I remember on the ship Fione said something idly about saltwater being easier to float in, and she’s right. Floating in the warmth of the ocean is nothing like trying to float in the bone-chillingly cold rivers of a Cavanos forest. The spring Lucien and I bathed in was beautiful, certainly, but the ocean has its own charm. I start to think, as my conniving brain is wont to do. If I could live anywhere, if at the end of all this death and destruction I could start over like I’d always wanted to, in a shack somewhere no one knows me, it would be on the ocean. Somewhere close to the ocean. I’d adore this view every day. To fall asleep to the sound of the waves, and wake up to the sound of the waves, to bathe in sun and sand and a sound that drowns out every worry—that’s my new idea of perfection.

The blue sky—Evlorasin’s up there somewhere.

Varia’s out there somewhere. Killing people. Causing suffering. Suffering herself.

The tide brings a soft something against the top of my floating head, and I look up. Dark, wet hair, a proud chin.

“Lucien,” I say, staying still. His smile is soft as he puts his hands beneath my back, holding me as I float and he stands, acting as a rock, a dock, an anchor to the world. My anchor. I don’t know where Malachite’s gone—probably to the beach to dry off like a disgruntled puppy. But really, I don’t need to know. All that exists now is Lucien’s comforting presence, the sweet warmth of the water’s embrace and his hands on my back. I can feel my hair floating all around my head like a halo, flickers of gold catching in the sun and in his dark hawk eyes.

My own voice sounds muffled through my submerged ears as I ask quietly, “What will we do? When it’s over?”

“A question for the ages.” There’s a beat, and then Lucien smiles down at me. “Eat? What’s the human food you like most?”

“Cinnamon sweetrounds,” I answer immediately.

“Then the lady will have a plate of them,” he asserts, then pauses. “We could always get married.”

“After all that fuss I went through being a Spring Bride?” I huff. “Absolutely not. We can do a few hundred years of trial runs, first.”

“I might not be around for all of it.” He laughs. My smile pulls at my lips, my eyes.

“And with any luck, neither will I,” I say.