Downstairs, I find the kitchen dark with no sign of Nora. The fire is out in the woodstove. And then I see it: the dead bolt on the front door slid open.

I yank the door wide and spot the tracks in the snow, leading down to the lake. I run down to the shore and the trees moan and stir, as if sensing the urgency in my steps, the thunder of my lungs sucking in air.

I know something’s wrong before I’ve even reached the lake, before I see Nora standing out on the ice. I call out to her and she looks back, her hair a firestorm—the wind churning up around her, making her look as if she is made of magic. A real witch. A girl with fury at her fingertips—who could command mountains and rivers and time itself.

She turns, glancing over her shoulder, and I can see the look in her eyes—something isn’t right. She seems afraid—really afraid for the first time.

And then the ice gives way beneath her. A shudder and a crack and she disappears into the lake.

I run, my heart flattening against my ribs, my feet slipping on the ice.

I drop to my knees at the edge of a vast hole, black water peering back. And beneath the surface, her hair swirls and eddies like reeds, like kelp in an ocean. A gentle, almost tranquil sight. She’s staring past me—eyes blurred over—as if she is looking lazily up at the midnight sky and the stars beyond. A quiet evening swim. But I plunge my arms into the ice-cold water, grabbing for her hand floating just above her head.

And I pull her up, dragging her onto the ice and into my arms.

NORA

I feel weightless, drifting among dark stars.

Arms fold around me, and I press my face against the hard warmth of a shoulder. His neck smells like the forest, like a winter that goes on and on and on. Endless like the bottom of the lake.

I hear the water dripping from my hair, or maybe I only imagine it. Drops that turn to ice before they hit the ground.

The trees bob and shiver above me, and I peer up at deep-green limbs—at stars that look like silver coins dropped into a black pool. My head spins, the circulation gone from my skin, but I don’t mind. I like the weightlessness and the scent of Oliver and the forest revolving above me. We reach the house, and Oliver kicks the door closed behind us, then releases me gently onto the couch.

He’s saying something, words that slip and slide together. Maybe he’s saying my name. Nora, Nora, Nora. But I can’t be sure. I like the way his voice sounds, bouncing along the walls of the house.