Graeson joined me and gestured ahead, leaving the choice of direction up to me. Even his sensitive nose must have trouble parsing the fresher path due to the dankness and moldy smells. I chose right, and we walked straight into a dead end.

The wall curved, like a bubble, and inside of the circular alcove, a rusty nail protruded. Hanging from the nail a wad of fabric drip, drip, dripped a rivulet that diverged around me. The pattern… It wasn’t possible.

Fat moons.

Grinning stars.

Lori.

A crack rang out when my knees buckled, and I crashed to the floor, a supplicant before my own version of a holy relic. I smelled blood, but I didn’t feel the pain. I felt…nothing. Less than numb. Anesthetized.

“Ellis.”

Hazel eyes flecked with gold filled my vision as Graeson squatted in front of me. His arms threaded under mine and held me upright until my head stopped spinning.

“What’s wrong?” He raked his gaze over me, searching for wounds. “What happened?”

Trembling lips pressed together, I shook my head and pushed him back to give me breathing room. It took a few tries before I could stand, and a few tries more than that to get my legs to swing one in front of the other. Slowly, painfully, I approached the alcove. Reading my shock, Graeson flanked me, giving me a moment to absorb what I was seeing while watching our backs.

I gathered the tattered nightgown in my fist and searched for the tag. I flipped it up with my thumb, and there they were, initials written in the strong block letters of my mother’s hand with a black permanent marker.

LGE

Lori Grace Ellis.

I crushed the gown to my chest. I was already soaked through. More water wasn’t going to hurt me. Holding this—this hurt. It was impossible. Lori was gone. Taken by the sea. Her body was never recovered. That meant this gown, the one she wore that terrible night we explored the beach, should have been as lost as she was. Yet here it was, in my arms, as my sister never would be again.

The pattern was over a decade old. The fabric should have been out of print. The gown couldn’t be an original. Was this meant to be yet another taunt? Another token that would have showed up on my steps one day? Where had Charybdis found it to give Harlow? A thrift store? Did killer fae shop on eBay? How had he known the significance? How had he copied Mom’s handwriting? How had he known to?

“My sister—” my voice broke, “—wore this the night she…” A sob attempted to break through, almost snapping my sternum in the process. Arms folded around me, I held the gown plastered to me, a hug that would never reach the tiny body that had once worn it. “This… It can’t be hers. It’s not possible.”