I carry my running shoes through the villa, down the long, open-air corridor past Fleur’s paintings to my office, pausing at the kitchen on the way. The jays squawk as I tear into a cinnamon roll Fleur left on a plate for me, awaiting the crumbs she always scatters over the edge of the balcony for them while she eats. Even the branches of the jacaranda seem to lean toward the villa, angled toward Fleur and her earth magic like she’s their sun.

Leaning a hip against the butcher block island, I drag a finger over the puddle of hardening icing left on the plate. A paper is pinned underneath it, and I lick the last of the sugar from my fingers, careful not to leave sugary prints as I pull the torn page of a magazine from under the rim. It’s an ad, featuring a glossy color photo of a streetscape in Amsterdam, a dreamy-eyed couple on a bridge, promising a week of romance. A handwritten date is circled with a heart—March 11, the day Fleur first agreed to run away with me, which she’s deemed our official anniversary.

I tack the ad for the riverboat cruise against the side of the fridge with a magnet, alongside the others: a railway tour of the Canadian Rockies, a backpacking trip through Chile, gastronomic tours of Italy and Greece. Now that we’re free of the Observatory, Fleur wants to see the world. She wants to go everywhere, because I promised her we would. But as her Handler, my number one priority is to keep her safe. Nestled in our villa in Cuernavaca, the City of Eternal Spring, surrounded by Fleur’s garden and a security system I’ve spent more than a year perfecting, I can do that.

But out there?

We barely survived our journey to get here. It took all eight of us—four Seasons, each with our own magic, and four Handlers to keep an eye on our backs—just to make it this far. We lost friends and allies along the way, pieces of ourselves. We all came away changed—me more than anyone.

I fling open the door of the fridge in search of some milk to chase away the stubborn lump in my throat. The cold air inside condenses, tumbling out in billowing smazelike clouds, and I lean into them, eyes closed, letting the chilled air roll over me. The hum of the refrigerator drowns out the birds on the terrace, until the kitchen disappears and I’m back at the frozen pond with Fleur. My fingers curl around the cool steel of the fridge door handle. I miss the crackle of frost on my skin. Miss the way Fleur looked at me when I made it snow for her. Miss the zing of magic that coursed through us when we touched.