It’s late. Or early. Poe’s not sure which, and the clock in the hallway stopped ticking three days ago after Francis tried to “feed it vibes” instead of batteries.

The lamp is flickering like it’s not sure it wants to keep working, and the shadows in the corners of the library are long and uncertain. Poe’s hunched in one of the deep armchairs, an ancient poetry book open in his lap, but he’s read the same sentence five times and can’t remember what any of the words meant.

And then Ray walks in.

She’s got that soft, sleep-fuzzed look about her—sweatshirt too big, socks mismatched, hair loose and a little wild. The one that always makes him swoon like a middle-school girl with a crush.