Miriam looked at the painting of Baba Yaga and had an idea that her brain immediately told her to run away from, so she knew it must be the right thing to do.

“I’m going to need you to get me some supplies,” she said. “And keep everyone out of here for the next twenty-four hours.”

Cole watched her for a long time, then nodded. Unfolding from the floor, he took her face in his hands and locked eyes with her.

“I’ve never believed in anyone the way I believe in you. You have my sword, Mimi Blum.”

She jumped up so she could throw her arms around his neck, and they stood together while she inhaled his smell for courage. No matter what happened in this world, she was never going to be alone, because Cole would never let her fall. That thought rang through her head, clear as a bell, as he literally held her up in the air.

Once he was gone, she dropped deeply into her art zone. While making the ornaments for Cass’s tree, she had immersed herself in the process, losing track of time and going into a meditative state of Mod Podge and sparkle to channel the spirit of Cass.

This was different.

As Miriam gessoed a canvas for the first time in a decade, her soul relaxed into her body in a way she’d forgotten was even possible. She thought she’d been present—at Cass’s shiva, at Hanukkah, in bed with Noelle—but laying paint down on a canvas required her to exist in her body so fiercely and completely that she finally understood why Noelle thought she was always on the verge of flight.

She had been, without even knowing. She’d never even met Noelle with her whole self present.

As day turned into dusk, Miriam settled into the corners of herself she hadn’t used in so long she’d assumed the locks had rusted shut. The painting, both the act and the subject, were instinctive. They came from the parts of herself that existed without intellect or distance, and to access them she had to let herself simply be.

As dusk turned to darkest night, she finally let herself feel everything she had been scared of feeling for Noelle—every dream for their future, every ounce of yearning. She poured her adoration into her paint, her lust and her hope and the electricity she felt every time they touched.