One evening, shortly after Alva had moved in, she’d simply arrived at Alva’s door, a bottle of whiskey dangling from her elegant fingers. She’d crossed Alva’s sitting room, pulled the heavy drapes apart to let in the soft light of the streetlamps, and sat down on a chair by the window. There she’d proceeded to stare into the night, apparently lost in thought, before speaking.

“It’s bad,” she’d said eventually. “But you’re still here. Tonight we’ll numb the pain. Tomorrow you’ll go for a walk outside. And the next day, it will be a little better.”

And for a few months, she’d been right.

“Different fairies, this time, I think.”

Sam’s warm voice brought her back. “Memories,” she said, her lips curling. “Good ones.” She shook her head, gently, not to throw the thoughts away but simply to settle them.

“You’re talking about healing,” he said, and there was that look in his eye again, the one that said he saw too much. “Restoration. Not just of houses. Of people.”

Uncomfortable, she frowned. “You make too much of it.”

“Alva,” he said, and in his tone there was such a well of understanding she had to look away, a lump of threatening tears swelling in her throat. She took a deep breath, staring at the unfamiliar buildings lining the street.

“Where are we? I don’t remember this on the way back to the hotel.”

“I was following you,” he said, and they stared at each other.

“Oh dear,” she said, the tears vanishing in a burst of laughter. “We could be anywhere.”

She looked around, trying to recognize something. They couldn’t be so far from the hotel, they hadn’t walked long, but everything was so new.… She saw the corner of a familiar building about a block away and crooked her head. “I might recognize that. Let’s see.”

The houses grew grander as they walked towards the building, all bearing an unmistakable sign of newness: they were clean. Alva was still trying to puzzle out where she and Sam might be when they reached the corner she’d seen and turned it—suddenly she knew.

She was home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Oh,” Alva said, a breath more than a word. She’d stopped abruptly, one step behind him, although their arms were still entwined. They were surrounded by large, opulent houses, mostly brownstones, but a few newer ones in different materials.

“Alva?” Sam asked, not liking the sudden emptiness of her expression.

She cleared her throat. “We’re on Thirty-fourth,” she said. “That’s Fifth Avenue, right there. I must have gotten turned around on our walk—I was here a few weeks ago, but we … we drove up Fifth.…”