It slipped,” his wife answered quickly. Too quickly.
A pause stretched thin. He tilted his head slightly, studying the space with the detached eye of someone considering a minor inconvenience. “These colors,” he said at last, gesturing vaguely to the walls, the upholstery, the rugs. “They clash rather dreadfully with your skin tone, don’t they?” The comment floated there, absurd and sharp as the glass at their feet. Elain felt the woman’s fingers tighten fractionally at her sleeve. She drew in a steadying breath and summoned a smile, the same gentle, luminous expression she wore at garden parties and markets alike.
“Now that you mention it,” Elain said lightly, as though they were discussing nothing more serious than fabric swatches, “there is a shop I know of that specializes in softer palettes. Warmer tones. Perhaps something that would better complement the light in here.” She turned her gaze toward him politely. “If you’d like, I could accompany her to choose new décor. It would be no trouble at all.” Her tone was smooth. Pleasant. A lifeline disguised as social courtesy.
The man did not look at her. He looked at his wife. Long and slow. The woman’s grip on Elain’s sleeve faltered under that stare. Her fingers slipped away, falling back to her side as though they had never dared reach at all.
Silence pooled heavily between them. Finally, he spoke, still and calm. “Give the shop our name,” he said to Elain, though his eyes never left his wife. “I will see to it.” The words were courteous. Polished. They felt like a door closing. The woman began to move, slow and deliberate, as if wading through something thick. She stepped out from behind Elain and came to stand at her husband’s side, though not touching him. Not quite.
“I’ll see her out,” she said softly.
Elain inclined her head, gathering her composure like one might gather fallen petals. “Of course.” They left the drawing room together, the husband remaining behind. Elain felt his gaze at her back the entire length of the hallway. At the front door, the woman paused. The afternoon light filtered through the glass panels, illuminating the faint shadows beneath her eyes. Up close, Elain could see the remnants of tears still clinging to her lashes. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The woman reached for the door handle. Her hand trembled only slightly. “Thank you for coming,” she said quietly. It was a simple sentence. But it felt like something else entirely. Elain held her gaze this time. Really held it. She wanted to say something, something braver than polite suggestions about color palettes and shopping excursions. But the words lodged somewhere deep and unmoving.
So she offered the same soft smile she always did. “I’ll send the shop’s information this evening.” The woman nodded once and opened the door. Elain stepped out into the bright, indifferent sunlight of Velaris, the door closing gently behind her.
Though the afternoon had not yet surrendered to evening, the light had shifted, casting long ribbons of gold across the streets of Velaris. She walked slowly, basket light against her arm, footsteps measured and unhurried as though she had nowhere in particular to be. The city moved around her in soft currents of laughter and conversation, shopkeepers calling their final sales, lovers strolling hand in hand along the Sidra.
Her thoughts were strangely blank.
Not confused. Not troubled.
As if what she had witnessed in that drawing room had not occurred at all. As if the bruises had belonged to someone else entirely. As if the silent plea in the woman’s eyes had not lingered behind her own. Elain focused instead on the rhythm of her steps. On the way the wind teased at the hem of her skirt. On the scent of bread drifting from a nearby bakery.
By the time the River House came into view, its pale façade glowing beside the water, her expression had settled into its usual serenity. Morrigan was already there, perched elegantly on the terrace just outside the open doors, one long leg crossed over the other. A glass of deep red wine glinted between her fingers, catching the light like a jewel. Her golden hair spilled over one shoulder, and she looked entirely at ease, sun-kissed and amused.
“Well,” Mor drawled as Elain approached, lifting her glass in greeting, “judging by the time you took, you must have done a phenomenal job.”
Elain paused at the threshold, blinking faintly at her. Mor extended a folded letter toward her, the paper thick and expensive. “This arrived not long ago.”
Elain accepted it, her fingers brushing against the seal already broken. She unfolded the parchment with careful precision. The handwriting was unmistakably the husband’s, clean, controlled strokes. Polite. Effusive. He thanked her for her “exceptional eye” and for her willingness to assist in improving their home’s aesthetic harmony. Enclosed was a substantial sum deposited directly into her account. For redecoration. Elain read the number twice. It was… excessive. Her expression did not change.
Mor leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine lazily. “Well,” she said, brows lifting as she watched Elain fold the letter once more. “If that’s the fee for clashing colors, I may need to redecorate my entire townhouse.” Elain handed the letter back without comment, smoothing her skirts unnecessarily. “So,” Mor continued, a slow smile curving her mouth, “Rita’s tonight on you?”
Elain’s gaze drifted toward the river for a brief moment, watching the water slide past in restless silver ribbons. Then she smiled. “Yes,” she said softly. “Why not?”
Morning arrived soft and golden, slipping through the gauzy curtains in pale ribbons of light. Elain woke before the rest of the house had fully stirred, lying still for a moment as she listened to the quiet hush of the River House, the distant murmur of the Sidra, the faint creak of settling wood, the promise of a day not yet shaped. Today was going to be a good day.
She decided it as one might decide which dress to wear.
Elain rose and dressed with gentle care, choosing a cream day dress embroidered with tiny climbing roses along the hem. The color warmed her complexion, softened her features. She braided her hair loosely over one shoulder and fastened it with a ribbon the shade of early spring leaves. By the time she stepped into the hallway, she wore her composure like a second skin, the kitchens welcomed her with warmth and the familiar scent of bread. A few early servants glanced up in surprise before smiling at her presence. Elain offered them that same serene smile in return before tying an apron around her waist and setting to work.
She moved with quiet confidence, sleeves pushed back just enough to free her hands. Butter melted in a pan with a soft hiss. Honey warmed slowly over low heat. She sliced fruit carefully, pears and apples, thin and even, and folded them into delicate pastry dough she had prepared before dawn. Feyre had always loved it. Not elaborate feasts or gilded confections, but something warm and simple. Elain could still picture Feyre at fourteen, flushed from the cold, devouring the first piece before it had properly cooled. Sticky fingers. Laughing when Nesta scolded her for impatience.
The memory curved Elain’s lips faintly.
She prepared the dish with precision, layering sweetness and spice just so. When it emerged from the oven, golden and fragrant, she allowed herself a small, satisfied nod. She drizzled the warmed honey across the top in delicate spirals and dusted it lightly with powdered sugar, the white settling like fresh snowfall. Once cooled, she wrapped it carefully in waxed paper, then placed it inside a small wicker basket lined with soft cloth. She tied the handle with a pale ribbon, unnecessary, perhaps, but pretty. And Elain stepped back to admire it.
Yes. Today would be good.
She removed her apron, smoothing her skirt once more before lifting the basket into her hands. The River House felt brighter in the morning light, less cavernous, less haunted by lingering thoughts. She would visit Feyre. She would sit by the windows of whatever grand house they currently occupied. They would speak of gardens and renovations and trivial things.
Before she left, Elain paused at the small writing desk in the foyer. The River House was quiet enough that her footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floors. She pulled a sheet of cream parchment toward her and dipped her pen in ink. Gone to visit Feyre. Back before evening. She hesitated only briefly before setting the pen down. Not that she thought anyone in particular would be concerned with her whereabouts. Mor would likely be out. Cassian with Nesta. Azriel… somewhere. Still, she left the note beneath a paperweight shaped like a rose.
The morning air was crisp but kind as she stepped outside, basket hooked carefully over her arm. Velaris greeted her in full bloom, windows thrown open, merchants arranging their displays, children darting between adults with careless laughter. Elain smiled at nearly everyone she passed. A baker dusted in flour. A woman watering her window boxes. An elderly couple walking arm in arm. She inclined her head, offered soft greetings, paused once to admire a bouquet being arranged outside a florist’s stall.
She would not let yesterday follow her. The walk toward Feyre’s newest residence, one of many, though this one perched slightly higher above the river, was longer than the path to the River House, but Elain did not mind. The mansion gleamed pale and stately in the sunlight, fresh stone catching the day’s warmth. Scaffolding had been removed recently; everything looked polished and deliberate. As she approached the gates, she noticed a man already there, a deliveryman, she assumed.
He wore a neutral brown coat and carried a large rectangular box tucked under one arm. He placed it carefully at the foot of the door, adjusted it once, then knocked firmly. Elain slowed her steps. She lingered at the edge of the walkway as the deliveryman turned and walked briskly down the steps, passing Elain without so much as a glance. She stood there, suddenly uncertain.
What if Feyre was busy? What if she was in the middle of something, painting, perhaps, or deep in discussion with Rhys about court matters? What if she wasn’t home at all and that had merely been a servant retrieving the parcel? Perhaps she should come back another time. Leave the basket. Send a message ahead next visit. It would be polite. Less intrusive. Then the door cracked open just enough for an unseen hand to retrieve the package. The man stepped back. The box disappeared inside. The door shut.
Before she could reconsider, Elain gathered her skirts and ran. The basket bounced lightly against her arm as she hurried up the steps, the morning composure forgotten in the urgency of the moment. She reached the door just as the echo of the lock settled into silence.“Feyre!” she called, her hand lifting to knock sharply against the wood. “Feyre—wait.”
Her voice carried more breath than she intended. “It's me,” she added quickly, “I brought something for you.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door. “Elain?” Feyre’s voice came through the thick wood, muffled but unmistakable. There was warmth there, always warmth, but something else threaded beneath it. Tension.“What are you doing here?” Elain leaned closer instinctively, fingers curling slightly against the grain of the door. “I brought you something,” she said brightly, lifting the basket though Feyre could not see it. “Your favorite. I thought we might sit for a while. I haven’t seen you much lately.” Another pause. Shuffling. The faint sound of movement further inside.
“It’s not really a good time,” Feyre said at last.
The words were gentle. Carefully chosen.
Elain’s smile did not falter, though her brow creased faintly. “Oh? I won’t stay long.”
“I’m in the middle of something,” Feyre replied quickly. Too quickly. “The decorators are here. And Rhys is meeting with someone. It’s a bit chaotic.” Elain glanced over her shoulder.
The front drive was empty. No carriages. No workers hauling fabric or wood. No raised voices, no clatter of renovation. The house was silent.
“I don’t hear anyone,” Elain said softly before she could stop herself. Another rustle from inside. A door shutting somewhere deeper in the house. “They just stepped out to fetch samples,” Feyre amended. “And I have paint drying in the sitting room. It’s… it’s really not ideal.”
Elain shifted her weight. The basket handle pressed faintly into her palm. “I don’t mind paint,” she said lightly. “I can sit in the kitchen if that’s easier.”
“Elain.” Feyre’s tone changed, still kind, but firmer now. “Please. Today just isn’t good.”
The word please lingered between them.
Elain stared at the door as though she might see through it if she tried hard enough. She pictured Feyre standing just on the other side, hand braced against the wood, perhaps. Expression she could not read.
“Are you alright?” Elain asked quietly.
There was a beat of silence so thin it nearly broke.
“Of course,” Feyre said. A breath of a laugh followed, strained at the edges. “I’m fine. Truly. I just… I have a lot to handle this morning.”
Elain did not believe her.
“I can come back later,” she said.
“Yes,” Feyre replied immediately. Relief flickered through that single syllable. “That would be better.” Elain nodded, though Feyre could not see it.
“I’ll leave this here, then,” she added, setting the basket gently at the foot of the door.“Before it gets cold.”
But Elain had already stepped back. “Enjoy it,” she said softly. “And… tell Rhys I said hello.”
Elain did not know why she walked away.
She did not knock again. She did not press harder, did not call Feyre’s name a second time, did not demand the door open. She simply turned. The steps blurred beneath her as she descended them, the sunlight too bright against the pale stone. She only knew that her feet carried her elsewhere. Toward noise. Toward something rather than gardens and silk ribbons and polite refusals through closed doors. The tavern came into view before she consciously recognized where she was heading.
It sat lower along the riverbanks, its wooden sign swinging lazily above the entrance. The windows were smudged, the paint chipped at the edges. Laughter spilled from within, loud, unrestrained, threaded with the sharp scent of ale and smoke that seeped even through the closed door. Elain paused on the opposite side of the street. She knew this place. Not well, but well enough. It was not Rita’s. Not polished. Not elegant. This tavern was dim and crowded, its tables scarred with knife marks, its floors sticky with spilled drink.
She was going to hate it.
Laughter roared from one corner, a chair scraped harshly across the floor, someone shouted over a game of cards. The light inside was dim and amber, oil lamps flickering against beams darkened by years of smoke.
Elain hesitated only a breath before moving forward. She chose a small table near the wall, half-shadowed and mercifully removed from the loudest cluster of bodies. The chair felt uneven beneath her as she sat, the wood rough against her palms. A barmaid approached, eyeing her cream dress and hair with open curiosity.
“Wine,” Elain said softly. “Whatever you have.”
It arrived in a chipped glass. Deep red. Harshly fragrant. She wrapped her fingers around it and stared down at the liquid as though it might offer instruction. Yes, drinking by herself was lonely. She could feel it immediately, the isolation of it. The way the noise around her did not soften the quiet inside her chest. The way no one looked at her twice, no one asked what had driven her here. How had Nesta done this? Night after night.
Elain lifted the glass and took a careful sip. The wine burned unpleasantly down her throat, sharp and unrefined. She swallowed anyway. Matter of fact, if Nesta walked through that tavern door right now and saw her sitting there, she would likely call her foolish.
And because she was so foolish.
The first glass disappeared too quickly. The
second burned less. By the third, the noise around her had softened at the edges, the sharp corners of the tavern rounding into something distant and muffled. She drank and drank and drank. At some point, someone asked if she was waiting for someone. She did not remember what she answered. At some point, a chair scraped too close to hers and she laughed, too brightly, perhaps.
No walk home. No memory of rising from the table. No recollection of the river air against her face or the door opening to the River House. When she woke, it was to pale morning light spilling across her bedroom ceiling. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. Elain blinked slowly, grogginess clinging to her limbs like heavy silk. The room came into focus in fragments, her vanity, the drawn curtains, the faint scent of lavender once more. She shifted under the blankets and realized, with detached surprise, that she was in a clean nightgown. Not the one she had worn yesterday. Her dress was gone. Her hair had been brushed out. She was tucked neatly into her own bed.
Home. The memory refused to surface. A knock came at her door before she could attempt to piece it together. “Alive in there?” Morrigan’s voice carried through the wood, bright with amusement. Elain swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Yes.” The door opened without waiting for further invitation. Morrigan leaned casually against the frame, already dressed in something elegant and effortless, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth.
“Well,” Mor said, stepping fully into the room, “someone had a wild night.” Elain pushed herself upright slowly, wincing at the dull ache behind her eyes. “I—”
She meant to ask. How? Why? What had she done? But Morrigan lifted a hand, cutting her off gently. “I’m quite well known at all the bars,” Mor said airily. “At least by association. When a certain Archeron sister starts drinking alone, word travels.” Elain blinked. “They alerted me,” Morrigan continued, utterly unbothered. “One of the bartenders sent a message. You were… enthusiastic,” Mor added delicately. Heat crept faintly into Elain’s cheeks despite the pounding in her head.
“I carried you home,” Morrigan said. “You were surprisingly quiet about it.”
Elain looked down at her hands resting in her lap. “I don’t remember,” she admitted softly.
Mor’s expression shifted, still light, but gentler now. “That’s usually how that works.” Silence settled between them, thinner than before but not uncomfortable. “Next time,” Morrigan added, crossing her arms loosely, “if you’re going to scandalize the taverns of Velaris, at least invite me. I prefer better wine.” A faint, tired smile touched Elain’s lips. But it did not quite reach her eyes.
Morrigan watched her for another lingering second, head tilted slightly, golden hair falling over one bare shoulder. Whatever she saw there, whatever quiet ache or absence sat behind Elain’s composed expression, she did not press on it. Instead, she clapped her hands once, sharp and bright enough to make Elain flinch. “Well,” Mor declared, as if concluding a private debate with herself, “hurry and get dressed.”
Mor strode further into the room, already moving toward the wardrobe as though it belonged to her. “I don’t know what’s bothering you so much,” she said, not unkindly. “And I won’t pretend I do. But I do know there is very little in this world that cannot at least be softened by excellent shopping.” She threw open the closet doors with theatrical flourish. “New dresses. New shoes.”
Elain winced faintly at the light pouring in through the parted curtains. “Mor…”
“No,” Morrigan cut in, turning with a grin that was half-mischief, half-command. “We are not sulking in bed today. You tried taverns. Clearly, that is not your arena.” Her gaze flicked over Elain’s pale face, taking in the slight shadows beneath her eyes. “So we try shopping instead.” She pulled a gown from the rack—something soft and blush-toned, and held it up critically against Elain’s frame. “Yes. This one.”Elain let out a small, involuntary huff of laughter despite the dull ache in her skull.
“That’s better,” Mor said triumphantly. “There she is.” Elain pushed the blankets back slowly, feet touching the cool floor. The room felt steadier than it had moments ago, though her thoughts still lagged behind her movements.
“You really think shopping fixes things?” she asked quietly as she reached for the dress.
Mor’s expression softened, just a fraction.
“No,” she said honestly. She stepped closer and brushed a stray lock of hair from Elain’s face. “Now hurry. Before I change my mind and drag you to Rita’s in broad daylight.”
She allowed Morrigan to fasten the laces at her back and adjust the fall of her sleeves, to pin a small cluster of pearls into her hair and declare her “presentable to society once more.” She let herself be steered down the steps of the River House and out into the bright, forgiving morning. They ate breakfast first, if it could still be called that by the time they arrived at the café. Mor ordered sweet pastries and something sparkling and indulgent, ignoring Elain’s weak protest about her still-throbbing head.
The sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching in Morrigan’s hair as she laughed at something a passing male said. Elain smiled when expected, nodded in the right places, let the warmth of tea settle in her stomach. Then came the shops. Mor moved through Velaris like she owned it, like the city existed solely for her amusement. She swept Elain into dress boutiques, into jewelers, into perfumeries that smelled of citrus and rose and something darker beneath. She held fabrics up to Elain’s shoulders, draped shawls around her arms, pressed bangles into her hands and demanded opinions.
Elain let herself be pulled from one place to another.
She let Morrigan chatter, let the shopkeepers fuss, let the mirrors reflect a version of her that looked luminous and untouched. She tried on gowns in colors she would never have chosen herself, deep emerald, molten gold, daring crimson. Morrigan insisted on at least one scandalous purchase “for emergencies.”
They paused for midday wine that Elain sipped more cautiously this time. They bought shoes she did not need. Gloves embroidered with delicate threadwork. A small vial of perfume that smelled faintly of jasmine. The hours blurred together into something almost pleasant.
By evening, Velaris had shifted again. The sky burned orange and rose over the Sidra, lanterns flickering to life along the streets. Morrigan steered them into a restaurant overlooking the water, a place elegant but lively, where polished wood gleamed beneath candlelight and the murmur of conversation created a steady hum of warmth. They were seated by a window. The river shimmered beyond the glass, catching the last fragments of daylight. Mor had been talking for several minutes before Elain realized she had lost track of the subject entirely.
“…and then Cassian has the audacity to claim he doesn’t enjoy the attention,” Morrigan was saying, slicing into her meal with dramatic precision. “As if I haven’t seen him preen when no one in the room is watching.” Elain smiled faintly, fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. “He pretends to hate it,” Mor continued, rolling her eyes. “But he absolutely thrives on it.” Around them, people chatted freely. Cutlery clinked against plates. Laughter rose and fell like waves.
Elain watched a couple across the room lean toward one another, heads close in quiet conversation. She watched a server light a candle at an empty table. She watched the way the river reflected the lanternlight in fractured streaks. “Elain?” Mor prompted gently.
Elain blinked, pulling her attention back.
“I said you should wear the emerald one next time we go out,” Morrigan repeated, a small smile tugging at her mouth. Elain let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh.
“Perhaps,” she said. But as Mor resumed her story, something now about a disastrous courtier and a love letter, Elain’s gaze drifted once more toward the window. To be honest with herself, she did not care about anything Morrigan was saying. Not about Cassian preening. Not about Azriel. Not about scandalous gowns or flirtations or which courtier had embarrassed themselves at which function. The words washed over her like the river beyond the glass, constant, moving, impossible to hold.
Elain studied Morrigan instead. Elain found her beautiful. She also found her exhausting. Not in fault. Simply in contrast. She realized, sitting there with her hands folded neatly in her lap, that she felt like a decorative piece beside Morrigan. Arranged carefully. Pleasant to look at. Quiet. Useful when required. Mor was still speaking, something about dragging the two Illyrians to a seaside estate next week, and Elain nodded at what felt like the appropriate moment. Across the restaurant, someone broke into laughter sharp enough to turn heads. Glasses clinked. A violin began playing softly near the back wall.
Morrigan was reaching for her wine again when something shifted behind them. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even meant to be heard. Elain wouldn’t have noticed it at all if not for the tone. That sharp, conspiratorial edge people used when speaking of something they should not. Two women sat at the table just behind them, heads inclined toward one another, their voices pitched low but not low enough. “…this morning,” one was saying. “From the balcony, they said.” Elain’s attention sharpened without her meaning it to. “She threw herself,” the other woman murmured. “Can you imagine? Third-floor balcony. They found her on the stone terrace below.”
A faint clatter of silverware from another table nearly drowned the next words. “And the poor thing—she was beautiful. Older, but beautiful. Lived near the upper river district. Pale stone house with ivy climbing the front.” Elain’s breath hitched. Pale stone. Ivy. Upper river district. Her mind tried to dismiss it. Velaris had many pale stone houses. Many balconies. Many ivy-covered façades. “…had someone over recently,” the second woman added. “A decorator or gardener, I heard. Planning to redo the terrace.” The sound in the restaurant seemed to dull, as though someone had plunged her underwater.
Terrace. Redecoration. Elain felt her pulse spike sharply in her throat. “They say she jumped before anyone could stop her,” the first woman whispered. “Such a shame.” Elain’s chair felt suddenly too small. The candlelight too bright. Her breath came shorter now, shallower. Behind her ribs, her heart began to pound. She could see it, unbidden. Broken glass on the rug. Bruised arms beneath silk sleeves. Her pulse thundered louder, drowning out Morrigan’s voice entirely. “She must have been unhappy,” the second woman sighed. “Though no one ever really knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
Elain’s hand trembled. The restaurant returned all at once, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of voices, the violin’s soft tremor, but it felt distorted now, distant and warped. Her heart would not slow. For some reason, she did not know why, it felt as though the sound of it filled the entire room.
“She should have just killed her husband,” one of the women muttered at last, low and bitter.
Elain stood so abruptly her chair scraped harshly against the floor. Morrigan startled. “Elain—?”
“I need to check on Feyre,” Elain said, already stepping back from the table. Her voice did not sound like her own. It sounded thin. Strained tight as wire.
Mor rose halfway from her seat. “What? Elain, wait—” But Elain was already moving. The restaurant blurred as she pushed past tables and startled servers, the door swinging open hard enough to slam against the outer wall. Cool evening air struck her face, and she was running before she consciously decided to.
She did not know when she had started crying. Only that her vision was streaked and wet, that her breath tore from her lungs in ragged pulls. The city lights streaked past her in fractured gold. The river roared in her ears. Broken glass. Bruises. A closed door.
By the time the pale stone mansion came into view, her chest ached from the effort of breathing. She took the steps two at a time and pounded on the door. “Feyre!” she shouted, fist striking wood. “Feyre!” No answer. The silence on the other side felt wrong. She tried the handle. Locked. Without thinking, Elain stepped back and drove her shoulder forward. The lock splintered. The door burst inward with a crack of wood and metal that echoed through the entry hall.
She froze only a second. She had underestimated herself. No, she had underestimated her newfound Fae strength. “Feyre!” She ran through the halls, checking every room, every doorway. The sitting room, empty. The kitchen, dark. Paint untouched. No decorators. No meetings. Her pulse hammered against her skull as she took the stairs, nearly stumbling in her haste. She shoved open bedroom doors one by one. Nothing.
A door at the end of the corridor stood slightly ajar. Curtains stirred in the evening wind.
Elain’s heart stopped. She rushed forward and pushed through. Feyre stood near the edge.
Not perched, but close enough. Too close. Her hands gripped the stone railing. Her shoulders shook. She was crying. The wind tugged at her hair, lifting it from her face. At the sound of Elain’s footsteps, Feyre turned. Her eyes were swollen. Red-rimmed. Devastated. “Elain,” she said. Just that. Elain crossed the distance between them in seconds.
“I’m here,” she breathed, voice shaking violently. “I’m here. I’m here now.” Feyre’s composure shattered entirely at that. A sob tore free from her chest.
“I can’t take another day of this,” Feyre choked. “I can’t.” Elain’s hands flew to her, gripping her arms, pulling her away from the railing. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Please—don’t.” Feyre resisted for only a moment before collapsing into her sister’s hold. Elain dragged her backward, away from the edge, pulling her down to the balcony floor. She wrapped her arms around Feyre tightly, fiercely, as though she could keep her there by force alone.
Feyre was sobbing openly now, shaking against her.
“I have to end it myself,” Feyre cried.
Elain buried her face in Feyre’s hair, tears streaming unchecked down her own cheeks.“No,” she sobbed. Feyre clung to her.
“I’m not going to die,” Feyre whispered hoarsely, almost to herself. “I’m not.”
Elain pulled back just enough to look at her, gripping her face between trembling hands.
“You’re not,” Elain said fiercely. Her voice changed then. Something colder settling into it. “We’ll fix it,” she said, breath hitching. “We’ll fix it.” Feyre’s gaze flickered, confused, and Elain swallowed hard.
“We’ll kill him.” The words tasted foreign in her mouth. But she did not retract them.
