Morning spread itself over the Harrower's Hall in long ribbons of silver and slate, the moorland wrapped in a hush that smelled of frost and faded lavender. A soft mist clung to the windows, and the world outside looked like a half-formed thought.
They were discussing how to respond to the report of a minor haunting near Westminster Abbey. Grey, still nursing her first cup of coffee, narrowed her eyes and asked, "Is this going to be another one of Caderyn's messes?"
Wickham, without looking up from his mug, replied breezily, "Not unless our dear Royal Highness is suddenly haunting abbeys in his spare time. This seems like just a normal garden variety haunting. Ghost with a bell obsession. Very on-brand."
Wickham leaned against the battered Land Rover with a mug of something steaming and suspiciously herbal in hand. "Low threat, high symbolism," he declared with a grin that was a little too wide for that hour. "Perfect opportunity to radiate some positive vibes, woman to man. Haunt a bell tower, chase away the shadows, and maybe hold hands on the Tube."
Grey flushed instantly. Alaric merely arched one elegant brow as he adjusted the heavy black coat draped over his shoulders. It fit him like something out of a fashion editorial—tailored, sharp, and catching just enough morning light to give him the air of a dark prince exiled for crimes of passion. He looked unfairly good in it, and knew it, which made it worse.
Grey, by contrast, was in something Maerlowe might have picked for her, all deep brown wool, layered scarves, and vintage buttons—Dark Academia by way of reluctant eldritch heir. Hey, Librarian Chic is sexy, she told herself. Alaric's appreciative glance told her he agreed.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Wickham called after them, as they rolled down the drive toward the train station. "Actually—no, scratch that. Do exactly what I would do. Preferably in public, my darlings. Now bugger off and have fun."
At the station, the chill in the air carried the scent of cold metal and burnt coffee. Grey practically bounced to the touchscreen ticket machine, while Alaric hung back, scowling at it like it had personally wronged him. She found it hilarious how confident he was with most modern things, like driving or navigating public transport. But smaller things, like phones or computers, completely defeated him.
"Just tap here," Grey said, leaning in and jabbing the button with one gloved finger. "And don't look at it like it owes you a blood debt. It's a machine, not a Seelie envoy."
Alaric muttered something unintelligible with a smile tugging at his mouth. He passed the time glaring at the contactless reader until it finally beeped.
The coffee shop queue proved no less foreign. Grey teased him all the way through Alaric's awkward encounter with the barista. "No, you don't need to barter your cloak for a flat white. Just tap. Again. Gods, you're ancient."
Alaric took his coffee, looked down at it as if unsure whether to drink it or divine with it, and smirked. "You think you're clever."
"I know I'm clever. You're just still impressed by escalators."
They settled into their seats, the low hum of the train and the soft blur of landscape outside providing a rhythm that lulled Grey into a rare calm. Trees streaked past, damp fields still ghosted in mist. A pair of deer watched them from a hedgerow, unmoving, antlers crowned in frost.
Grey rested her head against the window. "It's weird," she murmured. "I feel... I don't know. Human. Not normal. But close enough."
Alaric turned toward her, eyes soft with something that felt like gravity. "You're allowed to have days that aren't survival."
Grey smiled faintly. "We should do this more often."
"We should," Alaric agreed. Then, after a beat, in a much louder, faux-tragic voice: "But you won't even go into the London Dungeon with me."
Grey rolled her eyes. "Because I don't want to get dragged into a wax reenactment of plague history? Or worse, have some poorly-animated mannequin cough on me."
"That's part of the charm," Alaric said solemnly. "Immersion."
"You wouldn't last five minutes in a horror movie," she shot back.
"Mo chridhe, surely you jest: I am the horror movie. It's atmospheric! Romantic, even! Torture chambers are practically part of your cultural heritage."
"You're deranged. If we're going anywhere, it's going to be glittery and filled with jellyfish."
Alaric considered this solemnly. "Sea Life?"
Grey gave him a hopeful glance. "They have penguins now."
Alaric reached over and stole a sip of her coffee. "Fine. But only if we get to ride the Eye and eat overpriced streetfood on the Southbank."
Grey grinned. "Deal."
By the time they stepped off the bus near Westminster, the sky was an overcast bruise and the bells of the Abbey tolled faintly above the city noise. The air around the bell tower carried a subtle wrongness—just enough to raise the hairs on the back of Grey's neck.
Inside, away from the tourists and velvet ropes, the Abbey's upper cloisters were silent. The monk's ghost waited in the bell tower, perched like an owl against the iron railing. His robes fluttered, transparent and smoke-thin, and his eyes were milky with memory lost to time.
"I... I rang it, and then there was fire," he whispered as they approached, voice no louder than the chime of dust.
Alaric stepped forward first, hand resting on the worn wood of the stair's banister. "You died in the lightning strike. During the old storm of '52. Do you remember?"
The monk blinked slowly. Tears of soot welled in eyes that couldn't cry.
"I was alone," he said. "I stayed to finish the vesper prayers. I thought... I thought the bell would call the others back."
Grey's breath hitched. She stepped into the pale radius of the spirit's sorrow, extending one hand, soft with threadlight.
"You weren't forgotten," she said. "You held fast. You rang the bell for peace. Let me show you where that road leads now."
The ghost tilted his head, eyes catching the silver shimmer in Grey's palm. "You shine, girl. Not with holiness—but with kindness."
Grey stepped closer, throat tight. The threadlight pulsed between them, spinning a gentle loop that encircled the ghost's form. The monk inhaled once—deeply—and then vanished like a prayer said aloud. The bell above them gave one final chime, though no hand touched it.
Alaric stepped beside Grey, eyes on the empty stair.
"You did that well," he said.
Grey exhaled slowly, steady. "Poor thing," she said.
Alaric looked over at her, smile faint but real. "You'll make a fine steward of the balance."
Grey turned to him, caught in the hush of that moment, and thought—this is what the future could look like. Gentle. Shared. Full of small mercies and victories. Alaric must have felt it too. He touched her hand, just briefly. And for a moment, everything felt possible.
As they stepped back into the bustle of the Southbank, Alaric turned toward Grey with theatrical menace and a wicked grin. "Come, mo chridhe. Let's face the darkness. And also some plastic corpses."
Grey choked on a laugh, horrified and enchanted in equal measure. "If anything touches me unexpectedly, I swear to every minor god, I'm hexing your boots."
"Promises, promises," Alaric purred, then offered his arm like a courtly knight.
Inside the London Dungeon, she clung to him more than she'd care to admit—muffled squeaks escaping her whenever something lunged from the shadows. There was an excessive amount of theatrical horror. Even more hand-holding. Alaric took great pleasure in pretending not to enjoy it, though his hand never once let go of hers.
At one point, a ghoul jumped from behind a false wall. Grey yelped, ducked behind Alaric, and then immediately slapped his chest with the back of her hand. "You knew that was coming!"
"I might have had a feeling," he said innocently, eyes gleaming in the low red light.
They emerged into daylight breathless and slightly hysterical with laughter. Grey wiped at her eyes, cheeks pink. "I can't believe I let you drag me in there."
"I'll treasure every moment of your shrieking," he said, utterly sincere. "I shall bottle it and sip it when I'm feeling low."
Grey snorted. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you're here." He gestured across the river. "You mentioned jellyfish?" The aquarium shimmered like a promise.
They wandered slowly through coral-tinted corridors, past luminous tanks that turned the world surreal. Children dashed past in bursts of noise and colour, but the two of them moved at a quieter pace, as if the water itself had slowed them.
In the jellyfish exhibit, Grey pressed her palm to the cool curve of the tank glass. Translucent bodies drifted behind the pane, glowing blue and violet in the shifting light. The creatures pulsed like living poetry.
"They're beautiful," she murmured, voice filled with wonder. Her breath fogged the glass.
Alaric didn't answer immediately. His gaze wasn't on the tank.
"They are," he said finally. "But not half as beautiful as you."
Grey turned, startled by the certainty in his voice. There was no teasing in his expression. Only truth, spoken softly.
"You say that a lot," she said, a little breathless. She hadn't believed him the first hundred times he told her.
"Because it keeps being true."
She held his gaze longer than she ever had. And this time, she didn't look away.
They wandered hand in hand along Southbank, the Thames rippling beside them, catching fleeting glimmers of late afternoon light. Street performers played violins and fire-breathers drew little crowds. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts and cinnamon.
Grey bought them hot chocolates from a vendor with steam rising in silver curls. Alaric took his with a smirk and immediately declared it "too sweet." Grey just grinned and stole a sip.
Wickham's texts arrived in a flurry of emojis and flamboyant updates. At one point, Grey laughed out loud at a particularly ludicrous message and snapped a selfie—her leaning into Alaric, who pulled an exaggerated face, eyes crossed and tongue out. She added a cartoonish filter that gave him rabbit ears and glitter.
"You'll pay for that," Alaric said, but his arm tightened around her waist.
Feet aching but spirits high, they climbed aboard a red hop-on hop-off bus, claiming the front seats on the top deck. Wind whipped at their hair as the city unfolded before them in glass and brick and distant clock chimes.
Grey leaned against Alaric's shoulder. He slid an arm around her, warm and solid. His cheek came to rest against her hair, and for a moment they sat that way, just two figures silhouetted against the skyline, wrapped in each other.
"I feel like such a normal girl," she whispered, almost surprised by her own words. Not Threadborn. Not Harrower. Just... Grey.
Alaric's breath stirred the strands near her temple. "That's because you are. My girl. In every way that matters."
And she was starting to believe that. She pushed down the misgiving that he was only able to say that now that he knew she would live forever.
The city rolled by. So did time.
The rooftops were gilded in the last light of day. Alaric turned slightly, his eyes tracing the line of Grey's cheek, then her mouth. Grey looked up, caught in the golden glow, breath hitching in her throat.
Their lips met—tentative at first, then deepening with something slow and certain. Alaric's hand found her jaw, thumb brushing just below her ear, while Grey's fingers curled into the front of his coat like a secret. The kiss was unhurried, drawn out, the kind that left no room for the outside world.
When they finally parted, the air between them shimmered, heavy with longing and unspoken promises. The bus turned the corner, and the city, for all its noise and speed, seemed to hush just long enough to let them breathe.
And for once, neither of them said a word.
The evening bloomed soft and gold as they boarded the London Eye just before dusk. The glass capsule was mostly empty, save for the two of them, seated close, the slow arc of the wheel lifting them above the city.
Below, London unfurled—its patchwork of rooftops, the glint of the Thames, old stone mingling with new steel. A heartbeat of history, beating beneath their feet.
Grey sat with her shoulder just touching Alaric's. "Did you ever think you'd see it like this?"
Alaric's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "I never dared imagine having a day like this. With someone I cared about."
Grey turned her face toward him. There was nothing shy in the look that passed between them.
Their mouths met again—heated this time, more urgent. Alaric's hands cupped Grey's face as if he couldn't hold her close enough. Grey, straddling some impossible line between restraint and surrender, let her fingers tangle in Alaric's coat, then beneath it, against warm skin.
The kiss deepened. A collision of mouths and breath and hearts that had waited too long. Alaric whispered something in Gaelic between kisses, too fast for Grey to catch, but it hummed through her like a spell.
Grey broke away with a gasp, eyes dark. "I don't feel hunger like I used to," she murmured. "But this... this is different."
Alaric pressed his forehead to hers. "There are other kinds of hunger. And this one—this one I've been starving for."
The capsule turned slowly over a city that had seen wars and weddings, endings and beginnings. Inside, time stopped. And in the hush of a high place, they burned very quietly, very brightly, like the last light of day clinging to the sky.