Outside, November rain lashed the long, arched windows in uneven waves.

Inside, a small, glittering empire had declared its independence from the gloom. Bracelets. Dozens of them. Twisted threads and glass beads and tiny silver charms, knotted around the wrists of nearly every occupant in the room like a soft, colorful rebellion against the dark.

He already knew the answer, of course. He'd seen the way her face lit up every time someone looped another one around her wrist — bright as a patronus in a dark corridor.

It was, in Lorenzo's private opinion, the single most ridiculous thing he had ever witnessed.

And, privately, the only thing he ever wanted to watch again.

She loves this. She actually loves this. Look at her — lit up like the night sky over the Black Lake. And I'm about to pretend I'm above it entirely. Fine. Humor her. It's for her. It's all for her.

The firelight caught the silver threads. The serpent gleamed.