The sluagh pointed through the hole. I crouched beside it. At first I saw nothing but darkness below. Then it was as if a peephole opened, drilling all the way down, level after level, until I could, improbably, see two rooms with a wall between them. And in the rooms, two men, action-figure size. I knew who they were, though. I would always know.

“They’re fine,” she said. “Before you ask.”

I wasn’t going to. I knew in a glance that they were all right, my anxiety instantly settling.

“Now comes the part—” she began.

“Don’t bother.”

Her lips tightened, that smug composure rippling.

“I know what comes next,” I said. “This is the part where you tell me to choose. We’ve done this dance before. I remember the steps. You insist. I refuse. You threaten. I continue to refuse.”

“The last time—”

“You backed down. Now you’ll warn me that won’t happen again. I’ve had time to think about my choice. Here’s my decision: take away my cure.”

“That isn’t one of the options, Eden.”

“Why not? You don’t need me. You never did.” I rose and faced her. “I finally figured it out. There’s always that piece that doesn’t quite fit, and the temptation is to play two-year-old, smash it in and say good enough. But if you’re not two years old, you know it doesn’t fit, and that keeps plucking at you, whispering you’ve missed something. That means you need to re-evaluate. Throw the puzzle in the air and start over.”

I took a step toward her. “You say you want me to choose the sluagh. But why? Your reasons are bullshit. No side can force me to choose it. The Cŵn Annwn know that. Even the Tylwyth Teg reluctantly admit it. They woo me. You threaten and punish, and you say it’ll achieve the same goal, but it won’t. Because you don’t have the same goal.”