Stranger Skies

Book : The Drowned Gods Trilogy

by Pascale Lacelle

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy; YA Paranormal; YA Romance

Synopsis

Ninth House meets The Hazel Wood in this riveting sequel to the New York Times bestselling dark academia fantasy Curious Tides, following Emory, Baz, Romie, and Kai on their desperate quests through space and time!

Opening locked doors has a price—even for those who hold a key.

After going through the door that called to them both in dreams, Emory and Romie find themselves in the Wychwood: the same verdant world written of in Song of the Drowned Gods, albeit a twisted, rotting version of it. A sinister force has awoken with their arrival, intent on destruction as it spills across realms, and now Emory and Romie must stop it before it reaches their own shores.

Meanwhile, Baz and Kai are desperate to follow their friends through the door to other worlds, but a mishap pulls them back in time instead—where they come face to face with Cornus Clover himself, famed author of Song of the Drowned Gods. Stuck together in the past, they must navigate a very different Aldryn as they unravel the school’s darkest secrets.

Across time and worlds, Emory, Romie, Baz, and Kai find their fates eerily interwoven with the heroes from Clover’s book. But when stories can’t be trusted, friendships are put to the test, and deadly enemies are not always as they seem, they must decide who gets to be a hero—and who is desperate enough to see themselves become a villain.

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books

Print pages: 544

Sample

IT WAS AN AUSPICIOUS DAY for a burial, Aspen thought.

Dense morning fog clung low to the ground where the coven gathered before the ancient yew tree. Their figures cut ghostly outlines against the pale dawn, the women clad in loose white muslin dresses, the men in billowing white shirts untucked from their breeches. They seemed like extensions of the fog itself, quiet spirits emerged from the soil, uncaring of the cold pine needles beneath their bare feet or the frigid breeze seeping through their unseasonable clothes.

The first kiss of winter had blown through the forest overnight. This would likely be their last burial before the earth froze over.

Aspen suppressed a shiver, conscious of her mother’s eyes on her. This was no time to show weakness. She could already sense her mother’s displeasure at her appearance: the unruliness of her dark hair, her red-rimmed eyes, the tiny crescent-shaped stains on her dress from when she’d hastily pulled it on, mindless of the dirt beneath her fingernails, which she hadn’t bothered to clean after the digging she’d helped with last night.

A twilight grave for a dawn burial—such was always the way of the witch.

Somewhere above, a lark sang a deceitfully cheerful melody as the coven matriarchs guided Aspen’s younger sister into the plot of earth where she would lie. Bryony’s eyes met hers as she knelt in the grave, her own pristine white dress fanning around her prettily. Aspen’s heart lurched. She saw herself in Bryony’s strained expression, remembering how she had tried to keep a brave face for the coven during her own burial, even as fear pressed heavy on her chest. It was four years ago now, but Aspen would never forget the taste of earth in her mouth, the suffocating darkness as she was buried alive. The unbearable uncertainty that followed her into unconsciousness.

You’ll be all right, Aspen mouthed. Her sister’s chin wobbled in answer. No one seemed to notice but their mother, whose mouth tightened in a way that Aspen was quite familiar with. The High Matriarch did not approve of weakness in her daughters, and this small chink in Bryony’s armor would displease her greatly.

What will the others say if my own daughter doesn’t have faith in the Sculptress? the High Matriarch had asked Aspen on her own burial day. The earth will receive you and sculpt you anew. This you must never doubt.

Of course, to a thirteen-year-old girl about to be buried alive, such a thing was easier said than done. But this was the way of the witch. Once they came of age, they were buried at the foot of the sacred yew, where the Sculptress—the deity whose very essence ran below the earth and fed into the land—awakened in them their latent clairvoyance. Amid the gnarled roots of the yew tree, they were born anew, emerging from the earth as proper witches.

They were expected to be steadfast in their belief in the Sculptress and the fate that awaited them after their burial. Faith conquers death, the coven matriarchs taught them from a young age, forgetting, perhaps intentionally so, all the would-be witches who never rose from their graves. All those souls forever lost to the earth’s embrace—or worse, snatched up by the demons who dwelled in the underworld far below.

This will not be Bryony’s fate, Aspen told herself as her sister lay back in her grave, glossy black hair spilling around her like a pool of darkened blood. She will rise again.

The sun was beginning to crown over the treetops when the matriarchs began their chanting. Dawn drowned the world in hazy blues and pinks, a study in pastels that painted too gentle a backdrop for this grim affair. The matriarchs dug their hands in the earth and held

fistfuls of dirt over the grave as their chants picked up tempo, the ancient words meant to protect Bryony’s essence against demonic influence.

Bryony shot up, a broken plea bursting from her lips. “Please, I don’t want to do this.” Tears marred her face as she tried to stand, grasping for the hems of the matriarchs’ dresses.

Her desperation broke Aspen’s heart as well as her resolve. She tore from her place in the crowd and knelt at her sister’s grave, ignoring the daggers her mother stared her way.

“Promise you’ll be with me,” Bryony managed through sobs as Aspen cradled her. “Promise you’ll stay until it’s done.”

Aspen swallowed against the lump in her throat. She knew what Bryony meant, what she was asking her to do—just as she knew their mother was listening intently, and would no doubt give Aspen a verbal lashing later for this unruly interruption. “Promise,” Aspen whispered, giving her sister a final squeeze before pulling away. “Be brave now.” Louder, for her mother’s benefit, she added: “The earth will receive you and sculpt you anew.”

Bryony must have found courage in Aspen’s promise, steeling herself as she lay back in the grave. The matriarchs picked up their chanting again, as though the ceremony had not been interrupted. Bryony closed her eyes as the first handfuls of dirt fell atop her. Tears glistened on her cheeks before more dirt covered her face. Her small body disappeared bit by bit, the witches’ song growing louder and more frantic, the tense sound of it like a tree being uprooted from the earth. As the last of the dirt filled the grave, the song broke in one final, earsplitting note of triumph that sent the larks flying off in a frenzy.

And just like that, Bryony was gone.

In the sudden quiet, an unnatural wind wove through the yew’s leaves. Its branches creaked and cracked and groaned, and deep below their feet came a rumble, the tree’s roots moving to accept this offering of a witchling. For the next eight days, Bryony would stay buried beneath the sacred yew. Eight days to match the eight stages of a tree’s life cycle: seed, germination, seedling, sapling, maturity, flowering, reproduction, decay—and from there, a witch reborn to start the cycle anew, if the Sculptress willed it.

Eight days for Aspen to worry herself sick over her sister’s fate.

Aspen turned on her heel and ran from the clearing, narrowly escaping her mother’s clutches. She would deal with the High Matriarch’s displeasure later.

Her bare feet struck the earth, soles cutting themselves on pebbles and twigs as she ran through the woods she knew so well. The deeper she went,

the denser and older and odder the woods became, full of magic from ancient witches whose decaying flesh and bones fed the trees and the Sculptress that had shaped them.

Few witches dared to venture so far, staying on the outskirts of the woods proper, where the coven lived. Ordinary townsfolk tended to avoid the woods altogether, whispering among themselves about the evil spirits that dwelled there and the witches who consorted with them.

But Aspen did not fear the woods. She belonged to them, as they lived in her.

The leaves here were a thousand shades of gold and rust, beautiful in their decay. Coming upon a familiar ravine, Aspen welcomed the spongy moss that bordered it, so soft and pillowy beneath her feet. Frost lined the edges of the water. Cold seeped through her, and though she longed for the hearth in her room and the warmth of her bed, she couldn’t deny the grounding effect of walking barefoot through the woods. How it reminded her of her connection to the earth—that one sprouted from the other, and each fed on one another. A cycle eternal.

She could only hope the earth would be kind to her sister. That the Sculptress would deem Bryony worthy and awaken the witch in her.

Aspen followed the familiar melody of a nearby waterfall. It was unremarkable as far as cascades went, not very high or very powerful, but beautiful all the same. Strange, too, for a twisted tree trunk sprang from the ravine at the bottom of the waterfall. It was split down the middle to form an arch through which the cascading waters fell. Aspen had always found herself drawn to it. This was her place of refuge, where she came to practice her scrying and tap into the stranger parts of her abilities. The parts her mother did not want her to use.

Witches could divine things from the earth, see hidden meaning in bones and leaves and the rings on the trunk of a tree. Some could map out root systems invisible to the naked eye, feel the needs of plants and animals, sense the coming of a storm or a drought and tend to their crops and gardens accordingly. Others had their inner eye turned to the future or the past, seeing repeating patterns and webs of possibilities in people’s lives.

The magic that the Sculptress awoke in them manifested differently in every witch, but always it was tied to the earth and the connection their body had with it. Magic lived in their bones, sharpening their five senses and calling forth a sixth. In most it manifested in some form of art, guiding their hands to give shape to their visions. Sculpting, unsurprisingly, was most witches’ preferred outlet; Aspen’s mother had an entire gallery of wood carvings and ceramics and

marble busts, each more detailed and strange and beautiful than the last. The work of witches long dead yet forever immortalized.

Aspen knelt by the ravine and ran her hands through the cold water, making the surface ripple as she scrubbed off the dirt beneath her fingernails. She stared at her reflection in the muddied water, trying to see Bryony in her own reddish-brown features. Four years separated them, but the sisters looked quite similar: the same deep-set, dark eyes flecked with golds and greens, framed by thick lashes and strong brows; the same shade of black hair, though Bryony’s was lustrous and straight where Aspen’s was curly on good days, frizzy on any other.

The rippling water became hypnotic as Aspen felt the tug of her scrying power.

Her magic was an anomaly, in that it was not connected only to the earth. She would often lose herself in a trance while watching the rhythmic dropping of rain in a puddle, or as she listened to the crackling of flames in a hearth or felt the wind dance around her. Her inner eye would awaken at these entrancing elements, often without her meaning to, and let her see through other people’s eyes—animals, too.

It was a rare scrying gift, and harmless for the most part. But the vessels whose consciousness Aspen flitted into had no sense of her being there, which posed somewhat of a moral conundrum. She not only saw through their eyes but felt everything they did: the five senses their bodies experienced, and more intimate things too—old hurts and pleasures and memories imprinted on their muscles and bones and sinews.

Aspen took great care not to overstep boundaries, but her curiosity could not be helped. She loved experiencing the world as others did. It was her way of escaping the life she was bound to, the woods she was sworn to. A way to sate her ever-growing desire to see what lay beyond the coven.

Her mother, on the other hand, thought it immoral and had all but forbidden Aspen to scry in such ways. But Bryony had begged Aspen. Promise you’ll be with me. An invitation for Aspen to see through her sister’s eyes as her world went dark and quiet and scary. To have someone hold her hand—metaphorically speaking—as the air left her lungs.

Aspen remembered her own burial all too well, that suffocating, agonizing, endless moment where she waited for death to come and the Sculptress to break her bones, bending and cracking her body to shape her into a proper witch. She would have given anything to have someone hold her hand then.

If she could bring her sister this small comfort, then she would.

Aspen let her mind sink into the pull of her magic, her face inching closer to the still-rippling water—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Her mother had her arm in a vise grip, pulling a dazed Aspen up and away from the ravine. Her seething words cut through her like a lash. “First that outburst at your sister’s grave, and now this?”

“I was just—”

“Don’t start with your excuses. I know very well what you were about to do. How could you interfere with your sister’s ascension this way?”

“I didn’t, I swear.”

“And if I hadn’t stopped you? Your presence in Bryony’s mind might have altered the Sculptress’s work or called on the demons.”

Guilt churned in Aspen’s stomach. She hadn’t thought of it—had been too emotional, swayed by her sister’s pleas. Aspen hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She should have known better.

“Foolish girl.” Her mother let go of her with a sigh. “I expect better of you, Aspen. You are the Sculptress’s chosen, and you must act accordingly.”

Aspen stayed quiet despite wanting to grumble at those words. She didn’t need the reminder.

To be chosen was to be blessed, according to her mother, but Aspen always thought cursed felt more appropriate a term. To bear the mark of the Sculptress meant becoming the next High Matriarch, tasked with the safekeeping of the woods and the protection of the coven. Never allowed to leave because of it.

At least such a burden would not fall on her sister. Only one witch per generation bore the Sculptress’s favor, meaning Bryony could be free of the woods if she wanted.

But not Aspen. The woods had roots in her that she could never sever, tying her to these parts until the day she died and her body returned to the earth.

“What is that?”

Her mother was staring at the ravine, brow furrowed. Aspen followed her gaze and stilled. She hadn’t noticed it before, how the leaves grazing the water’s surface were black. Not the ordinary sort of decay that autumn brought about, but wrong. An unpleasant smell hung heavy in the air, thick and sickeningly sweet.

Rot.

Some of the trees along the ravine were rotting, blackened by some sort of sickness. How had Aspen not felt it? Her connection to the woods should have alerted her, but she’d been so focused on Bryony, she must 

have missed it.

Her mother moved closer to the blighted trees, and Aspen followed, eyes tracking the rot all the way to the murky water’s edge farther down.

Where two bodies hid beneath moldering willow leaves near the waterfall.

Two girls, from the looks of them. Half-submerged in the ravine, the rest of them draped lifelessly on the mossy bank.

Aspen’s mother stopped dead in her tracks. When Aspen tried to step past her, the High Matriarch gripped her wrist. “Don’t,” she said with inexplicable terror in her voice, her eyes.

“We have to help them,” Aspen urged, prying herself from her mother’s grasp.

There was something pulling her toward the bodies, a tug she couldn’t deny. The girls’ manner of dress was strange. They wore trousers, for one thing, and the fabrics and patterns were like none that Aspen had ever seen before. Their hair was unbound. One had long blond tresses all matted together in the mud. The other’s hair was barely shoulder-length, shorter than Aspen had ever seen on a girl around these parts, with pine needles and seed pods and twigs tangled up in her brown curls. The short-haired girl’s head was perched lifelessly on her arm, and her hand was oddly clutched, the skin burned black. The other girl’s hand lay a hairsbreadth away from it, as if she had been reaching for her companion.

On both their wrists was a faint silver scar in the shape of a spiral.

“Mother, quick, come see,” Aspen breathed, heart pounding painfully against her chest.

Her mother was beside her in a moment, hand trembling at her neck, terror-filled eyes glued on that familiar symbol on the girls’ wrists. The same symbol the Sculptress had carved on Aspen’s ribs. The spiral scar tissue that marked her as keeper of the coven, High Matriarch to be.

“They’re here,” Aspen’s mother said in a foreboding tone. “They have come, and so it begins.”

Aspen didn’t understand the dread in her mother’s words. All she felt was an odd sort of excitement, her mind opening up to all the possibilities of what this could mean. Her curiosity getting the better of her again.

The eyes of the blond girl fluttered beneath their lids as she began to stir.

Not dead, then.

They have come, Aspen thought in echo of her mother, and though she did not know who they were or what her mother meant by it, her fingers

tingled with a sense of purpose she had often felt before, though never quite so strong. There was a rightness in her bones, a momentous melody sweeping through her soul, as if everything were finally aligning into place.

Aspen’s lips parted as the girl opened her eyes and looked directly at her.

And so it begins.

1BAZ

BAZ BRYSDEN WAS MOST AWARE of time when he was running out of it.

The night before a paper was due, for instance, when he realized the days he’d spent procrastinating instead of doing the work meant he now had to forego sleep in order to finish. Or when he was so engrossed in a book and a strong cup of coffee, he realized with only minutes to spare that he was going to be late for class.

Of course, Baz could make the minutes stretch so that he was never truly late for anything as trivial as papers and classes. What was it to him, the Timespinner, to make time run in his favor? He had only to pull on its threads so he could squeeze in a few extra sentences here, that extra bit of research that would earn him full marks there, the basic human tasks that would make him look at least somewhat presentable before leaving the Eclipse commons, like brushing his teeth and throwing on a clean shirt and making sure his hair wasn’t sticking up every which way. He had done all these things just this morning, scrambling to hand in his final papers and stop by Professor Selandyn’s office to drop off her solstice gift before leaving for the holidays.

And yet here he still was, hurrying across campus to catch his train.

Had anyone else possessed this power to manipulate time, they would not know such things as scrambling and racing against the clock and worrying about missed trains. But Basil Brysden was a peculiar specimen who preferred to use his power as a last resort—and strictly in the most innocuous ways—which only served to enhance his already anxious nature.

And the pock-faced Regulator that stopped him dead in his tracks made that anxiety spike.

“Mr. Brysden. Heading home for the holidays, I see?”

“Are you following me on campus now?” Baz gritted out in annoyance, adjusting the weight of his travel bag on his shoulder.

“My, my, so defensive.” The smug satisfaction in the Regulator’s beady eyes did not go unnoticed by Baz.

Captain Silas Drutten had been the bane of Baz’s existence for the past two months. Ever since Baz helped break out his father and Kai from the Institute, Drutten had been on him relentlessly, trying to catch him in a lie and pin their escape on him. But Baz had gotten very good at lying—or maybe it was just that Drutten had very little evidence to go on. Either way, it was easy enough for Baz to stick to his story, no matter how many times he had to suffer through one of these pointless interrogations.

Today, it seemed, would be another one of those times.

“This meeting is purely accidental,” Drutten said, adjusting the medals of valor pinned to his Regulator outfit. “I’m here for the donor banquet.”

That explained the full regalia. While the students of Aldryn College were currently getting ready to leave for the weeklong winter solstice break, faculty members were dressing in their best suits and gowns to host their annual donor banquet. Everyone of note with ties to the college would be in attendance tonight. from high-ranking Regulators to the mayor of Cadence to families whose names were likely carved on the very foundation of the college. It was said to be a grand affair, with a catered seven-course meal and an open bar and people full of their own self-importance—Selandyn’s words, not Baz’s.

“Well, then,” Baz said, glancing pointedly at his watch, “if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch.”

“I take it that means you are heading to Threnody, then?”

“Obviously.” There was no point denying it. “You of all people know that’s where my mother lives.”

Drutten himself had made it a point to scour every corner of Anise Brysden’s house for signs of her fugitive husband. Of course, he’d come up empty-handed—and 

yet he kept hounding her and Baz both, making Baz’s blood boil and his mother feel unsafe in her own home. It sickened him to his core.

Drutten fixed him with a hard stare. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that harboring fugitives is a crime, even during the holidays.”

“I’m quite aware.”

“But if you were to talk, give up the whereabouts of said fugitives, I might find it in my heart to be lenient. My solstice gift to you.”

Baz wanted to laugh at that. As if he would ever trust the Regulators to show any semblance of leniency toward him in this matter.

“We can keep doing this little dance of ours, Drutten, but my answer hasn’t changed from all the other times you interrogated me.” Baz held up three fingers, taking one down for each statement he made: “Yes, I was the last person to have seen my father at the Institute. No, I did not help him or Kai escape, and no, I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them since. So unless you have solid proof to dispute all of this—which I know you don’t—I’ll be going now. Enjoy your banquet.”

Baz walked past Drutten without a second glance, surprised at his own brazenness. This blatant disregard for authority was still unfamiliar to him, despite everything he’d gone through these past few months. He felt a bit like a child about to be scolded by his mother for reaching for the cookie jar before supper, though the stakes were much higher.

But Drutten did not reprimand him. He only called after him with a falsely cheery “Give your parents my best.”

Baz only dared to throw a look over his shoulder when he was about to round a bend farther down the corridor. Drutten’s attention was no longer on him; the Regulator was shaking hands with Dean Fulton, who wore her usual tweed suit, evidently not yet ready for this evening’s banquet. She had a friendly smile for Drutten, but it wavered when two more people joined them.

Baz’s stomach dropped as he recognized Artem Orlov, dressed in an expensive fur-trimmed coat, red hair blazing like a torch. At his side was Virgil Dade, another member of the Selenic Order, who had been close to Artem’s sister, Lizaveta, before she died. Virgil was also dressed to impress, which reminded Baz that a select few students were always invited to the donor banquet. It was the school’s attempt to show off its best and brightest.

Virgil, it seemed, had all but replaced Keiran as Aldryn’s golden boy—as well as Artem’s lapdog.

Before either of them could spot Baz, he disappeared down the hall. Another look at his watch told him he would just barely make it to the station on time. Though trains to Threnody left every hour, he needed to be on this one specifically.

Magic thrummed at his fingertips, eager to be used. Not yet, Baz thought as he picked up the pace. He would reach for it only as a last resort.

Give your parents my best.

His blood boiled at Drutten’s lingering threat, his hollow offer of leniency. Once, Baz might have been naive enough to believe Drutten had his best intentions at heart. But Drutten was like every other Regulator, upholding a legal system that made it a point to spit on justice when it came to the Eclipse-born. Something Baz had been forced to come to terms with after he and Jae had taken their case to a trusted attorney, who’d presented their accusations against Keiran Dunhall Thornby, Artem Orlov, the Selenic Order, and the Institute at large to the courts of Elegy.

The only hard evidence Baz and Jae had had was what little they’d managed to take from Artem Orlov’s office the day they helped Kai and Theodore escape from the Institute: ledgers that detailed how both Artem and Keiran had used the former’s status as a Regulator to harness silver blood from Eclipse-born who’d Collapsed—blood they then used to create synthetic magic wielded by the corrupt secret society known as the Selenic Order, of which they were both members.

But as incriminating as their evidence was, the Institute’s corruption—and the Order’s power—ran deeper than they could have imagined. All that proof was written off as inadmissible. The case got thrown out before it could even go to trial.

All that planning, all that hope that they would finally get justice for the Eclipse-born, and it had amounted to nothing. Artem walked away with his head held high and his job as a Regulator intact. Keiran’s name remained unsullied, and his and Lizaveta Orlov’s deaths were ruled as tragic drownings—the same way Emory’s disappearance was declared a casualty of Dovermere. Three more souls lost to the Belly of the Beast, nothing more. As if one had not disappeared through a mythical door to other worlds after the other two had all but tried to kill her for her Tidecaller blood.

Baz nearly collided with a group of students gathered in the cloisters. They were exchanging last-minute gifts and farewell hugs before leaving for the holidays. A feeling of yearning smacked him like a tidal wave. Once, Baz would have given anything to be as alone as he felt now, with the Eclipse commons all to himself and no one to disturb his peace. A ghost meandering about, flittering unseen between the shelves of Aldryn’s many libraries. But things had changed. The Eclipse commons were like a crypt without Kai, unsettlingly quiet. The Decrescens library felt like it was missing a vital piece of its soul whenever he looked up at the empty spot Emory would have sat in. Even Romie’s greenhouse had lost all its appeal after a Sower professor cleaned it out and repurposed it for her first-year students.

For the first time, Baz was well and truly alone. And so very starved for connection.

He pushed past the students, mumbling apologies as he went. The skies above were a threatening gray, the air crisp with the coming of snow. Baz hoped the

storm would hold off until he got to his destination. The weather had been unpredictable of late, something that experts blamed on a disturbance with the tides. Massive flooding of coastal towns, beached ships that affected commerce, a record number of drownings due to flash swells—and this was all over the world, too, not just Elegy. A phenomenon that had started soon after the door in Dovermere was opened.

An eerie coincidence, perhaps.

Baz reached the bustling station just as his train started to pull away. He cursed Drutten’s name—if it hadn’t been for his interruption, Baz would have made it on time. Now he had no choice but to give in to his magic.

Huffing a swear, he grudgingly reached for the threads of time. The world around him came to a halting stop. The sea of students stilled; the whistling of engines quieted. Baz wove through the platform trying not to think of how easy this was. He hopped on the train, brushing past the frozen porter who hadn’t fully closed the door yet, and with a breath, Baz let go of the threads of time.

The world resumed its motions, oblivious to the fact it had ever stopped at all.

Baz plopped down in his seat and flexed his hands, trying to shake off the unsettling ease of what he’d done. He hadn’t gotten used to his Collapsed magic yet, despite having lived most of his life with it.

The Collapsing was what awaited Eclipse-born who used too much power, an implosion of the self that there was supposedly no coming back from. But Baz had discovered that to Collapse did not mean inevitably succumbing to the dark curse that was said to await them. Instead, it was meant to broaden the scope of their power, making it feel almost limitless.

Though the knowledge of his condition opened many doors—too many he didn’t want to consider, the idea of such power at his fingertips making him nervous—he didn’t feel different in the slightest. Perhaps it was because he’d kept this limitless power in check all these years without even knowing, for fear of reaching a limit he had unwittingly already reached.

Then again, he wasn’t exactly pushing himself to see how deep his Collapsed power went, either. Still the same scared boy, never reaching further than he thought he should. Cautious to a fault.

As the train pulled out of the station, Baz thought of Drutten’s threat again and smiled to himself. At least his ruse was working. He’d known full well the Regulator would expect him to head to Threnody. Where else would he be going for the solstice holidays if not home?

But home had lost all meaning to him. His childhood house hadn’t felt like one in years, and though the Eclipse commons had been a refuge to him in the past, they were too empty now to soothe him the way a true home should.

There was no going home for Baz. So he was going somewhere no one would expect him to be.

---

The train screeched loudly along the tracks, pulling Baz from the half sleep he’d slipped into. His face smooshed up against the fogging window, he was briefly disoriented at the sight of the busy station they were pulling into, despite having been here more times than he could count. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, urgency making his senses come alive as he recognized the blue, green, and white tiled sign on the brick wall that read THRENODY CENTRAL.

While people filed into the narrow corridor outside of Baz’s otherwise empty compartment, he remained seated, eyes searching the platform wildly. Panic seized him when he didn’t spot the person he was looking for. And then, just as the worst scenarios began to play out in his mind, the door to his compartment slid open, nearly giving him a heart attack.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Oh, I—” Any excuse Baz might have drawn up died on his lips, replaced by relieved laughter. “Thank the Tides it’s you.”

Jae Ahn smiled down at him, dark eyes full of mischief, and Baz had never been happier to see them. “The timing could not have been more perfect,” Jae said as they shut the compartment door behind them and sat down across from Baz.

“Do you really think it’ll work?”

Jae nodded toward the window. “See for yourself.”

Standing on the platform with everyone else getting off the train was Baz—or rather, a perfect copy of him, dressed in the same clothes and hauling the same luggage that the real Baz had on him. Jae had truly outdone themself with this illusion; even the expression of this make-believe Baz was the same, a mix of worry and aloofness that had the real Baz feeling a tad self-conscious. Was that really what he looked like?

Jae had planned all of it, this grand illusion that would deceive anyone prying into Baz’s whereabouts. If the Regulators had eyes on Baz on this very train, they would be duped into seeing him get off here, at Threnody Central, while the real him kept going south, cloaked in whatever illusion Jae now cast over their compartment. And if anyone looked in on the Brysden household over the holidays, they would find Anise and Baz holed up in their quiet home, neither of them wanting to venture outside or have company over, what with the shame of Theodore’s escape from the Institute weighing heavy on them.

As the fake Baz disappeared in the crowd, Baz couldn’t help but ask, “And you’re sure the illusion will hold?”

“Of course it will.” Jae kicked their feet up on the cushioned seat, looking pleased with

 themself. “I’ve been playing around with sustaining illusions long-term, and none of them have failed me yet. Now, if someone stops you in the streets and tries to have a conversation with you, we might be in trouble.” They smirked. “Though you ignoring them wouldn’t be too far off from the real thing, would it?”

“No, I guess it wouldn’t,” Baz had to admit. The sheer control Jae had over their Collapsed magic never ceased to amaze him.

Jae had been Collapsed for a long time now and had since been keeping tabs on both Baz and Kai, for whom this was all still new. Unlike most Eclipse-born who Collapsed, all three of them had managed to escape the Unhallowed Seal that strove to put their magic to sleep.

The train lurched forward, and as Threnody slowly disappeared behind them, Baz felt like he could breathe again.

“So how’ve you been, Basil?”

“Fine, all things considered. How’s the training been going?”

At this, Jae lit up with pride. “Honestly? Better than I could have anticipated.”

For the past few months, Jae had been living in Threnody under the guise of a research trip, but what they were really doing was training other Collapsed Eclipse-born in secret. Jae had managed to get in contact with others like them who had avoided getting branded with the Unhallowed Seal and offered to help them manage their limitless power. Most of these people were leading normal lives like Jae and Baz, hiding the fact that they had Collapsed from those around them with varying degrees of success. But others were on the run from the Regulators after having very public Collapsings, living in shadows, struggling to survive, praying they never got caught. Jae’s training provided them with much-needed asylum.

The point, as Kai would put it, was to ensure everyone had their shit under control so they could eventually prove to the world at large that Eclipse-born who Collapsed were not a threat to society. That they could overcome this Shadow’s curse that Collapsing was supposed to plunge them into.

“Makes you wonder if this whole curse business is bogus,” Jae said, as if reading Baz’s mind. “A cautionary tale, nothing more.”

“How do you mean?”

“Have you ever felt this darkness we’re warned of? Has your Collapsed magic changed who you are at your core, turned you into someone who craves power no matter the cost?” Jae shook their head, not letting Baz answer the clearly rhetorical question as they pressed on: “Our ability to control our Collapsed magic seems only to be tied to how powerful our magic already was to begin with. Take me for example. Illusions are a rather benign ability, one that I’d already mastered long before Collapsing. And your Timespinner ability—well, I wouldn’t say it’s mundane, far from it, but then again you were always careful with it, so it make

makes sense for you to have control over it now. But others whose magic is darker in nature, or whose grasp on their ability was already flighty to begin with… Well. It makes sense for them to have a harder time dealing with this heightened magic, don’t you think?”

A certain Nightmare Weaver came to mind at this. Jae seemed to have the same thought. “He’s getting better,” they added in a gentle voice. “Like I said, it’s an adjustment. And Kai’s magic is… There’s much we don’t know about it yet. But we’ll get there.”

Baz looked down at his hands. The Nightmare Weaver he’d known had always been in control of his magic, but now that Kai was Collapsed, it was like the nightmares were controlling him. Nightmares spilled into his waking hours against his will, making it hard for him to distinguish what was real from what was not. Like the bees he’d once jokingly conjured out of Baz’s dreaming, only no one was laughing now, especially not Kai.

Soon, twilight settled outside. Baz watched the jack pines and spruce trees rushing past, their branches drooping with snow. When the train stopped, Baz and Jae were the only ones to step off. Unsurprising, given the remoteness of their destination. The station wasn’t even that, only a tiny, solitary outbuilding on the side of the tracks, with no one there to greet them.

Baz tightened his coat around him, pulling up the lapels around his neck to fend off the biting wind. He and Jae started painstakingly up the snow-covered road, and though Baz knew Jae had a cloaking illusion around them, he couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. Streetlamps were few and far between here, and Baz tensed at every sound, imagining Drutten’s face hiding in the darkness between trees. His mind spun uncontrollably when they got off the road to borrow a narrow trail that wound its way through the wintry forest, hugging a jagged coastline.

The crashing of waves was unsettling in such a wild, forlorn place. Anyone could easily be made to disappear here.

“Almost there,” Jae said up ahead.

By the time Baz glimpsed the lighthouse at the edge of the world, his cheeks were pink with cold and exertion, his breath forming clouds around him. The blue-painted door at the base of the lighthouse opened just as Baz reached for its handle. From inside came warm light and laughter and music and the mouthwatering scents of fresh bread and chowder.

And there stood Henry Ainsleif, reddish-blond hair a tangled mess that fell to his shoulders, a broad smile in the midst of his beard. “Come in, you two. You’re just in time for supper.”

Henry opened the door wider, and as Baz stepped in from the cold, his eyes fell on Theodore and Anise Brysden. His parents both paused in setting the small kitchen table. There was a happy yelp, a clang of silverware, and then Baz was being smothered in a big hug and a familiar scent.

“Hi, Mom,” he breathed into Anise’s hair, his heart soaring to see her so full of life.

“Oh, I’m so glad you made it,” she said, squeezing him tight before holding him at arm’s length, her big eyes—so much like Romie’s—taking him in. “Was there any trouble? Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Mom.” He smiled to see Theodore and Jae clasping each other affectionately on the shoulder. “All thanks to Jae.”

Jae made a nonchalant motion before Anise smothered them with a kiss on the cheek, thanking them profusely. Baz’s father took the opportunity to wrap his son in a hug that rivaled Anise’s, and Baz closed his eyes, savoring the moment, still in disbelief that his father was here. A wanted man, but free of the hellhole that was the Institute, at least.

Baz looked into his father’s smiling face and noticed all the ways it had changed since he last saw him, after the horrors of years spent at the Institute had all but hollowed him out. Life had returned to Theodore’s eyes, and he no longer looked frail and broken, but healthy and whole. The Unhallowed Seal on his hand had been taken off, thanks to Baz’s magic, because even though Theodore had never actually Collapsed, he’d still had his magic put to sleep by the Regulators. All because of Baz, whom Theodore had wanted to protect.

Baz, who’d been the one to Collapse that day in his father’s printing press, the blast of his unbridled power killing three people in the process.

A familiar guilt reared its ugly head up inside him. And though there was no blame in Theodore’s eyes, Baz felt an aching pressure to apologize, a desperate need to make things right between them. To make up for all those years Theodore had suffered in his place. He opened his mouth, willing the words to come. They wouldn’t.

A voice like midnight, one he would recognize anywhere, came to his rescue.

“ ’Bout time you showed up.”

Kai hovered on the last step of a steep, narrow staircase, dark eyes fixed on Baz. His mouth was turned up as if they were sharing a private joke, and the whole world seemed to disappear around them, taking all of Baz’s worries with it.

“Hi,” Baz breathed, feeling silly for not having a better reply. He was distantly aware of the others busying themselves in the kitchen, but his focus remained on Kai—on the casual way he flitted toward him, hair still damp from the shower he had clearly just taken. On the faint smell of pine that followed him, and the way his eyes sparked with unguarded joy, a slip of that sharp stoicism he usually wore like armor.

For a split second, Baz didn’t know how to react. Were they supposed to shake hands? Hug? Kai saved him the mortification of having to decide: he gave Baz a playful nudge on the shoulder, like it was the most normal thing in the world, completely oblivious to the strange fluttering in Baz’s stomach that

 this small touch elicited.

“Welcome home, Brysden.”

And Baz realized he was home, in all the ways that mattered.

2EMORY

EMORY NEVER BELIEVED IN FAIRY tales until she found herself living in one.

Amberyl House could have been pulled out of a storybook. Every time Emory thought she’d seen the entirety of the witches’ sprawling estate, she discovered some new curio to puzzle over. Sculpted marble busts and vases adorned with strange beasts and collections of gemstones the likes of which she had never seen before. Lifelike statues of armored knights and fair maidens that made her wonder at the hands that had carved them. Glass jars filled with peculiar-shaped mushrooms and even odder-looking bones, all of which Emory was forbidden to touch because of whatever mystical properties they held.

There was the sunlit room on the first floor where dried herbs and plants and flowers hung in carefully tied bunches from the rafters on the ceiling, left there to dry until they were ready to be crushed up with mortar and pestle and used for purposes unknown. There was the lilac-painted room on the second floor that felt colder than even the cellar, empty save for a massive clump of amethyst atop a marble altar, and the outside gardens full of fountains and parterres and shady nooks hidden among the hedges.

Even the massive library next to the herbarium was a marvel, containing titles in languages Emory didn’t know, in alphabets she’d never seen. Other titles were written in her own tongue. Some of them she vaguely recognized, certain she’d read them before. She wasn’t a big enough bookworm to tell if the author names were the same as those half-remembered stories. If Baz were here, he would know. She had perused a few of the books to keep herself busy, but whatever sense of déjà vu she’d had vanished as she read, the stories wholly unfamiliar to her.

It was difficult to grasp what was real and what was not. Was she trapped in a dream? Was this the Deep, masquerading as a lush land full of green things and the kind of rich, earthy smells that filled your lungs and made you feel alive, all to detract from the fact that you were actually dead?

You’re alive, and this is the Wychwood, Emory reminded herself, for that was what the witches who had found her and Romie called it, and this was what she must believe. Even if the idea of being in one of the worlds Cornus Clover had written in his book made her want to laugh, or cry, or both all at once.

She felt trapped in this endless loop of questioning her very reality. And Amberyl House, despite its beauty and the generosity of their hosts, was very much starting to feel like a prison.

Romie joked about them being like maidens locked away in a tower by some evil witch, awaiting their prince. Except no prince was coming to save them, and the witches who’d taken them in weren’t exactly evil—though they would not allow them to leave, either. Emory and Romie could wander the sprawling sunlit grounds of the estate but never go beyond its limits. Never into the woods that grew at the edge of the gardens, dark and old and mysterious.

They had tried it once, meaning to return to the spot where they’d been found half-drowned in a ravine. But whatever magic lived here barred their way, a thicket of impenetrable vines growing across the garden gate that would have taken them into the woods proper.

“There are things happening in the woods that cannot be interfered with,” Mrs. Amberyl had told them when they’d brought it up. “Magic that could easily be disrupted by a stranger’s presence. Until the ascension, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here at the house.”

The ascension, Mrs. Amberyl had explained, was a ritual sacred to the witches, though she wouldn’t divulge the specifics of what it entailed. “It is a very private affair,” she’d said in that stern way of hers that left no room for debate. “But afterward, I assure you, you will be able to leave if you wish to.”

“We just want to go home,” Emory had said.

Except none of them knew how they might do so. Neither Emory nor Romie had any memory of how they got here. The last thing Emory remembered was pushing open the marble door in the sleepscape. One second, she was reaching for the knotted vines that formed the doorknob, and the next, she was lying in the mud, looking up at Mrs. Amberyl and her daughter Aspen.

In a daze, they’d searched their surroundings for any trace of a door. Remembering the water sloshing at her feet in the sleepscape, Emory had been convinced the waterfall might be their way back home. That perhaps the water flowing down the star-lined path of the sleepscape had spilled into this world, along with them. But whatever door they’d come through was gone, leaving them without a clue as to how they might return home.

They were stuck here, in the verdant world of the Wychwood, in the company of witches who seemed entirely unfazed by their appearance or by the fact that they claimed to be from another world. It was as though they’d been expecting them. Just as the witch in Clover’s story knew to expect the scholar.

And here Emory and Romie were. Not one scholar, but two. Far from the shores they’d known.

The Wychwood may not be the worst place to be stranded in, but they were still determined to find a way out—and make sense of how and why they were here in the first place.

“You’re being too obvious,” Romie whispered as they flitted through the grand, echoing halls.

“Me? You’re the one whose book is upside down.”

With a swear, Romie righted the book in her hand. “Well, yours is in another language entirely.”

“It has illustrations.”

Romie rolled her eyes, but it was an affectionate sort of gesture. The normalcy of it made Emory smile.

They were trying to look inconspicuous as they poked around various rooms, pretending to read their books. Voices drifted toward them from the kitchens. Romie waggled her brows at Emory and strode off toward them, all but abandoning her cover.

“Wait—”

They peeked into the sunlit kitchens, where such divine food was made that a suspicious part of Emory wondered if the witches were trying to fatten them up for some grotesque reason, ...