Images flickered.
Agnes in this very shop, closing up, the light from the street spilling across the worn wood floors.
A man leaning in the doorway, watching her. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattoo peeking from under a rolled-up sleeve.
Graham.
Of course.
He stepped in, took a mug from her hands, their fingers brushing. The air between them hummed with something old and familiar and electrifying.
Another flash. Agnes and Graham at the loch’s edge, arguing fiercely, faces inches apart, rain pouring down. The kind of fight you only have with someone you love enough to be that honest with.
Another. Agnes alone in her pottery studio, working late, clay up to her elbows, an ache in her chest like something was missing.
My heart squeezed.
The thread pulsed harder, drawing my attention down its length. And there—like a knot in the weave—was something else.
A darker strand twined around the gold, barbed and glinting.
I focused—and saw, just for a second, the reason.
Oh.
Oh no.
My breath caught.
That—
That changed everything.
“Lass?”Bracken’s voice was sharp.“Don’t pull that.”
I hadn’t realized my fingers had curled, tugging at the knot. The threads shivered, the entire web ringing with a low, warning hum.
“Shite,” I whispered, snatching my hand back like I’d been burned.
“What?” Agnes demanded, eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”
“I…” My heart hammered. How was I supposed to tell her that she and Graham were written into each other’s stars and yet…
“Liora.” Agnes’s voice softened. “Whatever it is, I can handle?—”
A sharp thump sounded from the front of the shop.
We both froze.
Another thump. This time accompanied by a high, urgent whine.
Bracken shot to the edge of the table, fur puffed.Something’s wrong.
My stomach dropped. I knew that sound.
We bolted from the reading nook, weaving through the shelves. My heart was already racing before we rounded the last stack and saw him.
Mitch.