“Everyone is frightened of death,” I muttered petulantly. “Those who say differently are drunk.” Unable to help it, my eyes drifted back to his body. Fresh gorge rose. I had a finite amount of time left with Ansel, yet here I stood, arguing with him atop his makeshift pyre. Perhaps these waters hadn’t healed me, after all. Perhaps whatever was broken inside me couldn’t be fixed.

Despite his harsh words, his insistence at our new reality, he lifted my chin with a gentle finger. His brows furrowed with concern. Still Ansel. “I’m sorry. Don’t look if it upsets you.” He continued in a milder tone. “No one wants to die, but death comes for us all.”

I scoffed. It was an angry, ugly sound. “Don’t feed me that shit. I don’t want platitudes.”

“They aren’t platitudes.” Dropping his hand, he stepped backward, and I couldn’t help it. I looked down again.

“Of course they are.” Hot tears brimmed over my eyes, burning tracks down my cheeks. I wiped them away furiously. “Death isn’t a happy ending, Ansel. It’s sickness and rot and betrayal. It’s fire and pain and”—my voice cracked—“and never getting to say goodbye.”

“Death isn’t an ending at all, Lou. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s the beginning.” Quieter still, he added, “You’ve lived in fear too long.”

“Fear has helped me survive,” I snapped.

“Fear has kept you from living.”

I backed away from his corpse, from the flames, from the knowing gleam in his gaze. “You don’t—”

He didn’t allow me to finish, however, waving his hand. The scene before us dissipated—as simple as brushing aside the smoke—and another formed instead: a crackling hearth, a smooth stone floor, and a gleaming wooden table. Copper pans hung above it, and flowerpots of eucalyptus cluttered the far windowsill. Snowflakes fell beyond its panes, illuminated by starlight.

At the oven, Reid pulled forth a baking stone, and the sticky buns atop it sizzled and smoked. He’d burned them slightly, their tops a shade too brown, but still he turned to me—exorbitantly pleased with himself—grinning and flushed from the heat. Coco and Beau sat around the table, mixing what looked like cream. Vanilla and spice perfumed the air.

I sank into the chair next to them, limbs trembling. Ansel took the last free seat.

Rapt, I watched as Beau plucked a bun from the stone, dipped it straight into the cream, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth without a word.

“’eez a’ burnt,” he protested, face convoluting in distaste. Or perhaps pain. Steam still rolled from the buns, and as such, from his open mouth. Coco waved his breath from her face, eyes rolling skyward.

“You’re disgusting.”