“The HeartStone is broken,” Enya suddenly says. Mabh lowers her hand and looks at the artifact she is holding. The dryad is right. A sizable fragment of the HeartStone is missing. Croi knows where it is. She can feel it inside her chest, the only source of warmth in her body.

Mabh’s eyes turn on her currently prone body. Croi is conscious of the second ruthlessness lays claim to the expression in the older fae’s eyes. She will dig out the fragment that remained behind.

“Mabh!” A roar comes from the open doors of the central hall, halting Mabh in her steps. It is Aodh.

The pain surges and Croi closes her eyes, weak against it.

Is this how we end? We didn’t even get to find out what our face looked like in the end. Still, it will be good to stop hurting.

Just when Croi is ready to let go, a slight warmth lands on her shoulder. A voice soaked in tears calls her. “Fiadh! I’m here. Hold on! Ceara, hold her for me. Hold tight. We need to get her out of here.”

Croi smells the scent of spice and feels someone embrace her. She hears swords being drawn, words being thrown. A burst of magick envelops her, and in the next moment, the familiar smell of the Wilde Forest. She’s so cold. So very cold.

“Set me on fire. Please. Please,” Croi begs whoever might be listening. No one responds, and she thinks no one will, but in the last moment before the cold wins, before she is gone, there is a crackle, then heat, blessed heat, and then. Oblivion.

EPILOGUE

THE TOUCH OF A HAND on my arm and the smell of orange zest wake me. I open my eyes to the curve of Irial’s lips pursed above mine, a peach ripe for the taking. Some regret tangles me. Would he have touched those lips to mine had I remained asleep a little longer? Should I close my eyes again and pretend? But alas, he knows I am awake.

A flowery bower is my current home; a canopy of roses dances above me while long vines full of pink and cream blooms sway around me. I should be intoxicated by the fragrance of the flowers, and yet, all I smell are oranges.

Irial’s eyes are green, yellow, and full of wonder. He is sitting so close to me, I can feel the warmth of his skin and, dare I say, hear the pounding of his heart. Does it beat for me? I wish it would.

The question at this moment: Which one of us is the ghost?

A pulse beats rapidly in his throat, a butterfly batting its wings. When I look at him closer, he swallows. I wonder if he tastes like oranges. I lean forward and press my lips to the pulse in his throat. The salt is in his skin. I lick it.

He shudders. “You kissed me!”

“You can do things like that in dreams,” I tell him, as solemn as the priest I once saw in a human church.