Croi bites her lips and inhales, holding back tears. She wraps her arms around herself. “I’m glad I don’t have to face whatever is coming by myself. I know you are me and I know this makes no sense, but I’m glad you exist.”

Her other self doesn’t reply. Then again, she doesn’t need to.

Croi glances at Tinder, who is asleep on the same pillow she used. The pixie’s face is gentle and innocent in repose. Croi leans down and gives her a butterfly kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for being my friend.”

Straightening, she shivers and looks around. Finding a shawl on the blanket on the bed, she wraps it around her shoulders and watches the shadows congregate in the corners of the room that the moonlight is not able to reach.

Minutes pass before midnight arrives. Lamentations fill the air, mourning the passing of the Robber Prince. Croi squeezes her eyes shut, determined not to cry.

It is time.

Knowing that walking to the central hall is an impossibility for her broken body, Croi sends a wordless plea to the Caisleán.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the air pops, and Croi sees gold and green magick motes coming together to form a wavering female shape that blinks in and out of existence. After a moment or two of flickering, the shape stabilizes, and the corporeal form of the Caisleán appears.

The Caisleán’s fae form stands a cautious distance away from Croi, as if afraid. Her face is blank, as though she doesn’t know how to twist her features into expressions, but her emotions are so strong that Croi can taste them. Right now, the taste is the sour lime of panic.

Croi’s magicks spark feebly in her presence.

Help us.

The Caisleán’s fae body hesitates before she walks to the door leading outside and looks over her shoulder. Croi takes two breaths and feels the air burn its way down her throat. She pulls the shawl tighter around her and tries to get to her feet. She fails. Then she grabs the back of a chair close by and tries again. It takes her a while, but she finally regains her feet. Croi staggers after the Caisleán, and when she gets close to her, the Caisleán reaches out and opens the door before disappearing through it.

Croi follows her, choosing to trust her. At this point, the Caisleán is perhaps the only ally she has. Besides, choices are a luxury Croi can no longer afford.

Croi finds herself at the top of a grand staircase that leads down into a hall that is in the process of decay. Ivy has died over walls that used to be covered by finely woven tapestry. The tattered remains of moth-eaten tapestries lie on the ground at intervals. Light green moss carpets the floor of the hall, while the ceiling has been reclaimed by bare branches, trees stuck in perpetual winter. Grief permeates the air.

Croi clutches the banister of the staircase and pants. The effort it took her to just walk a few steps from her bed to the top of the stairs has nearly spent her. The pain inside is electrifying every nerve in her body. She closes her eyes briefly, trying to muster up the courage to walk down the stairs.