Though he hadn’t been born a Harlow, my grandfather Sebastian had been much closer to what I considered our classic family disposition: reserved, self-sufficient, with a pained distaste for any type of drama. But they’d had a love affair for the ages before he died, so there must have been something under all that deceptively still water. Or maybe it was the whole opposites attract thing, who knew.

For some reason that made me think of Talia; the twisty paradox of her, like some captivating Gordian knot I was still struggling to comprehend. The ferocious girl who growled at pumpkin fiends as she stalked her way into battle, and also baked babkas to show people she loved how much she cared. The girl who embraced darkness, tended and cared for the phantoms that lived within it, while shedding such a scintillating light that it was damn near impossible to look away from her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Nana Caro said, one microbladed eyebrow arched. “I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s not just the mantle making you look so fraught.”

“No,” I admitted, with a gusting sigh. “There’s . . . someone. It’s really new, still, but it’s making my whole situation, you know. Another layer of complicated.”

“Ah.” She nodded, setting down her cup. “That’s another thing they don’t tell you about the mantle spell. It tends to clarify things, makes you sink more into yourself. And sometimes that can be a dicey proposition. Say, if you’re already at some kind of crossroads.”

I nodded a little shakily, beset by expanding tightness in my throat, the salty smart of tears. Striving for some chill, I took a breath and looked around my grandmother’s eclectic apartment. A cauldron hung in the granite fireplace and one of my mother’s handmade besom brooms was laid across the lintel, juxtaposed against modern furniture, framed prints of Yayoi Kusama installations Nana had likely seen in person, and a hanging spiral of Turkish mosaic lamps she’d probably bought at an actual souk. Unlike most founding family members, Nana traveled every year—taking adventure cruises with friends, jetting off on solo excursions, and generally being the type of person who may or may not be on a hot air balloon above a vineyard at any given time.

Nana might have been a Thistle Grove witch, but she’d never let magic define her life to the exclusion of everything else; another thing I deeply admired about her.

“What is it, peep?” she said more gently, abandoning her sofa chair to come perch beside me on the staunchly Scandinavian couch. “I know you said you needed advice, but it can’t be the Gauntlet you’re crying over—you’ve always had better sense. So, what is this really about?”

“You’re right . . . it’s not the Gauntlet, not really. Or even the person I mentioned.” I’d come here specifically to get her take on how we might best Gareth in the final round, but suddenly that felt very far beside the point. And while a lot of this was about Talia—probably more than I wanted to admit—the chain reaction she and the mantle’s spell were catalyzing had even more to do with me. “It’s me, Nana. I’m the problem. I’ve done all this work to get to where I am, and now . . . it’s like I’m flailing. Like I’m not sure about anything, anymore. About who I am, what I want for myself. Where I even want to be.”