With Lin’s encouragement, I made my way through the crowd, barely feeling the press of people against me before they parted to make way, my face numb and thoughts spinning wild—and then a sudden, fierce spark of elation lit deep in my gut. Everything I couldn’t have, all the things being a Harlow had denied me, the scars that I still bore . . . none of it mattered anymore. Because I was about to be the greatest possible Someone I could imagine. The magical Victor of this town, and the voice of Thistle Grove.

A new kind of history in the making, and the chance to make it my own.

My hands shook as I stepped onto the podium beside Talia, but she steadied me with an arm wound around my waist, nudging my hip with hers. Lilah looked at me like she was half happy for me, and half hated my entire guts—which, at this point, was understandable.

“Do you, Scion Harlow, accept the wreath and all that it entails?” she asked, with exasperated emphasis, like, Please no one pull any further shit, this is not the day.

“I do,” I said, my voice shaking only just a little, and this time, to my utter surprise, the room exploded into applause; from the Thorns and Harlows, and even the Avramovs, once they saw their matriarch clapping for me with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. A sardonic smile hovered on her mouth, like she wasn’t wholly in favor of this sudden reversal, but she certainly thought it interesting.

To be fair, she’d had an entire lifetime of experience at being baited and switched by Talia. She was probably the one who’d taught her how to do it at all.

In the leftmost corner of the ballroom, I finally spotted Gareth, flanked by a cluster of his cronies. He was giving me a sardonic slow clap, an expression of cultivated boredom glazing his handsome face. But his eyes flashed when our gazes met, with something like deep—and deeply grudging—respect, and he dropped his chin to give me the very tiniest of nods, like, I see you, Emmy Harlow.

I didn’t return the nod, but I held his stare until he dropped it first, a ruddy flush blotching up his neck.

Not that I needed recognition from him, but it still rocked to know he’d never have the luxury of forgetting my face again.

Then the leaves were whirling all around me, the hovering moons waxing full all at once. The wreath settled on my head, and I was swept off the podium, crowded by a breathless crush of Harlow joy. My nana was the first to reach me, wrapping me in a ferocious hug as she declared, “You frigging crushed it, my Emmy . . . I’m so goddess-damned proud of you, peep!” in the kind of ringing tones that carried even across the growing clamor in the hall.

After her, my aunts Vivienne and Felicity pressed in, followed by their partners and kids, and my father’s cousins—and finally, my parents, both with tears streaming down their faces from beneath their masks.