The new moon curse dictated so much of our lives it was almost impossible for me to imagine living in a realm where nightmares didn’t hold such power over us. But Phelan was right; if someone managed to open the mountain doors and ascend to the fortress in the clouds, and then furthermore break the century-old curse, the new moon would become a peaceful night. There would be no need for wardens.

“How can the curse be broken?” I asked. Not even the mountain descendants in Hereswith had truly known themselves, and their stories had been passed down to them from ancestors who had lived through the sundering.

“There are only rumors,” Nura said. “But most madcaps believe it will come down to defeating a nightmare in the fortress.”

“Phelan, I’m telling you,” Olivette warned, pointing a speared olive at him. “If you so much as dare run off to the mountains without telling me and Nura, I’ll kill you.”

“You have nothing to worry over,” he said.

“You talked about it once.”

“Yes, once! When we were ten years old, Oli!” Phelan countered. “Do you even know how impossible it would be to reach the mountain summit? The doors are enchanted, and no one has been able to open them.”

“It would be an adventure—”

“That would see us all killed,” Phelan concluded.

“Anyway, Anna,” Olivette said with a sigh. “You’ll let us know if he changes his mind?”

“I promise,” I said, and to her great delight, I clinked my goblet to hers and Nura’s.

When Phelan and I left the tavern, it was half past eight and deeply dark, and while the storm had ceased, the streets were slick with water, shining like obsidian in the lantern light. A chill had crept into the air; it finally felt like October.

“Are you cold, Miss Neven?” Phelan walked in stride beside me. He kept his gaze fixed ahead of us, because the streets were still busy, but I sensed that he missed nothing. Not even a slight shiver of mine.

“I’m fine,” I said.

We continued onward in awkward silence, but I was pleased to discover that I was beginning to recognize the crosshatching of streets. We took a turn onto a quiet lane; oak trees stood as sentries along the curb and it smelled like moss and damp leaves and musty stones. We were nearly to his town house.

“May I walk you home?” Phelan asked, just before we reached his gate. He finally looked at me. A thread of dark hair had escaped his customary ribbon. I wondered how he would look with his hair loose, unbound. As if he knew my trail of thoughts, he frowned. I smiled in return.

“No, but thank you, Mr. Vesper.” I took a step backward, but my eyes remained on his. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

He said nothing, but the rain returned, a cold whisper through the oak boughs.