In a different world, I might’ve been Louise Clément, daughter of Florin and Morgane. Perhaps they would’ve loved each other, adored each other, filling our home in East End with sticky buns and potted eucalyptus—and children. Lots and lots of children. . . . We could’ve been happy. We could’ve been a family.

Family. It’d been an errant thought in the catacombs, surrounded by dust and death. It’d been a simple, foolish dream. Now, however, my chest ached as I glanced from Coco to Reid to Beau. To Ansel. Perhaps I hadn’t found parents or brothers or sisters, but I’d found a family regardless. Sitting with them at my table—in my home—that dream didn’t feel so foolish, after all.

And I wanted it. Desperately.

“You never know.” Coco lifted a casual shoulder as she closed the drawer. “Maybe Absalon has found peace.”

Peace.

With a long-suffering sigh, Beau helped himself to another sticky bun in response.

I couldn’t shake the word, however, as Ansel’s eyes locked with mine, and the levity of the scene fell away. Even the firelight seemed to darken. And that pull in my stomach—it returned with a vengeance. This time, however, I couldn’t discern exactly where it led. Part of it seemed to tow me away from this place, away from Ansel, but the other part . . . I tilted my head, studying it closer.

The other part seemed to tow me toward him.

A siren’s call.

With another sad shake of his head, he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “No, Lou.”

Beau lifted a finger, pointing it between us accusingly. “Stop it. No secrets allowed.”

Coco returned to her seat and cut the deck. The cards snapped between her deft fingers. “I do hate when they whisper.” Her eyes flicked to Ansel, and she added, albeit playfully, “I am her best friend, thanks very much. If she’s going to whisper with anyone, it should be me.”

“It should be me.” Reid crossed his arms, eyes sharp on the deck in her hand. “And I saw that.”

She flicked the card from her sleeve, grinning without remorse.

“I’m okay, Lou,” Ansel continued softly, ignoring them. He didn’t so much as glance in their direction as the protests began anew. When my chin began to quiver—when the room blurred through my tears—he lifted a hand to stroke my back, consoling me. “I’m okay. You’re going to be okay too.”

The tears fell thick and fast now, salty on my lips, and my entire body trembled. I forced myself to look at his face, to memorize him—the color of his eyes and the shape of his smile, the sound of his voice and the scent of his clothes, like sunshine. Pure sunshine. That was Ansel. Always the warmest of us all. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.”