Chapter 1

Alissia

The morning light in my studio is the color of weak tea, but it’s enough. It filters through the tall, mullioned windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, chaotic fairies. The whole place smells like my version of peace: turpentine, freshly brewed coffee, and the sharp, clean scent of the pine boughs I’ve draped over every available surface. It’s a happy mess, a life lived in vibrant color. My life. The one I built with my own two hands.

My son, Gabriel, is the quiet, steady center of my chaos. He’s seven, but his soul is at least forty. He sits at the small table I cleared for him amidst the clutter of canvases and clay pots, his brow furrowed in concentration. He has my artistic spirit, but his execution is all sharp lines and unnerving precision—an analytical side that is a mystery to me. Right now, he’s not just drawing a castle; he’s drafting it. A blueprint, complete with labels for “load-bearing marshmallow walls” and a “graham cracker buttress.”

“It needs a strategic exit for the gingerbread man, Mom,” he says, his voice serious. “In case of a siege.”

“Obviously. Sieges are terrible for morale.” I stir a glob of cadmium yellow into a pool of white on my palette, the color transforming into a perfect, buttery sunrise. A low, off-key hum escapes my lips, a nonsense tune that’s my brain’s version of a screensaver when I’m concentrating. My current project is a huge canvas, a commission for the town library—a swirling, abstract vision of Mistletoe Meadows under a blanket of snow. I want it to feel like the moment you step out into the first snowfall of the year, when the world goes quiet and soft.

Gabriel taps his pencil against the paper. “Did my dad like to build things?”

The sunrise on my palette curdles. My breath hitches for a split second, a snag in the otherwise smooth fabric of our morning. I’ve learned to paint over these moments, to apply a quick, deft layer of maternal calm over the fissure of pain that cracks open inside me.

“I bet he did, sweetie,” I say, voice a shade too bright. I don’t turn from the canvas. He doesn’t need to see the practiced smile I’ve plastered on my face. “I bet he was the best builder in the whole world.”

It’s the story we’ve settled on. A brave adventurer, a builder of far-off wonders, a man too busy creating magic elsewhere to be here with us. It’s a kinder fiction than the truth: a boy with intense, slate-gray eyes who built a home in my heart over one secret, tech-free winter and then vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but a shattered heart and the greatest gift I could imagine.

“When he comes back from his adventure, we can show him my blueprints,” Gabriel says, satisfied with my answer. He goes back to his drawing, the crisis averted.

My shoulders slump in relief. The lie tastes like ash in my mouth, but it’s a necessary poison. I tuck a stray, paint-flecked loc behind my ear with the back of my wrist, a force of habit from years of keeping my hands messy and my hair out of the way. My heart does a painful two-step against my ribs—one beat for the ache of the lie, and one for the fierce, primal love for the boy it protects.

The jingle of the bell over my studio door saves me from my own thoughts. Kizzie blows in on a gust of frigid December air, her cheeks pink from the cold and two steaming cups in her hands. She’s a whirlwind of energy, the fiery journalist to my free spirit, and the only person who knows the full, unvarnished truth of the last eight years.

“Caffeinated sustenance for the town’s greatest artist and her brilliant apprentice,” she announces, setting a cup next to my palette and handing a hot chocolate to Gabriel, who gives her a rare, dazzling smile.

“Thanks, Aunt Kizzie. I’m designing a fortress.”

“As you should. A woman’s best defense is a well-designed fortress and a journalist friend with no scruples.” She winks at me, then sheds her coat, revealing a bright red sweater with “Claus & Effect” written in glittery letters. “Okay, so. You are not going to believe the gossip I just picked up from Mayor Henderson.”

I take a sip of the peppermint mocha. It’s a warm, sweet balm against the lingering bitterness of my conversation with Gabriel. “Let me guess. Old Man Hemlock is complaining about the Christmas carol selection in the town square again?”

“Worse. Better? I don’t know. It’s huge.” Kizzie leans against my worktable, her eyes wide with excitement. “Mistletoe Meadows is finally getting its new Christmas market. The one we’ve been trying to fundraise for since forever. And the council found a donor. A big one. Some hotshot architect who’s going to design the whole thing, pro bono.”

My hand pauses mid-air, the brush loaded with yellow. A strange, cold dread coils in my stomach. “An architect?”

“Not just any architect.” Kizzie is practically vibrating. “A hometown hero! Can you believe it? He grew up here, left for the big city, and now he’s some world-famous building genius. Mayor Henderson is over the moon. Thinks it’ll put Mistletoe Meadows on the map.”

I force a laugh, the sound thin and brittle. “Wow. Good for him. Anyone we know?”

The name. I can feel it coming. It’s a tidal wave, miles away, but I can feel the water being pulled back from the shore of my carefully constructed peace. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.

Kizzie beams, taking a dramatic gulp of her coffee before delivering the headline. “You’ll remember him. Tall, broody, always sketching on his textbooks instead of paying attention in class? He was a couple of years ahead of us. Beckett Hawthorne.”

Beckett.

The name doesn’t echo in the room. It detonates.

The world narrows to a pinprick of light. The cheerful scent of pine and paint evaporates, replaced by the phantom smell of woodsmoke from a cabin fireplace eight years ago. The sound of Kizzie’s voice, of Gabriel humming to himself, of the Christmas carol on the radio—it all fades into a dull, distant roar. All I can hear is the frantic, terrified thrum of my own blood in my ears.

My fingers go slack.

The paintbrush, loaded with the color of a perfect, hopeful sunrise, slips from my grasp. It hits the wooden floor with a sharp clatter, a sound as final as a slamming door. A single, perfect drop of yellow splashes onto the toe of my boot. A sunburst in the wreckage.

“What is it? What’s wrong? What happened?” Kizzie’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I stare, wide-eyed at my best friend. 

Should I tell her?