She remained still, her chest rising and falling in slow rhythm.
“Your grandmother is coming,” he continued. “She’ll know what to do.”
Time stretched, elastic and merciless. Evryn paced. He held her hand. He spoke to her. He stood at the wall, his brow and fists pressed to the floral wallpaper, eyes scrunched shut as he screamed silently, never having felt more useless in his life.
But as the minutes ticked by with no change, desperation clawed at him with increasing ferocity. Where was Lady Nirella? Had Petunia’s message reached her? What if she arrived too late?
He found himself on his feet yet again, pacing the small room, unable to contain the restless energy of fear. Every few circuits, he would return to Mariselle’s side, checking her pulse, her breathing, before resuming his agitated movement.
The night deepened outside the cottage windows, and Evryn’s control began to fracture. His mask of barely maintained composure splintered with each passing moment. He found himself in the main room again, his gaze falling on the window seat where he’d once sat peacefully writing, what felt like a lifetime ago.
He crossed to it, bracing his hands against the windowsill, staring out at the darkness. Tangled vines framed the view, their golden edges shimmering faintly. “Help me,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. “Help me, help me, help me. I can’t lose her.” His forehead pressed against the cool glass as tears finally escaped, trailing down his cheeks. “Please, I can’t lose her.”
The admission tore from him with raw honesty. He knew he loved her, but he felt it now with a certainty that eclipsed all other truths he’d ever known, as essential to his being as breath or heartbeat. She was fire and steel and tender vulnerability intertwined in a singular spirit, and the thought of that brilliant light being extinguished was unbearable.
He pushed away from the window, wiping roughly at his face with his sleeve. Breaking down would not help Mariselle.
So he returned to her side.
And time passed.
He could not say how long it had been when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps outside the cottage. His heart lurched, hope surging through him so violently it was almost painful.
Finally.Lady Nirella had arrived.
Evryn launched out of the chair and back into the main room. He crossed it with long strides, wrenching the door open before the visitor could knock.
“Thank the stars you’re?—”
But the words died in his throat.
For standing on the threshold, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight, was not Mariselle’s grandmother, but his own.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What … how did you …”Evryn’s words dissolved into stunned silence as he stared at his grandmother’s face. Her usually immaculate appearance was notably disheveled—silver hair hastily gathered into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder, and her voluminous plum-colored cloak covering what could only be a nightdress beneath. She must have left home in great haste.
His mind struggled to reconcile her unexpected presence with the desperate hope he’d been clinging to for Lady Nirella’s arrival. At the same time, a childlike sense of relief washed over him. His grandmother had always been the immovable pillar of their family, the one who could mend any situation with a sharp word or a decisive action. Perhaps she could fix this too.
Lady Rivenna remained on the threshold, her gaze drifting past Evryn with a peculiar hesitancy, an almost reverent disbelief, as though she couldn’t quite accept that she was standing at this particular doorway. When she finally looked at him, her expression remained distracted, distant.
“You … called,” she said simply.
“What?”
“Never mind.” The familiar briskness returned to her manner as she stepped past him into the cottage, her posture straightening with resolve. “What has happened, my boy? I sensed you’re in great distress.”
Evryn blinked, momentarily bewildered by this revelation as he shut the door and faced her. “But … how?”
The question hung between them for only a moment before Evryn’s mind leaped back to what truly mattered: Mariselle. Lying unconscious. Each passing moment potentially pulling her deeper into the dream realm.
“It’s Mariselle,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “She’s?—”
“Are the two of youalonehere?” his grandmother demanded, her voice rising sharply.
“That is beside the point!” Evryn shouted, the strain of the night’s events cracking through his veneer of composure. “She is unconscious! She has exhausted her magic, and I can’t wake her!”
Without waiting for his grandmother’s response, he turned and strode toward the bedroom. Lady Rivenna followed, and as Evryn swiveled in the doorway to look back at her, he caught her keen eyes sweeping over the window seat, the table, the scattered notes and books, the dream core sitting on the rug.
