A knock broke her from her thoughts. She shot up; mascara stained her cream pillow. She flipped it over.

‘Come in,’ she croaked. She winced, realising it was too quiet to hear. But the door cracked open, anyway.

A tall figure peeked around the door. She saw the pointed ears.

Kellan pattered in, holding what looked to be a box of pastries.

They hadn’t really spoken since he held her when she cried. The world may have forgotten what happened to Canden, thanks to the Rennigans. She continued visualising his death overnight.

She would see Kellan cloaked in the darkness of the room, hunched over Canden’s flailing body, driving the gilded dagger into his chest. She also saw her blonde-haired attacker going up in flames.

He sat the pastries down on her bed. ‘Agatha said you hadn’t eaten dinner. I got these pastries before we knew—’

She stared up at him; an overwhelming sense of weariness caused her to shiver and cringe away.

He lowered his head and slouched, sliding the box towards her. She softened when she realised what he was trying to do, make himself smaller to put her at ease.

Bags rested under his eyes, and she wondered if he hadn’t been able to sleep like her.

She grabbed the chocolate croissant and took a bite and chewed it.

‘It’s stale.’ She cried with it still in her mouth. He chuckled slightly, handing her a napkin.

She snatched it from him.

Edington’s word from the funeral rung in her head of his words about trusting her friends. Old and new.

Canden deserved what happened to him. It was Elnora’s fault too, and she had spoken to her since the funeral.

‘Is it because I killed Canden? Is that why you won’t talk to me?’

‘I know why you did it, he deserved it, but . . .’ She paused. ‘I just wish I didn’t see it.’

‘I wish the same,’ he said. ‘I should have told you to leave. I was supposed to be watching over him.’

He was talking about Sam.

‘I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight.’ He fidgeted. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten distracted.’

She breathed. The night was coming back to her; she wanted to—

How they were so close to—

The breath escaped her. His eyes were pleading with her, but she didn’t know what he wanted, and she didn’t want to ask.

She needed to change the subject. She had to. She shouldn’t let things get too complicated.

He reached for her, tilting her chin up, her cheeks wet with tears. He used his thumbs to wipe the remaining tears.

‘Why were you crying?’ His velvety voice returned, reminding her of when he read her to sleep.

‘I’m a broken witch,’ she whimpered. ‘I don’t work.’

He pulled back.

‘No, you’re not,’ he reassured.