My stomach growls. The sky is dark through the window above my garden, night insects singing alongside the quiet notes of Julio’s guitar.

I gather my brushes and carry them to the sink, turn on the faucet, and work the paint free with soap. A hint of smoke carries on a breeze through the open window, as if conjured from the chimney in the painting itself.

I pause in front of the basin, my hand stilling around the brushes.

I shut off the tap, then the music, bristling as the smell of smoke thickens.

Slowly, I set the brushes on the counter, my thoughts leaping to Lyon’s memo about the handful of rogue Seasons no one has been able to trace. A loud click echoes somewhere in the villa. My head snaps up, eyes darting toward the ceiling as the lights turn off, plunging my studio into darkness.

“Jack?” I call out. I reach out with my magic, into the roots of the trees surrounding the villa. I sense no pain—nothing burning.

Wiping my wet hands on my smock, I creep to the window and draw in a deep breath. The smoke doesn’t taste like magic. I’m certain the smell doesn’t belong to an Autumn. Maybe not even a human. There’s no acrid bite of cigarettes coming from the woods.

I take off my smock and lay it across the stool. As I open the studio door, another click rings through the villa, and the lights in the hall extinguish. I stiffen at another click as the training room goes dark, then the game room beyond it. . . .

My mind reaches for a root.

“Jack?” I step tentatively out of my studio, nearly tripping over something on the floor.

My mouth parts around a fragile gasp.

A tiny white votive flickers in the hall. A lily—one single perfect lily—rests on a folded slip of paper beside it.

I bend down to pick them up. Flower held to my chest, I peek down the hall, but no one’s there. I unfold the note, angling it toward the candlelight.

Run away with me tonight.

No transmitters, no cell phones.

Just you and me, off the grid . . .

A trail of white votives lights a path to the veranda. I creep to the edge and peer over the rail. Jack stands in the darkened courtyard below, stoking a crackling campfire beside a carefully arranged ring of stones. A picnic blanket is spread on the grass, complete with a box of greasy take-out pepperoni pizza that I can smell from up here. A bag of marshmallows and two sweating bottles of beer rest beside it.

Jack’s face glows in the soft orange light, and my heart flutters when he smiles up at me.