“I can mend your shirt, if you’d like,” Célie offered. “I’ve a needle and thread in my bag—” But she broke off when Coco continued to laugh wildly. When that laughter deepened into something darker. Crazed. Beau pulled her into his arms without hesitation. Her shoulders shook now for an entirely different reason, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing incoherently. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other across her back, and he held her tightly, fiercely, murmuring soft words in her ear. Words I couldn’t hear. Words I didn’t want to hear.

I looked away.

This pain wasn’t for me. This vulnerability. I felt like an interloper. Watching them together—the way Beau rocked her gently, the way she clutched him for dear life—it brought a lump to my throat. Anyone could see where this was headed. Coco and Beau had danced around each other for months. Just as clear, however, was the inevitable heartbreak. Neither was in a position to start a relationship. They shared too much hurt between them. Too much grief. Jealousy. Spite. Even well-adjusted, the two would’ve been wrong for each other. Like water and oil.

I glanced up at Lou. We’d been wrong for each other too.

And so, so right.

With a sigh, I started up the path, my footsteps heavy. My thoughts heavier. Célie followed quietly behind. When we reached Lou, I laced her cold fingers through mine, and we turned to face the lighthouse.

Beau and Coco joined us several minutes later. Though her eyes remained swollen and red, she no longer cried. Instead she held her shoulders straight. Proud. Riddled with holes, Beau’s shirt still smoked slightly, revealing more skin than prudent in January. They didn’t speak of what had transpired, and neither did we.

We studied the lighthouse in silence.

It rose from the earth like a crooked finger beckoning to the sky. A single stone tower. Dirty. Dilapidated. Dark against the dawn. No flames flickered in the basin beneath the slanted roof. “The stable boy said no one lights the torches anymore,” Célie said, her voice low. I didn’t ask why she whispered. The hair on my neck had lifted inexplicably. The shadows here seemed to collect thicker than natural. “He said they haven’t been lit for years.”

“The stable boy talks a lot.” Beau glanced between us nervously. He kept his arm firm around Coco’s waist. “Do we . . . has anyone actually seen a cauchemar?”

“I told you,” Célie said. “It was a great hulking beast of tooth and claw, and it—”

“Darling, no.” Beau lifted his free hand with a forced smile. “I meant”—he struggled for the right words for a moment before shrugging—“has anyone else seen a cauchemar? Preferably someone who didn’t run away screaming?”