She wasn’t choking at all.

She was laughing.

Without a word—her shoulders still shaking—she reached out to tear the fabric of his opposite sleeve. His mouth fell open in outrage as he tried to pull away. “Excuse you. My mother bought me this shirt!”

“Now you match.” She clutched his arms and laughed harder. “Your mother will approve when she sees you. If she ever sees you again, that is. You did almost die.” She slapped his chest as if the two had shared a hilarious joke. “You almost died.”

“Yes.” Beau searched her face warily. “You mentioned that.”

“I can mend your shirt, if you’d like,” Célie offered. “I’ve a needle and thread in my bag—” But she broke off when Coco continued to laugh wildly. When that laughter deepened into something darker. Crazed. Beau pulled her into his arms without hesitation. Her shoulders shook now for an entirely different reason, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing incoherently. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other across her back, and he held her tightly, fiercely, murmuring soft words in her ear. Words I couldn’t hear. Words I didn’t want to hear.

I looked away.

This pain wasn’t for me. This vulnerability. I felt like an interloper. Watching them together—the way Beau rocked her gently, the way she clutched him for dear life—it brought a lump to my throat. Anyone could see where this was headed. Coco and Beau had danced around each other for months. Just as clear, however, was the inevitable heartbreak. Neither was in a position to start a relationship. They shared too much hurt between them. Too much grief. Jealousy. Spite. Even well-adjusted, the two would’ve been wrong for each other. Like water and oil.

I glanced up at Lou. We’d been wrong for each other too.

And so, so right.

With a sigh, I started up the path, my footsteps heavy. My thoughts heavier. Célie followed quietly behind. When we reached Lou, I laced her cold fingers through mine, and we turned to face the lighthouse.

Beau and Coco joined us several minutes later. Though her eyes remained swollen and red, she no longer cried. Instead she held her shoulders straight. Proud. Riddled with holes, Beau’s shirt still smoked slightly, revealing more skin than prudent in January. They didn’t speak of what had transpired, and neither did we.

We studied the lighthouse in silence.

It rose from the earth like a crooked finger beckoning to the sky. A single stone tower. Dirty. Dilapidated. Dark against the dawn. No flames flickered in the basin beneath the slanted roof. “The stable boy said no one lights the torches anymore,” Célie said, her voice low. I didn’t ask why she whispered. The hair on my neck had lifted inexplicably. The shadows here seemed to collect thicker than natural. “He said they haven’t been lit for years.”

“The stable boy talks a lot.” Beau glanced between us nervously. He kept his arm firm around Coco’s waist. “Do we . . . has anyone actually seen a cauchemar?”

“I told you,” Célie said. “It was a great hulking beast of tooth and claw, and it—”

“Darling, no.” Beau lifted his free hand with a forced smile. “I meant”—he struggled for the right words for a moment before shrugging—“has anyone else seen a cauchemar? Preferably someone who didn’t run away screaming?”

Coco flashed him a grin. Amused. It seemed out of place on her grim face. With a start, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely smiled. Had she ever? Had I seen it? When she pinched his ribs, he yelped and dropped his arm. “You have a beautiful falsetto yourself,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten.”

Though she grinned wider at his outrage—his surprise—her bravado felt fragile. Delicate. I didn’t want to see it break. Buffeting Beau’s shoulder, I said, “Do you remember the witch on Modraniht?”

His mouth flattened. “We do not speak of her.”

“I remember.” Coco shot me an appreciative look. It was there and gone in the blink of an eye. So brief I might’ve imagined it. “She quite liked your little performance, didn’t she?”

“I’m an excellent singer,” Beau sniffed.

“You’re an excellent dancer.”

I laughed despite myself. “I remember Beau running away screaming that night.”

“What is this?” He looked between us, brows and nose wrinkling in alarm. “What’s happening here?”

“She told you what a cauchemar looks like.” Though Coco didn’t look at Célie—didn’t acknowledge her existence whatsoever—I suspected her admission was the only apology Célie would receive. “Don’t be an ass. Listen.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Beau inclined his head in Célie’s direction. She stood a little straighter. “My apologies, madame,” he muttered, sounding like a peevish child. “What I meant was has anyone ever fought a cauchemar? Some actual experience might be the difference between surviving this encounter intact and having our heads thrown to sea.”

“Is that your fear?” Lou tilted her own head to study him. She’d grown unusually silent since reaching the lighthouse. Unusually still. Until now, her eyes hadn’t wavered from the thick shadows at the base of the tower. “Decapitation?”

His frown matched her own. “I—well, it doesn’t seem particularly pleasant, no.”

“But do you fear it?” she pressed. “Does it haunt your dreams?”

Beau scoffed at the peculiar question, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Show me someone who doesn’t fear decapitation, and I’ll show you a liar.”

“Why?” Coco’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Lou?”

Lou’s gaze returned to the shadows. She stared at them as if trying to decipher something. As if listening to an unspoken language. “A cauchemar is a nightmare,” she explained in an offhand voice. Still distracted. “It’ll appear differently to each of us, assuming the form of our greatest fears.”

A beat of horrific silence passed as her words sank in.

Our greatest fears. An uncanny awareness skittered down my spine, as if even now, the creature watched us. Learned us. I didn’t even know my greatest fear. I’d never given it thought. Never given it voice. It seemed the cauchemar would do it for me.