Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
When Wren had brought the dress earlier, I’d been a little worried about the neckline—it’s lower than anything I’d usually wear, showing off more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. But she’d insisted it was perfect, and now I’m starting to see why. The dress hugs my curves in all the right places, the blue silk flowing in a way that somehow manages to be both elegant and rebellious. She’d even gotten the vintage details right—the fitted bodice, the full skirt that hits just below my knees, the subtle piping along the seams.
I’d planned to wear my hair down, loose and casual, but Wren had other ideas. She’d swept it up into this intricate vintage style that shows off the diamond earrings she’d also mysteriously produced. The whole look is pure vintage glamour with an edge—like a 1940s pin-up girl who could probably kill you with her stiletto and look gorgeous doing it. Which, considering where I am and who I’m with, feels surprisingly appropriate.
A crash of laughter erupts from somewhere near the dessert table, where Elliott appears to be telling some story that involves a lot of dramatic arm waving and spinning. He narrowly misses a candelabra.
“Saylor, my dear!” He abandons his audience to flutter over, somehow managing to make even walking look theatrical. “This is absolutely divine. A celebration of resurrection, of defying death, of the beautiful chaos that comes from refusing to stay buried.”
“Elliott, are you drunk?” I ask, trying not to giggle.
“Drunk on the miracle of survival!” He gestures broadly, nearly taking out a passing server. “Do you know how rare it is to see two people cheat death so spectacularly? You both have the most impressive track record of survival I’ve ever witnessed.”
The party swirls around us, conversations flowing like water around stones. I catch fragments of dialogue that sound like they belong in a different century—mentions of ancestral families and old debts, of favors owed and mysteries solved. Someone near the piano is discussing the proper way to preserve certain types of flowers, while another group debates the merits of various wines for specific occasions that probably aren’t dinner parties.
The whole scene feels beautifully strange and perfectly suited to this impossible town that’s somehow become home.
Blue’s hand finds the small of my back, warm through the silk of my dress. “Want to get out of here for a minute?” Blue’s hand finds mine. “I have something to show you.”
I glance around at the party, but there’s something in the way he speaks that makes me curious.
“Yeah, okay.”
He leads me through the crowd, past Dame Gothel, who raises her champagne with a knowing smile. Instead of heading outside, he guides me toward the main staircase, up to the second floor where the hallway stretches in both directions.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere I should have shown you before now.”
We walk down the hallway past doors I’ve never opened, until we reach the end where a narrow staircase spirals upward. Blue pushes open a heavy wooden door, and suddenly we’re climbing stone steps that wind up and up.
“Where are we going?” I ask, slightly out of breath from the climb.
“You’ll see.”
The stairs are steep and narrow, winding up through stone walls until finally we emerge into a circular room with windows all around. But Blue doesn’t stop there—he pushes open another door, and we step outside onto a balcony that wraps around the entire tower.
The view takes my breath away. Grimlock spreads out below us like a living map painted in gold and shadow. The lights from windows and streetlamps create constellations across the town, while beyond them, the dark forests stretch toward the ocean like velvet. I can smell salt on the wind mixed with woodsmoke from chimneys, and underneath it all, the green scent of growing things that never quite goes away in the Pacific Northwest.
The stone railing is cool under my palms, worn smooth by years of weather. Party music drifts up from below—muffled laughter and the faint sound of someone playing piano—but up here the night air carries other sounds too. The distant crash of waves against cliffs, the rustle of leaves in towering evergreens, an owl calling somewhere in the darkness.
From this height, I can see the whole town laid out like a storybook illustration. The gothic mansions perched on their hills, the winding streets that connect them, the clock tower in the town square with its hands forever frozen at midnight. Lights glow warmly in cottage windows tucked between the larger estates, each one holding its own secrets.
“My god,” I say, moving to the stone railing. “You can see everything. It’s like the clock tower but different angles.”
“Yeah.” But when I look at him, he’s not looking at the view. He’s looking at me. “I know I planned for you to move . . .”