How long have I been staring at the ceiling? An hour? Maybe two?

I turn over in my bed at the cabin, pulling the blanket up around me. There’s been an autumnal chill in the air the past few days, strangely early even for Portland. We’re in the last week of July, and already the whisperings of Fall are weaving themselves into the brilliant summertime tapestry of the forest – in threads of gold through the oak leaves, the red-rimmed dogwood, the copper-kissed maples.

Too early. Fall has come much too early.

Somehow, Summer’s almost at an end. And with it, so is my time with Fable.

It’s been exactly one week since Lyall’s birthday. One week since I told my truth. One week since I stood on the cliffs hand-in-hand with Felix saying goodbye to my pain, to my past, to those I lost.

One week of painful, awkward pauses and unbearable silences.

Ever since that day, a palpable melancholy has blanketed the cabin like a sheet of new snow, freezing all conversation beneath it. Unspoken words hang like icicles in the air between us.

We’re in the studio from dusk to dawn, recording, singing, playing till our fingers cramp up and our throats are raw – perfecting Shadowbound, the seventh and final song on the album.

The boys don’t speak much about what happens next, but I already know the plan. In a few days’ time, once the album’s finished, the sound mixed, the final note played, they’ll go back to England, and they’ll upload it to some website, and give it away for free to their fans. Just like they always planned.

Their manager at BYG Records will be furious of course; the press will go berserk; the fans will be overjoyed – and I’ll still be here, in Portland, my only connection to the boys through the music we made together once upon a time in this strange little cabin in the woods.

We no longer talk about me giving them a Wild Blue Yonder demo to pass along to their manager. Maybe it’s because Alix pretty much announced on the beach that he’s going to Yale in the Fall, meaning that I no longer have a band for BYG to sign up anyway. Or maybe it’s because now that they know my whole story, the horror I went through, they think I’m too damaged. Someone like me, with all my issues and fears and complications, could never fit into their glittering world of pop stars and parties, fame and fortune.

I want to be strong. I want to accept that this is for the best. After all, my life is already complicated enough, even without the Fable boys in it – but somehow I just can’t let go.

Ben’s laughter, Lyall’s smile, a reassuring pat on the back from Elliot, a flirty wink from Alastaire, and Felix’s sad, beautiful gaze – their smallest gestures and expressions are burned into heart.

I will never see them again.

I squeeze my eyes shut; cradle my head in my hands, trying to banish the awful thought from my mind.

One weekend. That’s all I have left with them. Then they’re gone.

They don’t have flights booked yet (that I know of, anyway) but I know that we have less than a day’s work left to do on Shadowbound. We’re down to finishing touches now.

And even if the boys wanted to stay, even if they made up some excuse to draw out their time here – which I expect they’ve actually been doing for a while anyway, because we probably could have finished the whole album in the half the time if they’d really wanted that – even then, they still have to leave in the next few days.

They’re presenting at the annual Euro Music Awards in Vienna on Tuesday.

It’s back to reality, for all of us.

The hours left are precious and few, and the last thing I want to do is go away for the whole day tomorrow.

But on the way back to Portland after the night of camping on the beach at Smugglers Cove, Alix convinced me to sing with Wild Blue Yonder at the July Jubilee tomorrow night. It’ll be the band’s first and final performance in front of actual people. With Alix going away to college, and Micah planning on backpacking around Thailand, there’s no way I could have said no.

I owe it to them.

Before Fable came hurtling into my life, Alix and Micah and I practiced in a dingy little garage several times a week after school without fail, writing songs and getting ready for the day we’d eventually play on an actual stage, in front of someone other than Zee.

We put a lot of time and effort into Wild Blue Yonder, and it would be a waste if all the songs we wrote never saw the light of day. Even if this is the one and only time they are performed, at least they will have been heard.

I’m leaving the cabin at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, and only coming back the next day – which gives the boys and I a day or two to finish off Shadowbound before they have to fly out.

The boys coming along to the July Jubilee tomorrow is out of the question. There’s no way they’ll escape recognition, even in a crowd that big. The event has a different theme every year, and this year it’s Fairytales – so it’s possible the boys could dress up to disguise themselves, but still, it’s too risky. If they get found out, the game is over.

And it’s not only the boys I’ll be saying goodbye to in the next few days.

Kitty’s leaving too.

Things seem to be getting serious between her and Jade, but she’s insisting she has to get back to England for some important event, although she won’t say what.

Anytime I try to ask her whether they’ll try do a long distance relationship, what she’ll tell him, how much he even knows about her brother being world-famous rock star Felix Lockhart, she finds a way to change the topic. She even visited Jade’s family a few days ago in Seattle. As long as Jade’s been working as the barista at the Night Owl, I’ve never once heard him mention taking a girl home to meet his parents. It’s a big deal for him, and I scared she’s going to break his heart.

But somehow, I’m finding it impossible to be mad at Kitty over it.

She did buy me a $3000 dress after all.

I reach over to my bedside table and pick up note I found propped up on my pillow earlier this evening.

I raise it up out of the darkness, so that the wan moonlight shining through the window illuminates the neatly folded, creamy paper.

Kitty’s thin, elegant handwriting looks rushed, like she wrote the note in a hurry.

Ash. You remember that day a few weeks ago when we went shopping in town? I couldn’t resist. It’s perfect for you. Trust me. You and this dress are meant to be. It’s fate. Just accept it and don’t you dare try and take it back to the shop… just accept a gift for once, k? See you tomorrow xxxo

PS. You said the jubilee thing has a fairytale theme… you should go as a mermaid. The sequins are like scales, right? I’m going as a sexy (and girl version) Puss in Boots. Can’t wait to show you.

PPS. In case you are super grateful and you want to wake me up right now to thank me, DON’T. I am catching up on beauty sleep for my date. Jade is taking me to the jubilee thing in case you haven’t figured that out yet :)

PPPS. Look in the closet.

PPPPS. You will be amazing tomorrow night. Breathe. Relax. Xoxoxoxox

I fold the note, placing it back beneath my bedside lamp.

I need to see it again.

For the third time since I went to bed, I slip out from under my duvet, and tread as quietly as I can over the creaky wooden floorboards.

I pause for a moment before the massive wardrobe, afraid that when I open the doors I’ll find it empty, and the whole thing will turn out to be a dream.

But as the doors swing silently open I can see it hanging in the shadows at the back of the wardrobe. I slip it off the wooden hanger, marveling at how the cold fabric shifts like liquid silver beneath my fingers. Stepping back, I hold the magnificent dress up to the moonlight.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Sequins sparkle like iridescent moonbeans against a backdrop of silver silk. The evening gown is strapless and floor length, flaring slightly at the bottom where it sweeps the floor. Every inch is scaled with glimmering silver, so that it appears to shine from within, as if the dress itself were made of moonlit water, an enchanted shimmering vision. I’ve never seen, nor could ever have imagined, a more bewitching dress.

I don’t even need to try it on to know it will fit me perfectly, draping over every curve like molten metal.

Kitty’s right.

It’s like it was made for me.

In typical Kitty style, she forgot to remove the $3000 price tag – a fortune in my eyes, but probably a bargain for her, considering how her wardrobe is mostly Dior and Versace.

And as if spending all of that wasn’t enough, the dress wasn’t the only gift that Kitty bought behind my back during our little shopping trip. Stacked neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe, wrapped in white tissue paper tied up with a black velvet ribbon, are an elegant sparkly silver clutch bag, and a pair of matching strappy stilettos.

Like the dress, I haven’t tried them on yet, but I somehow know they’ll fit me perfectly. It’s illogical, and silly, but I have this deep down certainty – an intuition maybe – that I need to wait until tomorrow night to wear these.

With a sigh, I slip the dress back onto its hanger, returning it to its place at the back of the wardrobe.

The second it disappears into the shadows I feel my heart skip a beat, and an icy chill runs down my spine.

I reach into the darkness to check that the dress still there, and at that moment I hear a familiar tune playing from somewhere in the room behind me.

It’s Déjà Vu – my ringtone, and my first and favorite Fable song. The song that Mia and I were listening to on the bus, just moments before the accident.

I can hear Felix’s voice drifting through the night as he sings out the lyrics as familiar as my own name:

Just one second,

A beautiful moment

I’m falling fast, I can't forget

Over and over, your story's rewritten

Unbreakable chain, my déjà vu.

Love through the darkness

Mirrors on mirrors

I’ve been waiting all this time

Fire becomes ashes

A new star is born

In this starlight

Say you’ll be mine.

The eerie, muted words are a whisper in the dark, barely discernable.

Where is it coming from? It can’t be my ringtone. Surely not.

My phone’s been missing since before Lyall’s birthday. I originally thought I’d left it in the recording studio, but a thorough search of the entire cabin turned up absolutely nothing. Kitty went outside and tried ringing it a million times, but that’s pointless anyway, because there’s no reception in the cabin – the only spot any of us can get a signal or internet connection is under the big oak tree on the clearing’s edge.

So after looking for days, my phone never showed up, and I’ve pretty much accepted I’ll never see it again.

I look around the room, trying to trace the source of the music.

With a start, I realize that it’s coming from the window.

The sound is coming from outside.

My window is slightly ajar to let in the cool night air.

I tip toe over to it, noticing how the song gets slightly louder and clearer the closer I get.

What I see when I reach the window takes my breath away.

A faint silvery light glows in the distant darkness of the forest, pulsing and radiating with a slow rhythm, like a phosphorescent fish glimmering in the gloomy ocean depths.

The music continues, a never-ending loop.

It must be my phone. It has to be. The screen light is on because someone’s trying to phone me. It’s probably lying under that tree where there’s reception, or somewhere near it, if it’s getting a call.

If I hurry maybe I can answer before they hang up.

I can’t believe my luck – just when I’d accepted that my phone is gone forever, it shows up like this. How it got outside is a mystery, but that’s besides the point. I only got the phone in December last year for Christmas, and I was dreading having to explain to my parents how I lost the brand new iPhone. I’m relieved, but there’s something about the way the phone keeps on ringing, so insistently over and over, that makes my skin prickle.

Whoever’s trying to get hold of me isn’t giving up. It’s something important. Something urgent.

I pick up the grey chunky knit cardigan draped over the foot of my bed, buttoning it up over my camisole pajama top and lacey white shorts as quickly as I can. I’m about the crack open my bedroom door when I hear laughter coming from down the corridor.

It’s unmistakably Alastaire’s.

It sounds like he’s with Ben or Lyall, and they probably haven’t closed the door of whichever room they’re in.

Hell, they might even be in the corridor itself, having an impromptu hallway party. I wouldn’t put it past them.

I need to go outside and take that call alone. And if Alastaire and the others spot me, there’s no way that’s happening.

It’s ridiculous, and stupid, and I feel crazy for even thinking it, but I have a gut feeling that the person on the other side of the line has something very important to tell me.

Something about Fable.

Something I might not want to hear.

Only one thing to do.

I walk over to the open window.

The forest at the clearing’s edge is dark, but everything around the house is cast in lustrous icelight from the almost-full moon, hanging low and heavy in the sky like a pearl. The effect is haunting, and I’m tempted to crawl back into the safety of my bed, and ignore the persistent caller.

But I can’t.

I can already feel my pulse racing as I climb carefully up onto the windowsill, my bare feet brushing the wood as I hoist myself over.

I’m only one story up, but at this moment the drop to the ground looks like a never-ending chasm, deepening and widening the longer I look at it.

I shake my head, wondering why my mind has to play tricks on me now of all times.

Now that I’m perched on the windowsill, I’m not quite sure how exactly to get down. It’s too far to jump. And it’s not like I have a ladder.

I didn’t think this through. Dammit.

I’m about to climb back through the window when all of a sudden it slams shut in my face, the glass panes rattling in their frames as the lock clicks into place.

Try as I might, I can’t open it up, so I cling to the window ledge, pressing myself against the glass with the cool night air on my back.

It’s impossible. There’s no wind. How could my window slam shut by itself like that?

I consider shouting out for help, picturing Alastaire’s confused expression as he runs into my room to find me clinging to the outside of my window.

I’d never live it down.

I guess there’s no choice then.

Slowly, carefully, I press one hand against the window, and reach out the other towards the wall next to me, trying to grasp the twisting rose branches that cling to the exterior of the house. As I wrap my hand around a stem I feel a jolt of pain, and I pull it back, watching as small droplets of blood red as the roses all around pool in my palm.

Roses have thorns. Duh.

But going inside isn’t an option anymore however. I have to do this.

I reach out again into the writhing mass of foliage, finding a sturdy knotted branch, and I yank it as hard as I can. It doesn’t budge, holding fast to the cabin like a zealous lover with a strangling embrace.

I can do this.

Grimacing in pain as the thorns bite into the flesh of my hands and my bare feet, I begin climbing down the side of the cabin, using the prickly stems as footholds. I try to ignore the wetness blossoming on my skin, the sharp ache as I descend.

Just a few more seconds. It’ll be over soon.

And yet, it’s not.

I climb, and climb, and climb, but I’m not nearer to the bottom.

I look down, and to my horror, the ground is suddenly miles away, disappearing into a wild thicket of roses as ancient and sprawling as those around Sleeping Beauty’s kingdom, or Rapunzel’s tower – an ocean of dark red perfume that pries at my fingers, dulls my senses, makes me long suddenly for sleep. Gasping, I look up towards the windowsill, only to find it’s disappeared, as has the whole cabin – all I can see in every direction is an endless wall of roses.

It’s not real. It’s not real. I’m dreaming.

I screw my eyes shut, clinging desperately to the branches in my hands, curling my toes, no longer even noticing the pain.

I can’t move.

My mind racing, I press my body against the thicket, and notice with a jolt that I’m sinking into the roses, as if the wall beneath them is gone.

I open up my eyes and see a fragile tendril unfurling, twisting itself around my wrist like a delicate jade bracelet, then twisting tighter, and tighter.

More tendrils wrap themselves against my wrists, my arms, my ankles, sinking their thorns into my skin, pulling me inwards towards whatever darkness awaits.

The same darkness that was waiting for me that day on the bus.

It’s been waiting.

It’s come to take me.

NO.

I jolt backwards with all my might, feeling my skin rip as the thorns and the suffocating branches tear away, weightless for a moment as I fall backwards through the air.

Seconds later I feel a thud as I hit the ground. The fall knocks all the air from my lungs, and my vision goes blurry for a moment.

My whole body aches, and spasms of pain shoot through my back, my legs, my arms. My head is spinning as I lie on my back in the leaf litter and moss, vaguely noticing the strange bend of my left arm, folded in on itself in an unnatural position.

I lift my aching head, and I can see the cabin before me, quiet and dark and harmless, blanketed in the now-still climbing red rose.

Did I hallucinate it all?

I take a deep breath, and fresh pain seers through my entire body as I try to lift my arm, retching as the shattered bones ache beneath my flesh.

And then before my eyes, something miraculous happens.

My broken arm moves of its own accord, and the bones seem to stir inside, shifting and correcting themselves below my skin, as the torn flesh on my hands and feet knits together. Even the ribbons of bright red blood trickling down my arms disappear – they fizzle into mist with a soft hiss, coiling through the air like serpentine red trails of smoke before fading into nothingness.

Every fracture, every scratch, every last echo of pain – gone. As though it were never there.

I blink my eyes, holding my arm before me, unable to believe that it was broken just moments before.

…Over and over, your story's rewritten

Unbreakable chain, my déjà vu…

I jump to my feet with a fright as I remember what I came for, realizing that my phone is still ringing.

The ringtone is louder now, and I can see the muted silver light shining in the woods some distance away.

I scramble over the moonlit clearing, slipping over moss and rocks, past the burnt-out remnants of the bonfire, further and further away from the cabin.

If I can just reach it before they hang up. It’ll be lying somewhere in the undergrowth. Lucky my screen’s so bright, just a bit further…

I reach the forest’s edge, and I run headfirst into the darkness, the ferns brushing my ankles as I stumble into the woods.

Almost there…

Wait…

As I reach the source of the music, I realize it’s not my ringtone after all.

There are no instruments or backing vocals; it’s definitely not a recording of Déjà Vu.

I’m not hearing a recording of Felix’s voice.

I’m hearing the real thing.

Felix is standing with his back to me a few feet from where I stand.

He’s staring at something in the darkness a few feet ahead.

The writhing, twisting shape of the silver serpent hangs in the air before him, casting the pale ebbing light I saw from afar, dancing on the cold currents of blackest night, entranced by his otherworldly voice.

Felix is singing to it.

I step back, startled, and the singing stops abruptly.

Felix turns to face me.

“Ash,” he says. “Come to me.”