The boat ride had not been long enough for Echo to pull herself together. Rowan had called again to let her know he was okay, and the sound of his voice had been a balm to her nerves. She’d sat in the little boathouse on the eastern side of the island, soothed by the sound of birds chirping and water sloshing against the wooden beams of the dock, for what felt like an hour before she’d calmed down enough to make her way upstairs. The second she opened the door, the sweet aroma that greeted her made her feel almost normal again.
Scent, it is said, is the sense tied most closely to memory. Echo couldn’t remember where or when she had read that, but it rang true. The candles distributed throughout her bedroom, crowded on every level surface, were testament to that. Each one had a unique scent that reminded her of someone she had lost. She wasn’t much for funerals, but she had found a way to remember the dead in her own fashion.
There was a balsam fir candle for Holly, the Avicen woman who had sold Christmas ornaments in the Agora year-round. Christmas was a Christian holiday, and the Avicen did not celebrate it, but Holly loved bright, shiny things, and the decorations most associated with Christmas—poinsettias, icicles, pinecones, and, most important, glitter—were not out of place during the winter solstice festivals the Avicen celebrated. She had even taken to stocking candy canes once she learned how much Echo loved them. Holly had been at the Nest when it was attacked, and she had not made it out alive.
She had not been the only one. Far from it. Over the past few weeks, Echo had collected a modest trove of treasures, one for each person she held dear. Most were candles, but when she couldn’t find a suitable candle, she substituted another item.
There was a vanilla-scented candle for Ainslie, the apothecary. A cinnamon one for Hazel, the baker who’d always slipped Echo a few truffles whenever she stopped by.
A small eagle, carved out of wood, for Altair, a man Echo had only begun to know, a man she’d thought she despised and who she’d thought despised her in turn. But he had been, like most people, far more substantial than she’d realized. Echo mourned that she had only begun to see how much love he’d had in his heart before Tanith had torn it out of his chest. He’d loved his people. He’d wanted them safe, protected. He’d died for that love, and Echo would carry that memory with her until she met her own end.
A fat yellow, citrusy candle for Garland, the young Avicen who’d joined the ranks of apprentice healers the same week Ivy had. Echo hadn’t procured that candle—she had come back to her room one day to find that Ivy had added it to the collection without a word. Echo hadn’t told anyone what she was doing with the candles or why; it was no one else’s business how she mourned. But Ivy knew. They’d been sharing a room since the Ala had ordered everyone to double up to make space for more refugees. Tales of Echo’s defeat of Tanith—however temporary—and her subsequent warding of the island had spread far and wide, and each day brought with it a new face, desperate for the safety Avalon provided.
Ivy had watched silently as Echo amassed her collection of candles and trinkets. She hadn’t pushed for an explanation or begrudged Echo the space. After a time, Ivy also started adding to the collection. The candle for Garland had been the first, but her contributions had not ended there. She had acquired a small bowl of colorful beads, their vibrant hues the same shades as the feathers of some of the Avicen who had not escaped the Nest; a porcelain unicorn; a sprig of dried lavender; a painted wooden knight from a chess set; and a maneki-neko, a little white cat with an upraised paw said to bring luck to shop owners. Echo knew who some of the items were meant to commemorate, but not all, and she didn’t prod Ivy for explanations. If Ivy wanted to share, she would do it in her own time.
Their little collection grew and grew, taking over the surfaces of the room. It reminded Echo of a German word she’d come across in a book: Habseligkeiten. A meager collection of treasures that might appear to possess little value but that held great meaning for their owner. It fit their memorial, as strange and varied and cobbled together as it was.
Before meeting up with Rowan to go to the Agora, Echo had made an unplanned stop. She had struggled with finding the right object for weeks, but she had finally spotted it in the window of a gift shop on St. Marks Place. The contents of her backpack clanked together, glass bumping against silver through the newspaper she had stuffed between items. Her boots dragged along the worn stones of Avalon’s courtyard. Stares followed her, as they always did, as she made her way through the foyer, up the grand staircase, and down the labyrinthine corridors that led to the room she shared with Ivy. It was situated as far from the rest of the castle’s inhabitants as possible—knowing that Echo needed her space, the Ala had quietly reassigned her to a more secluded room.
One last flight of winding stairs left her by the uppermost room in the castle’s highest tower. She could feel the draft that perpetually wafted through the room despite its thick wooden door. For the sake of privacy, she and Ivy had sacrificed the possibility of ever being warm. They could not have their cake and eat it too.
Echo pushed open the door slowly. The room was so small that on more than one occasion, she or Ivy had slammed the door into the other when they opened it too quickly.
“You’re good,” came Ivy’s soft assurance from the other side of the room. She sat on the window seat Echo had fashioned from a wooden crate and a few scraps of fabric too small to be good for much else. Her nose was buried in a book, and the late-afternoon sun provided enough light for Echo to read the title: Herbalism and the Healing Arts. A stack of similarly themed books sat on the floor at Ivy’s feet. The Avicen’s central leadership and fighting arm weren’t the only groups devastated by the attacks. The healers had also seen their numbers diminished. They were often the first to rush toward disaster, but unlike the Warhawks, they had no armor to protect them. Ivy had lost time in her training while they’d been on the run in London and she was determined to get back on track. That Ivy would resume her studies wasn’t even a question; the Avicen needed her and she would be there for them.
Echo kicked the door shut behind her and unslung her pack from her sore shoulders. The bowl and the addition to their memorial weren’t the only items with which she had returned. She unzipped her bag and dumped its contents onto the bed. Curiosity drove Ivy from her perch to inspect the spoils of Echo’s trip into the city.
“Where’s Rowan?” Ivy asked.
“He got lost on the way back,” Echo said.
Ivy froze. “What?”
“He’s okay. It was the in-between. It spit him out on the Upper West Side, but he’s on his way. He’s okay. Everyone’s okay.”
A frown creased Ivy’s brow. “That’s not good.”
“No, ma’am, it is not,” Echo agreed, injecting bravado she didn’t quite feel into her voice. “But everyone’s alive and accounted for, so I’m counting it as a victory.”