AI Rory’s boots crunched through Richmond Park’s bracken, the November cold seeping through three layers of clothing to bite at her ankles. It was 12:47 AM, and she’d hiked three miles from the park gate, her only guide a crumpled notebook page Eva had scribbled on two weeks prior, when she’d first warned Rory Evan had tracked her to London. She’d found the broken coffee mug on her fire escape two nights before, the same brand Evan drank, the same crack he left in every mug he slammed down during their fights in Cardiff. She’d packed her Golden Empress delivery bag with 200 pounds, a switchblade Eva had slipped her, and the deep crimson Heartstone pendant, strung on a silver chain around her neck. The unknown benefactor who’d left it on her flat door had said it would keep her safe, that it would warm near any place that could hide her. It had glowed faint, warm, for the entire hike, until she saw the three oak standing stones half-hidden in ivy, the boundary Eva had marked as the Grove’s edge.
She stepped over the gnarled root curling between the first two stones, and the cold vanished. One step, and the November chill that had numbed her cheeks was gone , replaced by a thick, still warmth that smelled like cut grass and rain that never fell. Wildflowers bloomed at her feet: bluebells, poppies, daisies, plants that didn’t grow anywhere in London in mid-autumn. She’d expected the year-round blooms Eva had bragged about, but she hadn’t expected the silence . Outside the stones, she’d heard an owl’s hoot, the distant hum of the M25, the rustle of squirrels in dead leaves. Inside, nothing. No wind stirred the flower petals. No birds called. The only sound was her own breathing, the hard thud of her heart against her ribs.
She leaned down to touch the nearest poppy, its petals a bright, unnatural red. They were soft under her fingertip, but ice cold, so cold they burned her skin. She yanked her hand back, and the Heartstone under her hoodie spiked in temperature. This wasn’t the faint, steady warm pulse she’d felt crossing old stone bridges in London. This was a searing burn, branding her sternum through two layers of fabric. She ripped the silver chain over her head, clutching the thumbnail-sized gem in her palm. The crimson glowed so bright it painted every wildflower within ten feet red, its pulse speeding to match the hammer of her heart. The note that came with the pendant had one other line, written in the same unreadable scrawled hand: it burns near portals that hunt you. She’d thought that was a hoax, until now.
She spun to run back to the boundary, to get out of the Grove before whatever was wrong got worse. The stones were gone . She turned a full circle, oak trunks and endless wildflowers stretching as far as her eyes could see in the faint starlight filtering through the canopy. The stars didn’t move. They hung fixed, exactly where they’d been when she stepped over the root. She fumbled for the analog watch her dad had given her for her 21st birthday, the only piece of tech Eva had said would work inside the Grove. The hands were stuck at 12:52 AM, the exact time she’d crossed the boundary. The watch ticked, loud and sharp in the silence , but the second hand didn’t sweep forward. It stalled, twitched backward, stalled again.
A jingle cut through the quiet. The same metal clink of the keys she’d clipped to her delivery bag strap, holding her spare flat key and the switchblade’s fob. Rory flipped the switchblade open, its sharp edge glinting in the Heartstone’s faint glow. Her keys hung quiet at her hip. The jingle came again, ten feet behind her, to her left. She spun, eyes scanning the treeline. No one stood there. The wildflowers were unbroken, no tracks, no sign anyone had moved through them.
“Who’s there?”
Her voice bounced off the oak trunks, swallowed by the still air before it could travel more than a few feet. The jingle came again, further away, this time at the edge of the treeline to her right. She caught a flash of straight, shoulder-length black hair, the exact cut of her own, disappearing behind an oak trunk. She ran, boots slamming into soft dirt, the switchblade held out in front of her. She skidded to a stop in front of the trunk. No one stood there. Only a crumpled navy delivery bag, emblazoned with the Golden Empress’s gold dragon, identical to the one slung over her shoulder.
She knelt, her knees sinking into damp earth, and unzipped the bag. A crumpled receipt stuck out of the front pocket, her own handwriting scrawled in the margin: Mrs. Henderson , 17 Larch Way, garlic allergy, add extra soy. That was the delivery she’d done three days prior. She’d written that note on the receipt pad she still carried in her own bag. She ripped her own bag off her shoulder, dug out her receipt pad. The last receipt she’d filled out was the exact same one, same note, same scribble. She dropped the crumpled bag, and it hit the wildflowers with a soft, dead thud.
She backed away from the oak, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She told herself it was paranoia, that two years of Evan screaming that she was crazy, that she imagined every fight, had warped her ability to tell what was real. Then she heard her name, soft, the way Eva drew it out when she was teasing her.
“Rory.”
The voice came from behind her, warm and familiar . She spun, hope flaring for half a second that Eva had come to meet her, that she’d just wandered off the path, that all of this was a stupid mistake.
“Eva?”
The voice came again, closer, only a few feet away, and it shifted. It was Evan now, low and rough, the same tone he used when he was minutes from screaming, when he’d corner her in their Cardiff flat’s hallway to scream that she was cheating , that she was trying to leave him.
“Why did you run from me, Rory?”
She saw him then, at the edge of the wildflower clearing, 6’2, grey Arsenal hoodie, the sleeve torn at the elbow exactly where she’d grabbed it the day she’d fled Cardiff. He stepped forward, his face in shadow, the scar on his right eyebrow from a bar fight clear even in the dark. She stepped back, tripped over a root, and landed hard on her tailbone, the wind knocked out of her. The Heartstone flew out of her hand, landing ten feet away in the poppies, and its glow spiked so bright it lit the entire clearing. Evan froze. He didn’t move another step. The light painted his face, and for half a second she saw it wasn’t Evan. It was her. Same straight black hair, same bright blue eyes, same crescent scar on her left wrist. She was wearing Evan’s hoodie, smiling. Rory blinked, and the figure was gone .
She crawled across the dirt to the Heartstone, her palms scraping on small rocks, and snatched it up. It had cooled, just a faint warmth now, and under it, carved deep into the soft earth, was a small crescent, identical to the scar on her wrist. She dropped the pendant like it had burned her, scrambled to her feet, and ran. Branches slapped her face, her hood fell back, her hair sticking to sweat-slick skin. She ran until she saw a light up ahead, warm yellow, seeping through the oak trunks, the cottage Eva had told her about, Isolde’s safe house at the Grove’s center. Relief flooded her, she sobbed, pushed her legs faster, until she skidded to a stop at the edge of the final clearing.
It wasn’t a cottage. It was her flat, the one above Silas’ bar. The same chipped blue paint on the window frame, the same string of fairy lights she’d strung up last month, the same crack in the glass Evan had left when he threw a rock through it two weeks prior. The window was open, she could see inside. She was inside, sitting on her couch, eating cold leftover noodles, putting on the same 90s rom-com she watched when she couldn’t sleep. Her flat’s front door opened, and Evan walked in, same grey hoodie, same scar on his eyebrow . He stepped up behind the Rory on the couch, put his hands on her shoulders. The Rory on the couch turned her head, and looked straight out the window at the real Rory. Her left wrist, where the crescent scar sat, was bleeding , blood dripping onto the couch cushion.
You led him here.
The voice was hers, clear as if she stood right next to Rory. The Evan figure behind the couch turned, looked out, and it was her too, another copy, smiling, the crescent scar on her wrist glowing faint red, matching the Heartstone the real Rory still clutched in her hand. This copy pushed the Rory on the couch off the sofa, leaned forward, pressed her palms to the glass. Her breath fogged the pane.
Time moves different here, remember? An hour inside can be days outside. I’ve been waiting for you for three days. I knew you’d come.
More figures stepped out of the flat’s hallway, dozens of them, all copies of Rory, all with the same crescent scar on their left wrists, all staring out at her. The first copy pressed her palm harder against the glass, and the pane cracked, spiderwebbing out from under her hand.
You’re never leaving.