She rolls her eyes and holds out a hand to help me up, which I accept reluctantly, brushing dust off my skirt. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just worried...”

My heart hammers. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I imagine it’s a conversation I’d rather avoid indefinitely. “You know I hate it when people do this.” I need to look anywhere but at her, so I roughly pull the tie from the end of my braid and start undoing it. “Just spit out whatever it is so we can move on.”

“Well...” It isn’t like Isolde to dodge this much. I can’t stand this. “Well... We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

I shake the last of my hair loose and self-consciously glance at the palm of my hand. The compass points steadfastly at the Western Range looming just over my shoulder. It’s hard to explain the feeling, but I imagine it’s how birds feel when they fly south for the winter. They know where they’re supposed to land. “Yes,” I say, finally. “I think we are.”

“And then we get paid.” Her eyes flick to the leather cord at my throat.

“Yes,” I say again, wishing she’d just get to the point. “And then we can go home.”

“Yeah,” she says, flashing a brief smile. “But then what?”

“Then we’ll go buy ourselves a magnificent new home, and I’ll figure out how to restore Mami and Papa’s memories, and—”

“Seelie.” Isolde’s voice is soft but insistent. “Then what?”

I tilt my head. I don’t understand the question. That’s it. That’s where the plan ends. That’s happily ever after.

She sighs, fixing me with a look I’d rather not be fixed by, and for the first time, I think I start to understand what she means. When we ran away, we were fourteen. We always planned to go back to our parents, to make a new home, but we were children. We didn’t need a plan after that. We’re practically grown now. But the plan is the plan. She can’t mean...

“Seelie... I don’t want to go back.”

I don’t scream or sigh or jump back. I don’t even blink. I turn to stone. My heart is a chunk of rock that drops from my chest, and it takes me a second to remember how to speak. When I do, the only word I can squeak out is, “No?”

“I mean,” she corrects herself quickly, wincing. Like she’s still waiting for me to react. “I mean, I’ll go back. I want to see Mami and Papa, so we can all be a family again. But... I like this.” She gestures around us, to nothing in particular. “I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to stay in one place forever.”

I understand each word she’s saying individually, but I can’t comprehend them together. There’s no version of my future without Isolde. There’s no home without her. “Wh-wh—” I stammer, struggling to form one question that makes sense. “And wh-what then?”