Chapter 39
The dressing room is dark, but there aren’t any shadows lurking in corners tonight.
Mallory turns on the light and glances at her reflection. Her graduation robe hangs over a simple black dress, and her chestnut hair skims her shoulders in waves. She looks like a woman with a future, a woman who knows who she’ll become.
Inside, however, she’s not nearly as sure.
It’s been more than three years since that night at Penelope’s cottage.
Three years filled with classes and rehearsals and performances.
A whirlwind of semesters, anchored by the cozy off-campus duplex Mallory has shared with Arden, Raf, and Saskia since sophomore spring.
Endless take-out dinners, wine-laced evenings on the porch, parties with perfectly curated playlists—an entire lifetime of friendship, baked into just a few years.
And though none of them ever says it out loud, they seem to silently carry the reminder that they almost didn’t make it at all.
It’s why Mallory has been keeping journals, archiving every memory just like Rebecca did—Remember it this way; write it down.
The way Saskia looks in the morning. The feeling Mallory gets when they sit in comfortable silence.
How they say I love you all the time, in the quietest moments—waiting in a checkout line, over loud music at a bar, in the car during stretches of hushed, tree-covered roads.
Mallory glances at her watch. Everyone is probably already waiting downstairs; they’re due at Exeter Hall for Shore’s graduation dinner in ten minutes.
But she walks farther into the dressing room anyway, skimming her hand over the counter until she finds the spot she’s looking for.
The one with her and Arden’s initials, over and over—a pair for each autumn they’ve been at Shore.
Smiling, Mallory kneels in front of the markings, thumbing the rough corners. Freshman year was full of firsts, and senior year will be full of lasts, Arden said when they carved their final set into the counter. I’m glad we’ve been together for it all.
Not everyone can say they know someone like Arden Thatcher. A girl who would turn her back on everything she once held as true and plunge headfirst into a hell-soaked abyss if it simply meant helping a friend.
Mallory rummages in her bag until she finds what she’s looking for: a small pocketknife, the same one she’s had since freshman year. Looking over her shoulder, she shimmies farther beneath the counter and turns her attention to a blank stretch of wood.
She takes her time with each letter, carving careful lines and sharp corners. Fingers moving with the most delicate precision. She’s spent so long thinking of this exact moment—she needs to get it right. Finally, Mallory sits back and blows gently before staring at what she’s left behind.
In one spot reads EP.
And farther down the counter, JW.
“You were alive,” she whispers, brushing her fingers over Ezra’s initials before turning her attention to her mother’s. “And so were you.” She blinks, lashes wet. “People should know.”
For a moment, Mallory lets herself sit beneath the counter in the silence.
She doesn’t try to wipe away her tears. Because Mallory has learned that grief is not a linear thing.
It’s a curl of smoke, a stubborn fire. A forgotten ember that lights itself over and over, refusing to be snuffed out.
It’s another type of haunting, but one that doesn’t scare her anymore.
Because being haunted by memories of her mother and Ezra means she hasn’t forgotten any of it.
The first hand she held. An almost-love.
They live inside her, and she’ll quietly carry them wherever she goes.
Mallory is about to tuck the knife away when another thought occurs to her. She leans back up to the counter, carefully scraping one more set of letters into the wood:
LH
“Lily,” she says, folding the blade carefully. “You were here, too.”
She stands, straightening her graduation gown, and casts one more glance around the dressing room.
“Goodbye,” Mallory murmurs. She half expects a bulb to flicker, a shadow to move in the corner of her eye.
But tonight, there’s only quiet.
Shutting the door behind her, Mallory hurries downstairs to where Raf and Arden are standing in the lobby with Penelope.
Mallory waves as she approaches, finding that the sight of her aunt doesn’t make her stomach twist like it used to.
She’s not quite family—Mallory’s not sure if she ever was or will be—but right now, Penelope feels something like a friend.
It hasn’t been easy, though. After the ritual, Mallory didn’t talk to Penelope for weeks.
But as the anniversary of that December morning approached, Mallory found herself filled with fresh memories: A day spent on a frigid wooden bench in a courtroom.
Penelope, insisting she was meant to be Mallory’s guardian, armed with Jasmine’s handwritten will.
The first night in Penelope’s house, the way Penelope let Mallory crawl into bed with her when she couldn’t sleep.
The images consumed her, stirring up guilt, until Mallory was grabbing her keys and driving through fat snowflakes to finally talk with her aunt.
They didn’t exchange Christmas presents, and Penelope didn’t attempt to cook. Instead, she lit up the fireplace and they sat in front of it with tea.
I thought I was doing right by you, Penelope admitted. I thought I was keeping you safe. I was wrong. And I’ll live with that for the rest of my life.
Mallory tried to imagine Penelope in her early twenties, suddenly responsible for a child that wasn’t hers. You did your best, she said, realizing it as she spoke. I think most people are just doing their best.
It’s not always good enough, Penelope replied. You deserved more. You deserved your mother.
The admission reached something soft inside her, excavating the edges of her forgiveness. Maybe we can start over, Mallory had said. Try again.
Mallory thinks of that conversation now as she steps into Penelope’s warm embrace.
“Congratulations, graduate,” Penelope exclaims, squeezing her hard. “Next stop, Broadway.”
“We were just talking,” Arden says, “about how no one ever found the seventh raven. There are the two by Vaughn Row, the courtyard, the gardens, the old chapel, and Thorne Hall. But that’s only six.”
Mallory turns to her, considering. It’s not a new topic of conversation—they recently spent an entire brunch going over where the seventh one could be hiding—but now, in their graduation robes, they don’t have any more time to search.
“Maybe,” Mallory posits, “the seventh raven wasn’t ever a statue at all. Maybe it was something real. Something that looked like a bird but wasn’t.”
Arden’s eyes turn round with understanding. The Blood Angel. “No one will ever find it now.”
“I’m starving,” Raf cuts in, fingers entwined with Arden’s. “Dinner is about to start.”
“We have to wait for Saskia,” Arden says, craning her neck. “Have you seen her, Mal?”
Mallory frowns. “Not since the commencement ceremony…” She pauses, smiles. “I know where she is. You guys go ahead.”
She’s about to turn when she catches sight of a man lingering by the doorway, dressed casually, a gleaming watch on his wrist. Winston Hendrix. She hasn’t seen him since her first year at Shore, had no idea he was back for commencement weekend.
“Congratulations,” Hendrix says as he approaches, nodding at both Arden and Raf before glancing at Mallory.
“I came by earlier this spring, saw the senior production. Well done.” He slides his hands into his pockets.
“You know, Webb, I was wrong about you. I once told you theater is not for the faint of heart. But you sure seem to have a strong one.”
He extends his hand, now holding a card.
“Give me a call after you get settled in New York.” Hendrix glances at Arden and Raf. “That goes for you both, too, and Ms. Garin.”
“New York?” Arden echoes.
Hendrix smiles. “Isn’t that where you’re going to start your theater company? You’ll need some industry support, won’t you? And perhaps a director to hire?”
Raf’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“How—how did you know we’re doing that?” Mallory adds, thinking about the nights spent poring over business plans with Arden, Raf, and Saskia, discussing budget and real estate and potential seasons. A secret, faraway dream she’s only mentioned to Penelope and—
And to Golden, during advisory meetings. Her eyes widen with understanding.
“Let’s just say,” Hendrix replies, “I keep tabs on the students I find most promising.” He nods again at Mallory. “I look forward to seeing where you go, Webb.”
She watches him leave, thoughts spinning over ivy-soaked balconies and feathers.
Bittersweet memories now tinged with whispers of a promising future: an unfamiliar city, a new stage bathed in light.
A small apartment she’ll share with Saskia, a narrow kitchen brimming with smells of coffee and homemade bread.
Raf and Arden exchanging vows in a church downtown.
The glittering ring Mallory will slip onto Saskia’s finger one day, too, promising forever.
Mine, she’ll whisper, knowing it’s always been true.
Mallory says goodbye to her friends and makes her way into the Crypt, finding it nearly silent. There are no ghosts in this theater anymore, no vintage planchettes tucked beneath dusty boxes. Just painted wood and scarlet curtains.
And Saskia, sitting in a spill of gold beneath the ghost light.
“Hey, Nancy Drew,” she calls. “I needed a break from the crowd.”
Mallory approaches the stage, and for a moment allows herself to stare.
The same way she stared the first time she found Saskia sitting alone in the theater, bathed in that dusty glow.
Saskia is still in her graduation gown, thrown open over a button-down and trousers, white hair tumbling down her back in waves.
She hasn’t cut it since that night on Mercy Island, not even a trim.
The ritual didn’t affect her hair color this time, but it turned one of her eyes an icy blue, making her look even more ethereal, like she’s not meant for this world at all.
“I figured you’d be here,” Mallory says as she climbs onto the stage.
“You know me.” Saskia leans back on her hands. “Just needed a moment.”
But there’s something about the way she says it, like she’s forcing the words to come out cheerful. Mallory narrows her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Saskia doesn’t respond, fiddling with the edges of her gown.
A wisp of wintery hair falls over her shoulder, obscuring her profile.
And in her silence, Mallory suddenly realizes what she’s thinking about.
It’s the same dark place Saskia always goes when she gets quiet like this: Penelope’s careful warning before they left Mercy Island.
That the curse was lifted, but their time together might be cut short anyway.
There’s no way of knowing what will happen, Penelope said on the boat ride back to campus that fog-drenched morning. But that’s life, isn’t it? All we have is right now.
“Sometimes,” Saskia says, staring out at the velvet seats, “I feel like I’m living my life from the outside, watching myself do the things I’m going to miss one day.” Her gaze falls. “I feel like a ghost.”
Mallory swallows. She wants to tell Saskia to stop talking, to cover her own ears.
Instead, she takes Saskia’s hand and says, “I understand.”
Because she does. She knows exactly what Saskia is saying. She’s sailed to the blurry end of her life twice, only to turn around and fight her way back. All so she could sink her hands into the earth and spend more time on land. In this world. With her.
Neither of them has to say it out loud to know the truth: She won’t come back a third time.
“But, Saskia,” Mallory adds, “you’re here now.” She thinks of those dusty initials on the dressing room counter, lives that are over, people who have come and gone. “You’re here now.”
Saskia meets her gaze, something shifting in her expression. Soft and resolute. “I am. And I have so much to do.” She grins, her blue eye twinkling. “Starting with kissing the most beautiful girl at this entire graduation ceremony.”
Mallory laughs as Saskia’s lips meet hers. She threads her fingers in Saskia’s hair and kisses back, hoping the scrape of her teeth and the soft brush of her tongue say, I’m yours. You’re mine. I’ll love you even if it ends.
“Let’s have dinner and then go home,” Saskia says quietly. Mallory nods, fleetingly thinking of all the times she’s heard people say that. Let’s go home. How it’s always felt hollow.
But home was never a place. Home isn’t an apartment or a dorm or a house that’s blue.
It’s just Saskia. The warmth of her skin, the press of her mouth.
The exact scrape of her laugh. Even as children, Saskia was her North Star, something to look for so she’d never get lost. The first time she kissed her, it felt like flying.
Every time since has felt like landing safely where she belongs.
Mallory tugs Saskia up to her feet and rethreads their fingers.
“Is it weird that I’m not ready to say goodbye to this place?” Saskia asks, and Mallory shakes her head.
“A little. But I’m not, either.” She pulls Saskia closer. “Weird finds weird, remember?”
Saskia slips an arm around her waist, and for a moment they stay that way, peering into the darkness beyond the rows of seats, into pools of shadows that, for once, don’t inspire fear.
Mallory thinks about the night of Romeo and Juliet, the panic that rushed through her veins.
It’s been the theme of the years that followed: worrying, checking, calculating, and always running, running, running, hoping to stay ahead of the memories behind them.
A spirit. A demon. A broken heart. She might never be faster than any of it. Yet she’s lived through it all so far.
But maybe it’s time to stop running.
To plant her feet and just be here, in this life, with Saskia. With the time they have now. A promise to remember each other like this: something beautiful and rare.
Something spun from the whispers of a shared haunting.
Mallory peers up at the ghost light. A spot of brightness keeping watch throughout the night, when everyone else goes to sleep.
“Good night,” she whispers to the glowing bulb. To Ezra. To her mother. To Lily. To all the ghosts who came before.
And then she turns, holding Saskia’s hand, ready to step into the dark.
EXEUNT