Day in the story: 31st December (Wednesday), afternoon
The three of us squeezed into the back seat of the Uber just as the door shut with a dull thump. A few of the house servants stood near the gate, along with Sophie’s aunt, Diana Grace Percy, who, as we’d learned, ca from a long line of British aristocrats who had decided to relocate to the heart of France at so point. She waved us off, making sure—very pointedly—that I was well enough to be moving around again.
Paris on the thirty-first of December had no snow, nor did it need any to feel sharp and alive. The cold crept in regardless, threading itself through scarves and sleeves, carried on damp air.
I was dressed to signal that I still respected the chill, even though the truth was that my body, suffused with shadowlight carrying my Authority, no longer needed insulation of any kind for temperatures such as this. A long, dark coat cinched at the waist. Black boots with a solid heel. A thin silver scarf wrapped once around my neck—just in case it needed to beco a makeshift weapon. It looked good on , too. My hair was loose, brushed, and deliberately ordinary.
Peter sat to my left, sprawled just a little too comfortably, one arm braced against the seatback. He wore a thick wool coat in charcoal gray and a burgundy scarf looped carelessly around his neck. His gloves were tucked into one pocket, unused, because for him the cold too was sothing he acknowledged mostly on principle now. He looked relaxed, but I knew better. He was still tense about what had happened to —and about everything that involved Jason. That was how he operated: taking it all in and stockpiling it, until the weight of it threatened to crush him.
[You are like that too.] Anansi supplied, totally unhelpfully.
No one asked you. Silence, little spider.
Zoe sat on my other side, as if they’d silently agreed that I still needed supervision. A pale coat nearly swallowed her fra, a knitted hat pulled low over her ears, and a scarf wound tight around her neck. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers fidgeting slightly, eyes fixed on the city sliding past the windows as though she were afraid to miss sothing important.
The car pulled away from the curb and rged into traffic with practiced ease. Outside, Paris flowed around us. Cafés spilled warmth onto the sidewalks, windows fogged with breath and conversation, laughter escaping every ti a door opened.
None of us spoke at first.
The driver had the radio on low, so unfamiliar French pop song humming in the background, while we just watched the city pass by.
“I’m not used to seeing the sky behind the buildings like that,” Zoe said eventually, her voice careful.
“That’s true,” I answered. “New York is a bit overgrown with its buildings. Here everything seems smaller, but it makes the architecture stick out sohow. Makes it more personal, right?”
“Definitely,” Zoe replied.
“Aricans?” the driver asked us, his accent thick and unmistakably French.
“Yes,” Peter answered.
“It is better when dark,” the driver added. “City of lights!”
“Yeah. I’ve heard the term,” Zoe said, still staring out the window. White-walled buildings with ornantal finishes slid past us, looking like they belonged to a ti when architecture wasn’t mass-produced but made by hand, ant to be looked at. And they probably were just that. “It’s because it was the first city to be completely lit by gas lights.”
“And it was a cradle of science, art, and culture in the Renaissance,” I added.
“Not everything has to be about art,” Peter said, looking toward the river on his side. There seed to be a lot of bridges here.
“If you squint hard enough, Pete, you might notice that art is almost everywhere here,” I replied, glancing at people taking photos and even one brave soul with a sketchbook, sitting on a bench atop a warm pillow and wrapped in a blanket. Dedicated to art, even on a cold day like this.
Peter looked back out the window, then at , a faint smile forming. “This city is an art trap,” he realized.
“It’s too late to go back now.”
“As long as Zoe is here, I’ll survive it,” he said, earning a quiet, approving whisper from his girlfriend. Suddenly, it felt a little awkward to be wedged between the two of them.
The car turned, and the street opened up. I caught glimpses of familiar landmarks between buildings: ornate balconies, shuttered windows, the occasional flash of a monunt half-hidden by scaffolding or trees stripped bare for winter.
Zoe leaned forward slightly, peering past the driver as if she could already see the hill rising ahead.
“That’s Sacré-Cœur?” Peter asked.
I nodded. I’d never seen it in person, but I’d studied enough photos to recognize it anywhere. The basilica always felt like a contradiction to —bright and pale against the city, watching everything without ever quite belonging to it. Tonight felt like a good ti for contradictions like that one.
As we drove, the streets began to slope upward, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The car worked a little harder, the engine note deepening as it climbed. Traffic thickened, cars inching forward in uneven bursts, people pouring toward the sa destination with a shared, unspoken intent. Everywhere I looked, there were scarves, coats, flushed faces, couples pressed close for warmth.
I caught my reflection in the window—just a woman in a dark coat with bright brown eyes and dotted skin. No suits, no masks, not a single spark or thread of shadowlight. Just , riding through a city.
Peter noticed my expression. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said. And I ant it. “Just thinking.”
Zoe smiled softly, resting her head back against the seat. “Thank you for taking us here. I’ve never been abroad before.”
“Sa,” Peter added.
“I just fear now that nothing’s going to top it ever again,” Zoe continued, and I understood her. Compared to New York’s cold beauty, where size and grandeur overshadowed detail, this felt like stepping into a fairytale.
“I feel like there are so many places in the world, and each one has its own magic to offer,” I answered finally.
The Uber slowed as we neared the base of the hill, headlights washing over stone steps and clusters of people gathered in anticipation. Sowhere above us, our friends were already waiting, laughing, probably arguing about sothing trivial, unaware of how precious that normalcy was to . Ideworld had its share of whimsy and beauty, even in New York, a city I had spent my entire life in, and I had no doubt that Paris’s version of it would be even more magical. But even this mundane type had so much to offer that it was difficult to take it all in at once.
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The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror. “This is as far as I can go.”
“That’s perfect,” I said.
Cold air spilled in imdiately as we exited the car, carrying the distant sound of voices and music drifting down from Montmartre—Paris’s district of art and narrow streets. Despite being here for the first ti in my life, I felt at ho among the people gathered to be part of sothing spectacular, not only in a temporal sense, but a spatial one as well. Ti was peculiar indeed. Today the old year would leave us and a new one we would greet, but place mattered just as much. It, too, was a new world for all of us.
“Ready?” Peter asked, glancing up the hill toward Sacré-Cœur, its pale silhouette visible against the sky.
We nodded in unison. Zoe and I—and all three of us together—started walking upward, into the last night of the year.
“Where are you guys?” Peter asked into the phone to my left as I focused on walking. The stairs were steep and plentiful, but the cathedral above promised an unusual experience, so I took each step with relative ease.
“Really?” he asked, just as Zoe stopped to stare back at the city below us. She was completely enchanted, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the view clearly reaching her heart. “We just arrived at the stairs to that basilica you wanted to see,” he told Sophie, if I heard right.
“Stay close to ,” I whispered to Zoe. As we climbed, I noticed a group of three young n pickpocketing unsuspecting tourists with the smooth efficiency of a well-practiced team. One handso guy kept their marks busy with conversation while his partners relieved them of whatever belongings were within reach. “Thieves ahead.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, following my gaze.
“Guys, the rest will be here shortly. We can wait for them,” Peter inford us, keeping us up to date. “They went to the Moulin Rouge first.”
We stepped aside from the slow-moving river of people and onto the frosted grass. There were two sets of stairs here, both leading up to Sacré-Cœur—one used by people climbing, the other by those coming down. Since we’d stopped for now, we found ourselves in between the two.
“Those guys you noticed,” Zoe murmured, tugging lightly at my sleeve, “they’re coming toward us.”
“What guys?” Peter asked, but the answer arrived before I could respond.
“Wesh, les belles, vous êtes là pour apprendre c’est quoi le vrai amour ou quoi ?”
The tall, handso one spoke first. He wore a black, puffy jacket with too many folds to be innocent, pockets hidden where hands could disappear easily. A gold chain glinted at his neck. His two companions fanned out smoothly, already circling.
“We don’t speak French,” Peter said, flatly.
“Ah, dommage, frère… à Paris, tout le monde est censé parler un peu français quand mê.” I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the cadence. Either he was testing us, or he was giving instructions disguised as banter. n like this always used language as camouflage.
“Okay,” I said, stepping in before the tension could thicken. I tilted my head, softened my eyes, played the part. While my attention stayed on him, my peripheral vision tracked the other two. “I don’t know what you’re saying,” I added lightly, “but your language is so sexy.”
That much, he definitely understood. His eyes brightened with interest.
I closed the distance, watching his hands as I slipped my arms around his shoulders with faux carelessness. “It’s such a sha we can’t really talk,” I whispered near his ear. “We could have such a good ti together.”
As I leaned away, my fingers caught his gold chain. One clean, long practiced motion, and I had it in my right hand as I stepped aside.
“Apologise, mada,” he said, lids lowering, a crooked smile forming. “I speak enough to understand.” He glanced past . “We show you three, nice clubs, yeah? Then maybe just the two of us, hm?”
That was the signal.
His partners moved in. One angled toward Zoe, the other toward Peter.
And just like that, the ga changed.
“Stop this,” I said calmly.
Peter moved closer to Zoe, placing himself between her and the three n, putting distance between us and them. “You guys are small fry,” I added, lifting the man’s gold chain so they could all see it.
He lunged for it imdiately, but years of training—and reflexes sharpened by my Authority—made it child’s play to evade him. I slipped inside his reach, pressed my heel down on his shoe, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. He folded with a sharp gasp.
His two friends rushed , but Peter was already moving. I saw his muscles tense, shadowlight racing along his legs. In a blink, he was between and them, suddenly larger, more imposing than he had been a mont before. They hesitated—then thought better of it, backing off.
“Give chain back,” the sweet-talker said as I let him straighten up, trying not to turn the whole thing into a spectacle. Thankfully, people were very good at pretending they hadn’t seen anything.
“Excuse ?” I replied. “I stole it fair and square. Do you return what you steal to your targets?”
“That not sa. We don’t speak after.”
“Listen,” Peter cut in, his tone steady. “We don’t want any problems. You go one way, we go another, okay?” It was a far better move than mine. My instinct had been to belittle them, and I had. It wasn’t exactly enlightened.
I tossed the chain back. He caught it easily.
“Go,” I said.
After a few exchanged looks, they lted back into the crowd.
We watched them disappear. Then Peter turned to , stepping close. “Do not ever pull a stunt like that again,” he said, his voice sharp enough to finally match his na. “Not everyone here is bulletproof or fast enough to avoid a knife. Think about others—not just yourself.”
I was still reeling from the first words when he continued.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“That was pretty scary,” Zoe added. Only then did it really sink in how much my actions could have hurt her.
“I was thinking only about myself,” I admitted. “I saw them for what they were, and instead of pushing them away, I wanted to show them who was boss.”
“I love you,” Peter said, slipping an arm around Zoe protectively, still keeping an eye on where the n had gone, “but you can be a real ass sotis. We know what you’re worth. You don’t have to prove it all the ti.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” he said, while Zoe gave a small, tentative smile, sending into a state of deep internal ditation.
As we kept waiting, they talked about the beauty of the city below us, trying to distract themselves from what had just happened. I stayed quiet, looking out over the city spread beneath . Paris was slowly surrendering to the winter afternoon—the light thinning, stretching, and finally giving way to shadow. My breath fogged in front of , vanishing as quickly as it ford.
From up here, the city looked softer. Buildings dissolved into dark shapes as the sky deepened into blue-grey, and then—almost shyly at first—the lights began to appear. A row of streetlamps. Windows glowing amber. Headlights threading through avenues like veins, carrying warmth back into a cooling body.
Watching the city answer darkness and cold, sothing in shifted too.
I realized how long I had lived wrapped in my own veil of night, convinced that darkness was all there was. I had learned to navigate it, to weaponize it, to hide inside it so well that I mistook survival for forced solitude. I told myself I was made of shadows, that light was sothing external—fragile and borrowed at best.
But standing there, with the city igniting below , I saw how wrong that had been.
There were lights already burning within . They had been there for a long ti—I had just refused to na them. My friends, for one. Peter’s stubborn loyalty. Zoe’s quiet steadiness. Sophie’s fierce care. Nick’s awkward but earnest courage. Each of them was a small, defiant glow, refusing to go out no matter how much darkness pressed in. I hadn’t noticed how often they had lit my way simply by staying.
Then there was my talent. Not just one, but two, entwined like twin flas. Art and thievery—creation and taking—both requiring vision, precision, and nerve. I had always treated them as contradictions, as if one invalidated the other. But they didn’t. Together, they ford sothing complete: the ability to reshape the world, whether through beauty or necessity.
And finally, there was my magic.
Shadowlight.
By looking at Paris, I understood sothing about the na of that force. I knew it was a way for people of Earth to differentiate it from ordinary light, born of power from the other side—hence the shadow. But for , it took on a different aning in that mont of revelation. My light did not need to erase shadow to exist. It lived beside it, within it, and sotis even because of it.
My magic wasn’t proof that I was a tyrant imposing my will onto art. It gave art a chance to beco sothing more—a will to change the world by being active rather than passive. And it allowed to see art differently, revealing a facet that had never existed for before. That, in itself, was beautiful.
I had been lost in the darkness that taught I had to constantly prove myself to the world—that I was more than the orphan with crayons, the punchline, the chubby kid mocked for her skin. To show my friends that I had power. To show Penrose that I could be independent.
I was a mage now. An accomplished thief. A damn good artist. And there was light within that could shine on its own. The only thing I needed to do was stop obscuring it by wrapping myself in the darkness I had learned to live in.
The city below shimred now, fully awake in its twilight skin. And for the first ti in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was standing apart from it and the world. I felt like I belonged to the sa pattern—one more hard-won and imperfect light, but burning all the sa.
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