The smell of the sea mixes with the smoke from the bonfire. Harvest dips her head back to let the sun warm her face. The air is filled with the cries of seagulls and the soft murmurings of the ocean waves, punctuated by the clink of wine glasses and the soft sniffles of tears flowing freely.

Harvest lets it all wash over her as she takes a deep breath, not bothering to sort through the energies and emotions, grief mixed with love in a rainbow haze. Instead, she lets it all sit on her shoulders, as soft and comforting as the homemade sweater she is wearing.

Hazel took up knitting while she was away, and she’s become quite good at it.

Despite the sun, the air is still chilled, the bonfire serving both a symbolic and practical purpose. It seems that the whole island has come out to celebrate Amy, and they gather around the flames, wiping tears from the corner of their eyes. Amy’s parents are huddled close to the bonfire. John’s arm is around Flora as they talk about their daughter.

Amy’s mother looks over briefly, and Harvest gives her a small wave. Flora’s eyes crinkle with emotion, and she nods a silent thank you before her attention is taken by the crowd around her. On the opposite side of the bonfire, Quinn and Hazel stand next to each other and make stilted, awkward small talk. Harvest will rescue both of them from each other soon, but for now, she’s content to stand on the outskirts of the crowd, sipping the homemade wine that her father brought. Theodore Rosenbloom is next to Hazel, chatting quietly with a fishing buddy. Every so often, he glances back at Hazel, as if afraid to lose sight of her again.

Aunt Trixie and Aunt Bea are talking to Wild and Angel. Bea seems genuinely interested, hanging off of Wild’s every word, while Trixie listens with feigned interest, as Wilde recounts how the vial Angel gave him stopped the bullet. It left him with only a minor scratch, not even deep enough to need stitches. He beams proudly at Angel, who ducks their head and shakes off the admiration with red cheeks.

The sun begins to set, and the clouds stretch across the sky in a last-ditch effort to impress those below, entire swatches of impossible colors splattered against the electric pink backdrop. It is with some alarm that Harvest realizes it’s only been a week since she received Hazel’s postcard.

Harvest and Hazel have been staying at the Rosenbloom Estate for the past few nights, and while their conversations are not always without animosity, they have been working diligently to reconnect with each other. Aunt Trixie has always told them that they are stronger together, and Harvest is starting to believe it too. Even her second-sight seems to be more vibrant around Hazel, the colors so bold they block out everything else when she blinks.

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Suddenly, there is a drop in temperature, and the rim of Harvest’s drink frosts over. She looks at the ghostly figure that has suddenly materialized next to her. “I thought I unchained you,” she says with a smile.

“You did,” says Amy. “But I wanted to stick around a bit longer.” She looks over at her parents sadly and takes a deep breath, more out of habit than necessity. She’s still wearing her pink sweater, and she pulls the sleeves down to cover her hands before she hugs her torso.

Harvest studies Amy’s profile for a beat before looking back out at the ocean. “Okay, but…you know, unchained spirits who spend too much time over here can get a bit…unstable,” she warns.

Amy nods. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

Harvest smiles and sips her drink. “If you need anything, I’m here for you.”

Amy smiles back and then, with a nod and a soft sigh, she is gone.

The warmth of the sun returns, and Harvest settles into the sand to watch the waves. Night descends, and the darkness seems to wrap its arms around the crowd, shuffling everyone closer to the bonfire. Harvest eventually relents and makes her way to the fire, rubbing her hands together to warm her fingers.

Quinn comes to stand next to her, his eyes glinting like melted gold. “Sorry, by the way,” he says.

“For what?” she asks, studying his profile. His face is lined in orange from the bonfire, and, for a second, she imagines he is made of fire. Not like the volatile burning flame of Ezra’s gift, though. He is a low-simmering heat, burning in the depths of the desert.

He could melt fae-forged steel with a kiss.

She looks down at her drink. Her father’s homemade wine is much stronger than she anticipated.

“That one time, with the message and the pint.” He looks over at her with a smirk, showing a canine tooth that is a little more pointy than it should be. “Though,” he adds quietly, leaning closer. She can feel his lips against the shell of her ear. “The offer always stands, little witch.”

“Again, that’s not how apologies work,” she says with a laugh, jabbing her elbow into his side.

He leans back with a smile. “I saw your transfer was approved. I’m glad. You were wasting away with Herman. Fitz is a good agent. You’ll learn a lot from her.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“Though you’d learn more from me.”

She rolls her eyes but clinks her glass against his beer bottle. “We’ll see about that, Agent Quinn.”

She takes a sip of her drink and, together, they stand in silence, watching the fire crackle in front of them.

“You’re worried,” he says, eyes trained on her.

“He’s still out there. We know what happened to Amy and she’s found…well, peace, I suppose. But Ozias is still out there.”

“We’ll find him,” he says.

The conviction in his voice draws her attention away from the flames. “We’re not supposed to make promises we can’t keep,” she says, paraphrasing the Bureau Agent Manual (“Chapter 5: Dealing With Grieving Family Members”).

“Then I guess I better keep this promise.”