Page 138 of The Shadow Bride

Filippa scowls at the nickname. She never used to hate it. Still, she examines the porcelain skin of her arms before pressing two fingers against her wrist. Instead of her eyes widening in surprise, however, they narrow as she says, “How curious.”

But this—this is far more thancurious. This is amiracle, something I never even allowed myself to dream. This is the Filippa of my youth, the girl who fled our window fearlessly, who never looked back, with her long black hair cascading around her shoulders and her lashes batting against her cheeks. This is mysisteragain, which means I must also be—that I’m—

Pressing a hand to my chest, I search again for the ache I felt only moments ago, but only grief remains. Natural grief, memories, not the ravenous chasm of a broken bond. Swiftly, I run my tongue across my teeth to find them smooth. No fangs. No lust for blood or violence either.

Elation sweeps through me, stealing my breath, and as the last of the tension leaves my body, I feel weightless, light—so much lighter than I’ve felt in weeks, months,years. Because I am human again. I amhuman. Instantly, I whirl around in search of Michal, desperate to see him again, to show him, but find only my unsmiling sister.

She looks... contemplative.

“How is this possible?” I ask in an awestruck whisper.

Filippa exhales harshly before stalking through the garden,away from me. Over the flourishing lawn and past a scattering of orange trees. The fruits hang impossibly heavy, tugging the branches so low that several kiss the grass, creating sanctuaries of sweet-smelling shade. Though she plucks an orange from the nearest tree, she does not eat it; instead she pitches it straight ahead, studying the fruit as it splashes into the river.

Before I can repeat the question, she says, “I suspected this place might... change us, but I couldn’t be certain what those changes might be.” She glances back, and a barrage of childhood memories overwhelms me at the sight of her: climbing up our orange tree, playing in the dirt, sneaking out to the banks of the Doleur each full moon. She doesn’t seem to share them, however, instead adding, “Without Death, revenants cannot exist—no vampires either—and Death has fled this realm. He no longer exists here—not as he was, at least, not as he’smeantto be—which must mean...”

“We’ve returned to who we would’ve been without him.” I blink at her, torn from my juvenile reverie. “That sounds like a lot of speculation.”

“Of course it is.” She scoffs. “This is Death, the greatest mystery of all life, and to be frank, I don’t know anyone else who has died, come back to life, and semi-died all over again. Doyou? Perhaps we can invite them to tea and ask all the questions we want.”

I scowl at her, and though Filippa’s lips twitch in satisfaction, she still refuses to smile. Carving a path toward the river, she adds, “All we know for sure is,that”—she jerks her thumb behind us—“is our only way out of here.”

I follow her thumb, glancing upward to where a single cloud hangs in the brilliant sky—a storm cloud, as jarring and out ofplace as a flower in the desert. Stranger still, it appears to beraining, yet no moisture dampens the air. My eyes narrow as I peer closer, and, with a start, realize the droplets aren’t droplets at all, but shredded ribbons of veil. They ripple iridescent in the wind, beautiful even, until I remember who exists beyond it.

My breath catches at the thought, and I hasten after Filippa, who trails pale fingers along the vibrantly blooming flowers on her way to the river. Red roses grow in massive, spiraling topiaries without a single thorn; snowdrops glisten in dove whites and soft grays, smaller than the other species, and—I blink incredulously—even Bluebeard blossoms sway gently in the breeze. One of them even snaps at our heels as we pass, and Filippa’s frown deepens. “What the hell are those?”

“You don’t know?”

“The garden changes to suit the person journeying through it, Célie.”

Curious.“Those are called Bluebeard blossoms.” Thrilled to know something my older sister does not, I add with a touch of vanity, “They eat butterflies.”

She casts me a disparaging look. “What happened to the little girl who loved butterflies?”

Her words loose like an arrow aimed straight for my chest, and with it, I realize I am not the only one who has taken a detour down memory lane. Instead of remembering me with affection, however—with longing—my sister seems to remember me with only disdain.

“She died,” I say shortly.

And just like that, all desire to impress her vanishes too.

Scoffing under her breath, she tramps on an errant snowdrop inresponse, grinding it under her heel, but otherwise says nothing. I step over the fallen petals carefully, not speaking again until the silence lengthens between us. “What about the river?” Together, we glance toward the slow-moving water in the distance. It runs perpendicular to the garden, stretching left and right as far the eye can see—impossible to avoid—while peculiar mist obscures whatever lies beyond it. “It looks... significant,” I add warily.

“Isn’t it obvious?” When I say nothing, waiting with rapidly thinning patience for her to explain, she sighs in exasperation. “One must cross the river to reach their final resting place.”

Ah.

“You’ve already crossed it,” I say shrewdly, “when Morgane killed you.”

“Frederic pulled me back.” She casts a slanting glance in my direction, her lips pursing at my wide eyes and inquisitive expression. She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Célie, we can assume that created the maelstrom. This garden seems to be transient. If we linger long enough, the wind will increase speed, and the river will rise until it sweeps us away—and that istruedeath.”

If we want to close the door, Filippa must die.

I swallow hard, tearing my gaze away to watch the slow-moving water instead.Is that what happened to Michal?And then—did it happen to Filippa too?The thought brings unexpected pain. Not for the Filippa walking beside me now, cold and unfeeling, but for the little girl who believed in fairy tales so very long ago. She never should’ve learned about this wind and this river; she never should’ve waited on this bank. “I thought this place would be... different,” I confess. “Frightening, even.”

“I told you, Célie.” She stares out at the water too, though Isuspect she no longer sees it. I suspect she sees what lies beyond every time she closes her eyes. “Death is nothing to fear... not in his true form, anyway. Our realm has twisted him.” Though I want to ask how,why, I cannot bring myself to interrupt as she continues, her voice low and mournful: “When I returned on All Hallows’ Eve, I felt a different sort of pull—more violent this time, more painful. It ripped me from beyond the river and back into our realm.”

“Frederic’s spell,” I whisper.

“I couldn’t have made the journey without it.” She shakes her head, and wherever she just vanished inside her thoughts, she returns from it abruptly. Her mouth tightens into a grim line. “Michal said he would wait for you, but he never had a choice. The river will have already taken him, and it isn’t meant to flow both ways. If we cannot pull him back out again—if we meet any resistance at all—”

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