I fetch the trunk from under the workbench—iron shot, a mallet, a coil of twine braided with iron filings, a pouch of salt that sifts like cold sand over my knuckles. Scarlett sketches sigils with a charcoal stub across lintels and along the floor seams; the marks sink into the grain and leave a faint cool hum that crawls along my skin like static. The cabin seems to square its shoulders beneath her touch.
“Window seams want a lattice,” she murmurs, head tipped, listening with more than ears. “North side’s the weakest area.”
“I’ve got it.” I thread the iron braid through the crossbars and cinch it down. When the final knot bites, the window exhales a tiny sound of relief, or maybe I’m imagining it.
We salt the thresholds in parallel lines. She’s precise, even with shaking hands, laying out measured pinches into the corners. I drive iron nails into the porch posts until the heads kiss the wood; the vibration runs up my arm into my teeth. Out in the trees, something shifts, then stills. Watching.
“Message to your grandmother?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She presses her thumb to a sigil, sealing it with a breath. “Ruby Cottage. Tell her I’m safe with a friend. I’ll see her tomorrow. No details.”
I step into the cold a few paces, put two fingers to my lips, and whistle a pattern that rises and dips. Feathers answer the dark—oily black, clever eyes. He lands on the porch rail and cocks his head.
“Double walnuts,” I bargain. “Urgent, to Ruby Cottage.” He flicks his beak in a way I’m choosing to interpret as assent. I tie the small, rolled note to his leg. “Straight there. No detours.”
He launches like a shadow loosed from the eaves.
Inside, the heat has climbed. Scarlett’s breathing has gone shallow and fast; sweat beads at her hairline, turning wisps of red-gold to dark copper. She sways when she stands from the last ward. I’m there, open hands.
“Okay,” she says, and lets me help her back to the bed.
The blanket whispers up over her hips. Fever rolls off her in waves. I wet a cloth in the basin, wring it until it drips once, and lay it across her forehead. She exhales a sigh that curls something inside my chest I don’t have a name for. I touch her wrists, then the hollow of her throat—brief and practical—leaving cool behind like breadcrumbs.
“Breathe with me,” I murmur, taking the chair and angling myself lower than the bed. “In for four, out for six.”
We count together. The fever doesn’t back down, but it stops trying to climb the walls.
“Tell me the rest.” Her voice is a rasp of sandpaper and stubbornness. “First shift, step by step.”
“Smell goes first. Everything is too strong. Then sound. Lights get bright, edges too sharp. Bones ache. You’ll feel pulled to the forest, to the open air. When it hits, your skin won’t feel big enough.” I keep my tone even.
Her lashes flutter. “Stay with me.”
“I will. You’re safe here.” I glance at the window; the lattice glints dull in the firelight. “With the wards up, anything wrong will have to advertise itself before it gets near the door.”
Her mouth curves, almost a smile. “Good. I like a villain with manners.”
The cabin hums softly. The sigils thrum with steady patience. Outside, something paces the treeline. The wards answer with a throb like a heartbeat that isn’t ours.
Scarlett’s hand fumbles for the edge of the blanket, finds it, and fists it. “If I say stop?—”
“—I stop,” I finish. “Conversation, touch, anything.”
“Good,” she whispers, eyes slipping closed. A beat. “And if I say… closer?”
“I listen,” I say, and the truth of it lodges under my sternum like a nail. “But not because the bond is shouting. Because you are.”
Her breathing evens for a handful of heartbeats. Then a fresh wave hits, sharp and hot. Her spine bows, and her fingers claw at the blanket. A low moan climbs her throat before she chokes it off.
“Here.” I slide my hand to the headboard, not her, steadying the bed so she can push against something. “In for four,” I coach, counting with her. “Out for six.”
She rides the breath. The wave crests, breaks, and leaves her shaking but not drowning.
“You’re doing well,” I say softly.
“You have a terrible definition of ‘well,’” she mutters, then huffs a laugh that’s half-breath, half-bravado. “What is this, a birthing class? Do I get ice chips and a playlist, or are we skipping straight to the yoga ball?”
A surprised laugh breaks out of me. “I can do ice chips.” I lift the cup. “We’re fresh out of yoga balls.”
