Can’t breathe. Grief rises like a tidal wave. My wolf howls, a mournful sound that echoes through my mind. I’m drowning, suffocating under the weight of loss and guilt and anger. I just want to smash something.
“Bast! Over here!”
Rachel’s voice cuts through the haze like a lifeline. I turn, gasping for air, and spot her waving from the Mystic Brew/Steeping Cauldron booth. She and Marion are bustling around their setup. It’s a familiar sight that tugs at something in my chest. A reminder of normalcy in a world that’s been turned upside down.
How many years have I seen this same scene? But this year, everything’s different. This year, there’s a heaviness in the air. A sadness that clings to everyone like a second skin. Or maybe it’s just me, projecting my grief onto the world around me.
My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying me toward the booth. Rich aromas of coffee and herbs envelop me. Thescent is an embrace, comforting and familiar. It’s more than I deserve, this moment of peace.
“You look like hell warmed over,” Rachel says. Her words are blunt, but her eyes are soft with concern. The dichotomy is so typically Rachel that it almost makes me smile.
I manage a wry twist of my lips. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s the best I can muster. “Feels about right.”
Marion clucks her tongue, already reaching for a mug. Her movements are quick and efficient, born from years of practice. “Sit down before you fall down, boy. We’ll fix you right up.”
“I’m fine. Alice will be looking for me. I need to go.”
Rachel’s firm hand on my shoulder cuts me off. She guides me onto a wooden stool, her touch gentle but brooking no argument.
“You’re not fine,” she says quietly. Her voice is low, meant for my ears only. “And that’s okay. But let us help. Alice can wait a minute.”
I want to argue. To insist I can handle this shit on my own. But the understanding in Rachel’s eyes…the motherly concern radiating from Marion… My resolve crumbles like sand against the tide.
“What are you brewing?” I eye the steaming pot suspiciously. The scent coming from it is unlike anything I’ve smelled before—complex, layered, with an underlying wildness that makes my wolf perk up its ears.
Marion’s lips quirk up in a small smile. There’s a glint in her eye that I’m not sure I trust. “Something special. Just for you.”
Rachel meets my gaze, her expression suddenly serious. “Do you trust me, Bast?”
The question catches me off guard. Of course I trust Rachel. I’ve known her since we were in diapers, shared every secret, every triumph, every heartbreak. But there’s something in hertone that gives me pause. A weight to her words that suggests this is about more than just a cup of tea.
“What exactly are you planning to do to me?” I ask, only half joking. My wolf is on alert now, curiosity warring with caution.
Rachel’s smile is gentle, tinged with sadness. “Nothing bad, I promise. Just…a little help. To get you through today. To help you remember the joy.”
I hesitate, torn. My wolf bristles at the idea of outside interference, of anything that might dull our senses or weaken our guard. But the grief…it’s suffocating. A constant weight on my chest that makes every breath a struggle. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure how I’ll make it through this Faire without breaking something.
Or someone.
The thought of losing control, of letting my grief and anger hurt innocent people, makes my decision for me. “Okay,” I say finally, the words feeling like surrender. “I trust you.”
Rachel nods, relief evident in the softening of her shoulders. She turns to Marion, who’s already ladling a deep purple liquid into an earthenware mug. The scent wafts up, more potent now. Lavender and chamomile, familiar and soothing, undercut by something earthy and wild.
“Drink it all,” Marion instructs, pressing the warm mug into my hands. The clay is rough against my palms, grounding in its solidity.
I raise an eyebrow but obey. Lift the mug to my lips. The first sip explodes across my tongue in a riot of flavors. Sweet. Bitter. Sharp. A thousand sensations at once. It reminds me of moonlight on snow, of running through the forest with my pack, of Meredith’s laughter echoing through the Court. Of home and belonging and everything that’s been fractured.
Warmth spreads as I drain the mug. It starts in my chest, an ember of heat that grows and expands. It radiates outward,chasing away the bone-deep chill that’s been my constant companion since the funerals. The grief doesn’t disappear—it’s still there, a familiar ache—but it…softens somehow. Becomes manageable. Like a weight I’ve been carrying has suddenly become lighter.
I take a deep breath, and for the first time in days, my lungs fully expand without pain. The Faire’s sounds and scents snap into sharper focus, but instead of overwhelming me, they fill me with a sense of…anticipation? It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything but grief and anger that the feeling is almost foreign.
“What did you do to me?” I ask, but there’s no accusation in my tone. Just wonder. And maybe a hint of hope.
Rachel squeezes my shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “We gave you breathing room, Bast. The grief isn’t gone, but now you can set it aside for a while. Enjoy the Faire. It’s what Meredith and Jackson would have wanted.”
A lump forms in my throat. She’s right, of course. It would kill them to know their deaths had robbed me of the ability to enjoy it.
“Thank you,” I say softly, meeting both their gazes. I try to pour all my gratitude into those two simple words. “Both of you.”
