visited the place, they hadn’t cleaned. Dust layered every surface. What’s more, the cupboards were empty.
Her most astonishing finds were framed photos. One contained an image of Angel Ashtower, the creator of The Fog A.E. The others included Lulundria and three unfamiliar women, all in modern mortal clothes. The princess must have come here before and after getting hit with those ice daggers. But who were the rest?
Holding one of the frames, she padded upstairs, hoping to find a bedroom.
Her search offered a bountiful reward. A master suite waited beyond the last step, a spacious chamber as spinsterly as the rest of the house.
A ruffled comforter with pink flowers draped the bed. A vast closet provided an array of gowns. The same kind of gowns Cookie had worn in Astaria. Her eyes watered all over again.
A tunic hung closest to her. A tunic she’d seen before. In a vision. When the injured Lulundria had fled Kaysar. The bloodstains were gone, the tears lovingly repaired with pink thread shaped in a rose pattern.
Well. Here was confirmation. Lulundria had come here to die. And she’d met with someone—or several someones—who’d repaired the shirt. The women from the photos?
Cookie removed the garment from a hanger with a trembling hand. Forget the princess. Nothing mattered more than returning to Pearl Jean and Sugars.
What was meant to be a quick shower stretched into half an hour as she scrubbed off the battle grime and cut a hunk of hair. She didn’t let herself think of Kaysar. Not how much she loved him or hated him or missed him. Certainly not the way he’d hurt her. She didn’t wonder if he loved her or hated her or missed her, either, and she didn’t care if he regretted what he’d done yet. Because the answers didn’t matter in the slightest. Not anymore.
Throw me out once, lose me forever.
Under the spray of cooling water, lingering aches and pangs faded. When finally she emerged from the stall, she almost felt like a brand-new model fresh off the factory line. Almost. She dried off the old-fashioned way and donned the tunic, the hem reaching her knees. Good enough for a trip home. Now she had to figure out where she was. No, she just needed a phone.
Spotting a landline on the nightstand, she rushed over and dialed. Raw emotion battered her as she waited through the rings. “Come on, come on.”
Finally, her best friend answered, her voice nothing but a tired rasp. “Hello?”
A sob escaped. “Pearl Jean? It’s me. Cookie. I...I’m back.”
* * *
SEVEN DAYS AFTER Cookie’s return to the mortal world, she rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, ready to take the next step for her life. They sat in the backyard, reclining on a swing of her own creation, made of vines and cushioned with leaves and flower petals.
After three days of avoiding her and three days of hissing in her face, Sugars had forgiven her for leaving. About thirty-eight percent, anyway. He currently stalked a bug around a garden of roses that had sprung up overnight, despite the cooler weather.
Turned out, the permanent doorway in the Dusklands’ castle led straight to Oklahoma. The cottage was less than ten miles from her farmhouse. Cookie had found a map—a lump grew in her throat, but she swallowed it. She’d been able to provide Pearl Jean with exact directions. Only fifteen minutes later, she’d been enfolded in the woman’s arms, sobbing and telling her about every trial, leaving nothing out.
“Your doormaking ability returned, huh?” Pearl Jean asked, her tone cautious.
There was no reason to deny it. “It did.” Last night, as Cookie climbed into her own bed, in her own home, she’d sensed the full charge of her glamara. She knew she’d have no trouble opening a doorway again, and she didn’t have to wonder why. She’d gained control of her emotions, realizing her happiness didn’t depend on Kaysar, but herself.
She could rule her kingdom, help her people, love her friends, and do everything she’d ever dreamed—without him. As soon as she’d barred him from her heart, the pain would fade.
“How’d you know, anyway?” she asked.
“Your attitude is much improved today. And before you get the wrong idea, I’m in no way saying your attitude is good. Because it isn’t. You’re still pouting over your beau.”
Pouting? Pouting! “He’s not my beau.” Cookie didn’t want him in a romantic way anymore. She’d given him every part of her heart, and he’d thrown it—her—away.
“Whatever he is or isn’t, you’re going back