Ranka whispered to Aramis about the way the moss would grow up to the windows, the elk that would graze in the meadow over the hill, the berry-bright cardinals they’d lure in with sunflower seeds. She told her of the snows that would come so swiftly, so heavily, it would startle her. She told her of raw red sunsets and evening skies that deepened like a bruise, of the blush-chested robins that were the first homecoming of spring, the other covens whose witches would venture through their land in pursuit of a stray deer, the fangwolves that would slink down from the mountains when the herds ran thin. She told her of their mornings—how they’d wake to nothing but golden light and birdsong to eat from a garden that grew rich and wild off dark mountain-fed soil, and she told her of their nights, of the velvet blackness that would blanket the sky and wrap around them so thoroughly, it would feel like they were the only ones left alive in this world.

She told her about how no one would ever find them. Not unless they wanted them to. How for the first time in her life, Aramis Sunra would be away from the eyes of the world, and she could be wholly, entirely herself.

And finally, they would rest.

“I hope we get to build it,” Aramis said, her voice far away. The scent of slow-spun sugar filled the air. Not the saccharine, fake sugar that was pumped into candy or pastries—she smelled of the soft tang of thistle flowers and the warm sweetness of honey, wrapped in a whisper of mint.

Ranka’s knees buckled. Sometimes the people Ranka had stolen moments with had bubbled with the sharp ripple of lust, the overwhelming candy-reek of infatuation, but no one had ever looked at her and smelled of sugar.

Aramis stretched up on her toes and kissed Ranka on the cheek. “No matter what happens, Ranka—I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you chose us.”

The kiss burned her skin, pleasantly warm, and for the first time, Ranka wouldn’t have minded if the touch of another left a scar on her. Aramis stepped away, and Ranka understood why Ongrum had always said love was nothing but a weakness.

“I’m going to go check on our patient,” Aramis said, the warmth fading as her regular mask slid back into place. Her eyes darted around, as if seeming to finally care that some were openly gawking, and she moved farther away, smoothing out the folds of her uniform.

Suddenly Ranka couldn’t bear for Aramis to be anywhere she wasn’t. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“Some quiet will do me good. Besides, someone ought to keep an eye on Galen.”