Sense these things—because her sister was an almost unicorn. Was that what she meant?

“But what about all this?” Claire asked, pointing to Sophie’s strange outfit. She looked like she belonged in an old oil painting and not at all like she should be on a beach.

“Hey, let’s get you inside,” Sophie said, gently brushing a wayward curl off Claire’s forehead. “You’re shivering. I can tell you everything once you’re dry.”

“Okay but … have you actually seen any Spydens?” Claire asked, eyeing the strange house and the open door warily.

“Don’t worry—it’s safe. I’ll explain everything. I promise. But now that the sun has set, we should, you know …” Sophie didn’t have to say anything more, because Claire knew what would happen when the sun set: the wraiths would begin to stir.

No one knew where Arden’s hordes of wraiths had come from, but they had started to appear around the same time the unicorns had begun to go extinct. They were creatures of coldness and shadow, their forms skeleton-like but horrifically elongated, with odd swinging gaits, and they could wield fear like sharp claws. According to Arden lore, Queen Estelle was supposed to be able to defeat them. The legend had been kind of right. Because while Queen Estelle might be able to defeat them, she had no reason to: the creatures of terror obeyed her every command.

Claire quietly watched Sophie bend down and sling Claire’s Hollow Pack over her shoulder. And when she felt her big sister wrap an arm around her shoulder, Claire let herself sink in. This was how they always were, and maybe this was how they would always be.

Together.

They skirted the scalloped edge of the sea and made their way up the driftwood stairs and to the open door.

A strange smell tickled Claire’s nose as she stepped inside, but she brushed it away like a crumb and took in her surroundings. It was dark, except for a few embers that glowed in the small black stove at the far side of the room and provided enough light to see. It wasn’t as cozy as Aquila Malchain’s gold-and-blue-painted cottage, nor was it as airy as Claire’s tent in Woven Root, but it was clean, and the spare wooden furniture had a certain elegance to it.

The only thing that hinted at luxury was a dusty tapestry that hung over a spinning wheel. Claire wondered if a spinning wheel could turn straw into gold here, but there was no straw in sight, just a basket of lumpy wool and a blue sleeve.

A jolt of electricity shot through her spine.

Stepping away from Sophie, Claire hurried over to the basket. A royal-blue cloak—just like what Royalists wore—lay there like a deflated balloon.