New York City, 2014

I don't even know why I'm here.

Another drunk body presses up against me, knocking me off balance as I try to make my way further onto the dance floor as shitty pop music blasts loud enough to deafen someone a mile away.

I don't even like my roommate, so as to why I agreed to go clubbing with her to ensure randos don't try and take her home is beyond me. As far as I'm concerned, clubbing is a hot, claustrophobic, dangerous waste of time. Who wants to be surrounded by sweaty strangers who may or may not drug your drink?

Besides, I don't even drink. So that means I get to follow my wasted roommate around the club as she sways into guy after guy after girl after guy so I can ensure none of them try to slip something into the glass in her hand. A dead roommate is not on my Christmas list, thank you very much.

I check the time and yawn. 2am may be early for some people, but I'm ready to go home.

"Excuse me?"

I turn towards the muffled voice and look up at a man in a suit. Who the hell wears a nice suit to a low end club like this? "What?" I yell at him.

He quickly flashes the contents of a tiny plastic bag, raising a single eyebrow in question. "You here alone?"

Ew. Not even a 'what's your name' or 'how's your night going?' We're skipping straight to the 'want to go to the bathroom and do some blow after you blow me?' What is it with guys and offering me drugs? Is it because I'm blonde and they think I'm stupid? Is it because I'm fat and they think I'm desperate?

"No," I yell back, annoyed. I don't have time for this. "I'm looking for my friend."

"Your boyfriend?"

"I'm not interested, thanks." I hurry to put some distance between me and the creep, pushing and shoving my way through disgusting sticky bodies—slipping a little in a mysterious puddle of either spilled drink or vomit—until I finally find her locked in a random man's embrace. "We need to go," I yell.

"She's not going anywhere," the man coos, "are you honey?"

I tug her arm, attempting to pull her away from the stranger holding her upright.

I've never been in a fist-fight before, but for a horrifying second, I brace myself for the very real possibility that I might have to fight this much taller, much stronger man who currently has an iron grip around my blackout drunk roommate.

His voice carries over the music as he glares down at me. "Who are you?"

I open my eyes as wide as I can and scream with absolutely everything I've got, "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SISTER! HELP! HELP!"

My screams have attracted some attention, and the man quickly decides it's not worth it and sets my roommate free. Then this grown ass man leans down close to my face, pushes the tip of his nose upwards with his index finger, and oinks.

It's a miracle in itself that I can support her enough to get us both outside and into a taxi. Only after I've buckled her seatbelt do I allow myself to close my eyes and decompress.

"He totally wanted to bang you." She slumps against my shoulder as we bounce over another manhole in the backseat of the taxi, her words so slurred I can barely understand her. "He totally wanted to bang both of us."

"Mm-hm."

"No, like, he totally did."

"Mm-hm."

"Cora. . . babe. . . you need to, like. . . believe in yourself. Ya know?"

"Mm-hm."

With a final sigh, she's fast asleep. A chill runs up my spine as I watch her chest rise and fall, counting the seconds in-between each rise and each fall, making sure she's still breathing. For a moment I shift my attention to the dark New York streets, but a choking fear forces me to double-check she is, in fact, still breathing.

What would her mother think? Doesn't she have any shame? Any self preservation? What if I hadn't gone out with her tonight? What would that man have done to her?

I continue to watch her breathe, comforted, at least, by the thought that I'll never have to know what she's going through right now. I'll never have to worry about waking up in a stranger's bed. I'll never have to suffer the fear of not remembering.

"I took the liberty of bandaging your feet last night." Ben holds out another cup of water, and I happily accept it. "I hope you don't mind," he continues. "It seemed a waste to use your abilities on such a small injury. I didn't want you to wake up tired and confused. Although," he adds with a twitch of his eyebrows, "I don't believe you'll remember much of last night regardless."

I feel the bandages around my feet from under the blanket, but I have no memory of receiving them. "I can't believe—" I bring a hand up to my tightly closed mouth in an attempt to keep my sick from spilling all over the bed. Taking in slow but heavy breaths, I focus all of my efforts on not throwing up. "I can't believe people do this for fun. It feels like I have the flu."

"You might find this hard to believe, but I've never been invited to one of their weddings before. I was unaware they would be serving. . . whatever it was you were drinking." Ben takes a seat on what I assume is a kitchen chair he dragged in here. "You're just dehydrated. Keep sipping water and you'll start to improve. Oh, by the way. Did your tattoo finally heal?"

"My what?"

"Kidding." I catch his smile as he turns to grab a pitcher of water so he can top off my glass. "Would you like some breakfast?"

The thought of food makes me bring a hand up to my mouth again. "No," I manage in-between a surprise dry heave. "No thank you." Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. "I seriously cannot wrap my mind around how people do this recreationally." I pause to give myself a second to think up the last thing I remember, but I don't remember anything after drinking that tea. "Did I. . ." I blanche at all the possibilities and settle for asking the broadest question. "Did I embarrass myself last night?"

Ben brings an espresso cup to his lips and takes a small sip. "I suppose that's a matter of perspective."

"So, that's a yes." I cover my face with a hand. "Did I do anything I need to know about?"

"Need to know is a strong phrasing of things."

I can't help but think back on that night at the club with my roommate. I was so smug. I felt so superior. Look at me now. "I don't like this," I whisper. "This is. . ." Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. "I don't remember anything. All my memories are of flashing colors, but I don't—" I sit up a little as it finally processes where I am. "Is this your bedroom?"

"It is," he answers, taking another sip. "I had to carry you here this morning."

This morning? It's not currently morning? What time is it? How long have I been here? Judging from the fact that my sleeves match those of my wedding dress, it's safe to say I'm still wearing my clothes from the party. But Ben carried me here, took my boots off, and wrapped my feet up, and I have no memory of any of that happening. None whatsoever. If I don't remember that, what else have I forgotten?

"You. . . you and I. . ." I trail off, not knowing how to ask, but more than that—I don't know if I want the answer. He wouldn't have. That goes against his character.

Then again, it's clear he's not the same Ben from the show. Not exactly. How do I know the fine details of my people's culture? I haven't bothered to ask why the norsemen don't just move to Hydra. Why do they separate the sexes? Even married couples don't live their daily lives on the same island. Is that for the women's benefit? Is this a culture of machismo and dominance that forces them apart for their own good?

If so, then where does that leave Ben? Ben, who grew up in that environment? Who still has a friendship with his old rugby team?

Was that who he was sitting with at Poppy's engagement party? The men who were laughing? Were they all in on it? Cheering for their friend as he weaseled his way into marriage to a deity, all so he could share the ultimate sex story in the locker room?

Or what if it was an accident? What if he got drunk at the party and we were both too out of it to realize what we were doing?

Oh my God, did I have sex for the first time last night and I don't even remember? I'm a statistic. I can't believe I'm a statistic.

All of the subdued nausea comes barreling back. "To—" I start, but I have to huff a few times, trying to catch my breath as my panic reaches a peak and I flush with extreme lightheadedness. "To confirm, last night. . ."

"Yes?"

"You and I. . . we didn't. . ."

"Didn't what?" Ben furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and then he understands my implication and sets his espresso cup and saucer down with a sharp clack that rings continuously in my ears. "I sincerely hope you're not insinuating what I think you are, because if you are, I'm going to be very, very angry."

The frankness in his voice instantly dissolves my fear but leaves me without a response.

"Are you serious?" His question comes out flat, but I can still hear the hurt buried in there somewhere. Without another word, he's up and heading for the exit.

I swell with the overwhelming fear of abandonment. I'm nauseous and confused, and the last thing I want is to be left alone with the uncertainty of not knowing what happened. "I'm sorry. Wait. Wait, Ben, I'm sorry. I just. . . can't remember anything from last night."

Ben spins around, but instead of a deeply furrowed brow or an expressive frown, his face is set in what I've come to realize is a much more frightening blank stare. "You don't seem to understand the severity of such an accusation, so let me explain it to you. Your people torture and hang offenders and don't burn their body afterwards. It is the highest insult they can give a corpse." He reaches the bedroom door and rests a trembling hand on the wall. "What have I ever done to make you think I should be associated with such filth?"

"I'm sorry," I plead, desperately trying to damage control, but I'm dizzy and don't know what to say to fix this. "It's just. . . I'm in your bed."

"And I slept on a chair, if you haven't noticed! You think that was comfortable?" Still standing in the doorway, Ben turns to face me, and this time his expression is furious. "I spent all night following you around to ensure you didn't die of dehydration, and this is the thanks I get? You almost broke my arm."

I'm grasping at straws, calming somewhat because I'm starting to believe him. "You changed out of your suit."

"Because you woke up and vomited on me. Twice. I don't have to listen to this," he huffs under his breath and turns back towards the door. "When you can stomach the thought of food, I'll be in the kitchen. And you got ash absolutely everywhere, by the way."

He closes the door with more force than necessary, and I'm left with only my paranoid thoughts and the gaping holes in my memory.

I'm not sure if the queasy stomachache is because I'm still recovering from last night's party or because I'm anxiously awaiting the perfect apology to magically form in my brain.

Ben sits silently on the couch across the room, seemingly engrossed in a book as he continues to ignore me. I stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching as water slides off my hair and collects in little droplets by the plate of breakfast Ben made me.

He was right about the ash. Thick streaks of it stained his sheets and both pillowcases. The whole thing just made me feel like more of an asshole, so after I took a shower to clean the ash off my hair and face, I stripped all the bedding and tossed it into the wash downstairs in the basement.

But being down there just escalated my feelings of guilt. Next to the washer, I noticed a single clump of white fur and remembered all over again what had happened to Margo. I remembered all over again that it was my fault.

Ben didn't comment on the fact that I never asked if I could use his shower, and he didn't so much as hum a thank you for doing the laundry unprompted. In fact, even though I've been standing in the kitchen, in full view of him, he hasn't acknowledged my presence at all. As delicious as it was, the omelette he made was perfectly timed to be plated, still hot, and waiting for me on the table by the time I got out of the shower, so he wouldn't have to talk to me.

Finally, the silence becomes too unbearable.

"Hey, I've been meaning to tell you." Little by little, I make my way into the living room. "I have some interesting intel, but I'm sworn to secrecy." Ben doesn't look up from his book. "Okay," I relent and take a seat next to him on the couch. "Listen to this. Jane and Charlotte are. . . a thing."

"Yes, I know," he replies, still reading.

I immediately deflate with disappointment. "She told you?"

"No, I'm just not blind." I'm surprised when his eyes finally leave the page and travel up to lock with mine. "The only people on either of these islands who don't know about Jane and Charlotte are Jane and Charlotte. And if you were sworn to secrecy, why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know." I shrink under the gaze of his disappointed stare. "I just thought. . . I don't know."

"Was that your version of an apology? Because I'm afraid it leaves something to be desired. Mainly the apology."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you apologizing for not apologizing? Or was that supposed to be the apology?"

An embarrassed flush heats every inch of my face and neck. "I don't know why you're so mad at me. I didn't accuse you of anything, I just asked a question."

"You shouldn't have had to ask," he snaps back.

"Yes," I agree, "I shouldn't have to ask, but I do. Because guess what? It's actually a very big problem off-island. A lot of people wouldn't have even considered it rape. That's great and all that my people take this seriously, but rapists don't get tortured and killed where I come from. They get a few months jail time, or sometimes just a slap on the wrist. So. . . so. . ." I'm so upset my whole body trembles like a chihuahua. "You don't get to be mad at me for being scared and confused. I don't even know you!"

He doesn't look at me.

I wish I hadn't come over here.

I wish I hadn't sat down next to him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and calm. "I understand now what you're saying." I feel his eyes on me and force myself to look over at him. "I was unaware that your people have an. . . unorthodox sense of justice."

"You're telling me you of all people were unaware of the state of the world?"

Ben's blank expression sours into a frown. "What is that supposed to mean?" His book is all but abandoned at this point. I have to push myself up and away from him on the couch to maintain a decent distance as he turns fully in his seat to face me. "What do you mean me of all people?"

"You've been off island before," I snap, still feeling defensive. "I don't know how many times, but I'm guessing it's been enough times to know how horrible—"

"Are we going to have a productive conversation, or are you going to continue lobbing accusations at me?" Ben checks his watch. "Because I have better things to—"

"Stop interrupting me!"

Neither of us are actually yelling, but it feels like we might as well be.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Bickering like our lives depend on it.

"—you have any idea how difficult it was to keep an eye on—?"

"—not a baby, I don't need—"

"—couldn't even stand on your own! What do you mean you—"

"Get your finger out of my face!"

We're standing. I don't know when it happened, and I don't know for how long, but we're standing. Immobile. Each too stubborn to admit defeat.

It takes a long while, but my frantic heartbeat eventually starts to slow, and I calm somewhat. "Can I suggest a compromise?"

Stone-faced as ever, Ben gives a curt nod.

"I will apologize for my misunderstanding, if you apologize for yours."

"I'm sorry you woke up so frightened," he says. "I had tried my best to mitigate that. Cora, I know we did all of this for a truce, but we're still technically married. It is…" Ben twitches his brows upwards, rolling his eyes as if the thought is overwhelmingly burdensome. "It is quite literally my life's purpose to make sure no one hurts you. That includes myself."

"Thanks for the omelette. I'm sorry I got ash everywhere." Even though he's not beaming, he's at least not furious anymore. "And I'm sorry if I insulted you. My reaction this morning wasn't because I think you're a bad person, it was just. . . I've never had memory loss like that before. I panicked. I would have panicked no matter whose bedroom I woke up in." Never again. Never, ever again. Mead and whatever that tea was is henceforth banned from my diet. "Has anyone ever been killed over. . . an accusation?"

"A few," he answers, solemn. "Only one in my lifetime, though. A woman," he clarifies. "It was one of the most chaotic ordeals I've ever seen. Her accuser was nine." Ben raises his eyebrows, his mouth flatlining in agreement with my shocked disgust. "Let's just say there wasn't much left of her body to hang once the other women of Hydra were done with her."

There is no excuse for such a heinous act, so all I can do is try to distract myself from thinking about it. I look away at the far wall and notice a framed childhood photo of Alex. "Where are all the children? I didn't see any at the wedding."

"On Hydra," he answers. "It's interesting, but your people fought over who would stay behind to protect them. I suppose it was more honorable in their minds to make that sacrifice than it was to actually attend the wedding. Cora, what's wrong?"

"I don't know." I take a seat on the couch again. "This is probably going to sound stupid."

"Well, now you've piqued my interest."

"All of this feels too. . . easy. Like, I'm just waiting for something bad to happen."

"What do you mean?" He's quick to sink into the couch next to me. "Did you have a vision?"

"No. That's the thing. I think it's just. . . anxiety." I raise my hands up and wiggle my fingers. "It's a specialty! No offense, but I'm glad this is all over." Embarrassed, I stand up and wish I had something to wear other than my sooty and sweat-stained wedding dress. Oh well. I'll be back on Hydra soon enough, in a fresh outfit, drinking delicious fruit juice under a palm tree. "I wonder if enough people have sobered up to take me back to Hydra."

It's a subtle change in his demeanor—one most people probably wouldn't notice—but I do.

"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news." Ben fixes me with a pained squint. "But as of this morning, it was decided—in the interest of convenience—to host Poppy and Bjorn's wedding here today. You'll be expected to attend in about—" Ben checks his watch. "—an hour."

I plop down next to Ben at one of the many tables refilled with food. As the traditional band plays yet another song with head-splitting loud drums, I lay my temple down against the wood and mumble, "This is officially the worst migraine I've ever had."

As hard as everyone partied last night, I expected todays festivities to be at least somewhat subdued, but my people just seem to have been emboldened by their hangovers. Only the survivors look as miserable as I feel.

"Ugh," I groan. "I still feel like I'm going to puke. How long do hangovers last?"

"Depends," says Ben. "For alcohol it can vary from a few hours to most of the day. For whatever you had? I have no idea." I expect him to smirk at me, but he doesn't have the usual teasing bite when he asks, "Do you need me to get you anything?"

I let out a lungful of air and frown. "Can you knock me unconscious so I can sleep this off? I'm only half joking."

"I'll gladly knock you unconscious." Someone sits down heavily across the table. "Do you also feel like death?"

I raise my head up just enough to see who's asking. Jane sits, arms crossed, looking miserable and murderous. I cough. "Does it look like I'm enjoying myself?"

"Serves you right," she says. "I woke up on the roof of Beatrice's house with cotton mouth and no memory of how I got up there. You however," she adds with a sly grin, "seem to have had a worse time of it. I heard she threw you up in the air."

"Spun me around over her head," Ben corrects, "but it was equally unpleasant."

"Yeah, yeah." I flop a hand up to wave Jane away, and then I have my first flash of memory. "Oh, by the way, how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"With Charlotte?"

"What about Charlotte?" Jane stares daggers at me as I realize she doesn't remember my pep talk last night. I must look as horrified as I feel because Jane repeats her question even louder than before. "What about Charlotte?"

"I think you should probably go talk to her."

"Why?" she seethes, although her eyes look more frightened than they do angry. "What happened?"

"Uhh," I start, but I have nothing. "I don't remember everything that was said."

Looking pale as a ghost, Jane stares down at the table and then stands and wanders off like she's just been told she has 3 days to live.

"Well," Ben says, turning to give me his full attention. "Now you have to tell me what happened."

I make a face on her behalf. "While we were all dancing, Jane came to me for a pep talk about Charlotte. Whatever was in that tea loosened her inhibitions to a point of crazed elation. I'm pretty sure she decided to confess—"

No.

Oh, no.

Oh, God, no.

All of my hopes and dreams are rendered meaningless. My world is being sucked into a cringe blackhole, never to be seen or heard from again. I'll never recover from this. This is the end.

I remember. I remember confessing some very embarrassing things to Ben. Not that I remember verbatim everything that I said, but I remember trying to kiss him. Multiple times. And I distinctly remember his horrified expression as he pulled away.

This cannot be happening. Think, think, think. It couldn't have actually been that bad, right? Maybe I was dreaming? Was it a dream?

"Hmm," Ben hums to himself, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "Something tells me you've remembered one of your many embarrassing moments from last night."

Oh no. It wasn't a dream. "I'm so. . ." I cough on a laugh as it quickly snowballs into something uncontrollable. "I am so sorry."

"Don't worry," he says in a teasing tone. I wonder if he fully understands that I'm laughing so hard because I'm mortified, and not because I find this funny. "I won't report you for incessant harassment."

No wonder he was so angry about my earlier questions. He spent all night trying to keep me off him, not the other way around. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I didn't. . . I didn't. . . I never would have insinuated that you—I mean, if I had known that I—" I'm panicking again, finding any opportunity in-between laughter to try and explain myself, and I can't think straight enough to figure out how to make this situation bearable. Covering my burning face with my hands, I ask, "Can we please pretend like last night didn't happen?"

"Was that really your first time under the influence of anything?" I nod miserably and he snorts a laugh. "Apology accepted. Besides, it's not every day you have a goddess compliment your nose."

"Please stop talking." And then I see a ferret struggling to carry what looks suspiciously like a firework.

Ben looks at me. I stop laughing and look at him. We don't say anything because we don't have to. We simply shoot up from the table in unison and follow the ferret away from the party towards the field leading to my shrine.

"Peregrine!?" I shriek loud enough to scare a firework out of her hands. "How did you even get on this island? You're supposed to be on Hydra! And fireworks? Really?"

"It was the ferrets idea," she claims. "I've just been sitting here the whole time. I swear."

One of the two ferrets asks, "What's going on?"

"She's snitching!" the other yells. In a wild, unstable flop, the ferret jumps up high enough to bite the tip of Peregrine's pinkie.

"Ow!" Peregrine yanks her hand away from the squeaking ferrets and sucks on the bloody finger.

"Was one disaster not enough for you? You had to try for wildfire number two?" Ben steps forward and confiscates a handful of the contraband. "You cannot play with fireworks."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you blowing all your fingers off."

"Impossible," she states matter-of-factly.

"Peregrine," Ben warns, "we've been through this a hundred times. You can't keep partaking in reckless behavior simply because you think you're a goddess of luck. That's not how it works."

"Sure it is," she refutes. "I can't blow all my fingers off because that would be unlucky, and luck gods are lucky all the time."

Ben pinches the bridge of his nose and leans his head back to sigh up at the stars.

Which turns out to be a foolish move on his part, because it allows Peregrine to snatch a single firework out of his hands. Before either of us can stop her, she's up a tree at the speed of a squirrel.

"I'll prove it," she declares and points the firework at her face. There's the sound of a match striking, and a bright bulb of match-light in the dark, and then the sharp sizzle of the fuse being lit. "I'll prove it once and for all, Uncle Ben."

But Ben's not listening to her. Instead, he drops the remaining fireworks in his arms and rushes to the tree, commanding she extinguish the fuse as I watch in immobilized horror. Even if he were as quick as Peregrine, he'd never be able to climb the tree in time. With a soft hiss, the fuse reaches the end of the ignition, and then fizzles into nothing.

I find my footing at last and hurry after Ben, both of us now yelling up at the child in the tree. "Peregrine," I shout, "come down from there, right now, or I'm unenlisting from your crew!"

"Ok, ok! I'm coming down—oops!"

I see the firework seconds before it can hit me on the head. Thankfully, I have enough reflexes to catch it.

Unfortunately, the second I catch it, it promptly reignites and explodes.

"It looked like you were blackout drunk and trying to fist-fight the air." Charlie laughs at the memory as he mimics the movement. "Honestly, I felt kinda bad. Near the end, you looked bloody miserable."

"Yes, thank you Charlie."

His laughter dies down as he takes in the charred state of my dress. "What happened to you, anyway? You catch fire?"

"Something like that." I frown down in Peregrine's direction.

"It was an accident," she yells. "I'm sorry, lady Cora, but you're not a goddess of luck."

"Goddess of luck?" Hugo perks up at this. "Can you give me some? I'm sorta. . . notoriously unlucky."

"Hear that Peregrine? You two should hang out sometime. Maybe you'll cancel each other out. Excuse me, please." I nod to Charlie and Hugo. "I've got to drop this one off for the night."

I don't know how Ben plans on keeping an eye on Peregrine until sunrise, but we both agreed it would be best not to let her mother know she's here. I'm supposed to stay with her at Ben's house until he returns. For now, he's busy extinguishing the small fire that ignited a patch of grass.

With an iron grip on Peregrine's tiny arm, I hold her tight to my side as we maneuver our way through the jovial crowd. As tired as I am, it does put me in a good mood knowing I haven't dampened someone else's wedding. I stop for a moment to watch Poppy and Bjorn flit from one clique to the next, happy and smiling as they receive congratulations.

Hey! Why doesn't Poppy have ash all over her hair? I thought that was a bridal tradition?

I hear nothing but happy Norse sentiments from every direction, so it sticks out like a screeching instrument to hear someone insult me in Portuguese. I halt immediately and turn to the offending speaker, unsure of how to respond.

"What did you just say?" Ben asks. I didn't realize he'd already returned, and I startle at the sound of his voice behind me.

"I said this is a magnificent party," Paulo lies.

I give Paulo a second to feel safe before turning around to look up at Ben. "Actually, he said—"

"I know what he said," Ben interrupts softly. I can tell he's furious because he doesn't look furious. "I'm trying to figure out if he's suicidal, or simply stupid. We have a therapist for the first option. I'm afraid I can't help him with the second."

A small part of me wants to smile at the look on Paulo's face as he turns slightly green. I'm not fluent in Portuguese, but you don't grow up in Southern California knowing one romance language without having exposure to several others, so I have a pretty good idea of what he said. Dumbass even has sauce from something all over his chin. Mustard? Looks like mustard. I give in and grin widely. "You probably shouldn't gossip in front of people before you know what languages they speak."

"Miscommunication," he offers weakly. I let him prattle on about how there must be a regional difference in our translation, and that he's only been remarking on this wonderful party the entire night, and blah blah blah.

"It's fine. Paulo? Okay. It's fine, Paulo," I tell him more sternly. "Just. . . go away."

"Wait," Ben calls at the last minute, and Paulo spins back around. Ben reaches up and taps at his own chin, mirroring the blot of sauce caught in Paulo's stubble. "You have something on your face. No, no. I'll get it for you." I don't even have time to consider telling him to stop before Ben's thrown a hard right hook, sending Paulo sprawling out on the grass.

Ben flexes his fingers and glances down at me, looking pleased with himself. "My debt is paid. I owe you nothing. And as for you," he says, picking up Peregrine and holding her like a plank of wood, the exact same way Annie does. "You're under house arrest until I can send you back home on the first ship tomorrow morning."

"Aww man," Peregrine complains, and the two disappear into the crowd.

I squat down next to the groaning man in the grass and say, "Hey, Paulo? How about a prophecy, free of charge? You need to pick better friends. And by friends, I mean girlfriends. Because your current one will literally be the death of you. And over what? Some diamonds? Are diamonds worth your life? Plus," I add, nodding across the courtyard at where Nikki is laughing loudly as she feels a grinning norseman's bicep. "It looks like what you had wasn't all that special if you've already been replaced."

Paulo nods miserably. Then, he says, "Hey, I think he broke my nose. Can you heal me?"

"You're kidding right?"

"Ha ha." He accepts a napkin I hold out and blots at the blood streaming down his chin. "Yes," he corrects nervously, "just joking. I'm okay."

As the night grows darker, I start counting down the rituals so I can keep track of what time it is. Everyone eats and drinks their fill, then they all start dancing, then a very drunk Poppy comes and finds me to bring me into the circle.

It's exhausting to smile this much, considering how tired and nauseous I still am, but I do it for the bride.

"I'm soooooooo happy you're here," Poppy slurs cheerfully, knocking into me for the third time. A woman served her a cup of the Berserkr Bride Tea a while ago, and I can already see the effects. "I was worried your rebirth wouldn't be for another few years, but here you are!"

"Here I am," I reply, all smiles.

"I love you so much, Freyja." Poppy bursts into tears, and it takes all my strength to keep her from collapsing to the ground. "You're my favorite god," she says in-between sobs. "I'm so happy you're here."

I literally don't know what to say. I do, however, feel a lot worse about how I treated poor Ben. Poppy doesn't have any of my extra strength, and it's still a lot of effort to keep her from flinging around and hurting herself. I really, really hope I didn't cry this much.

"We're going to sit down for a second, okay?" I struggle to help her down to the ground. "How're you hanging in there?"

"Huggh," she answers.

Thankfully, it isn't long until Poppy falls asleep against me in the grass.

I'm in the Swan. A man sits at a diner-style kitchen table, gun gripped tightly in his hand. He finishes reading a letter as I walk closer.

"Desmond?" I call out to him, but he doesn't look up. I must be dreaming. "Wow, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot you existed."

Without acknowledging me, Desmond raises the gun up into his mouth and pulls the trigger.

I mean, I guess I could have asked Hugo and Charlie to look after her, but I don't think they're equipped to handle Peregrine.

"We'll try and make this quick," I promise to the one party-goer whose religion forbids him from drinking. "Again, thank you so much."

Sayid nods and turns to look at where Peregrine is sitting, smiling innocently.

I'm not fooled. "This is Sayid," I say as sternly as I can. "You are to listen to Sayid while I'm gone. You cause trouble for my friend here, and I swear I will unenlist from your crew. You leave this house? Unenlist. You light anything on fire? Unenlist. You break anything, or steal anything, or cause any kind of damage to this house—or Sayid—and I unenlist. Do you understand me?"

Peregrine nods with enough fear that I choose to believe her. Then she hops up and approaches Sayid. "You look like you can hold your own in a fight. You ever kill a man?"

"Yes," he answers honestly.

"Excellent," says Peregrine. "Want to join my crew?"

Ben emerges from his bedroom with the last of the supplies and straps on his backpack. "Do not let her out of your sight," he tells an amused Sayid, and then we're off.

"How did you get out of the circle?" Ben asks as we ride Brego through the Barracks, past the sonic fence, and into the jungle. "That would have been helpful last night."

"I told them to move." I think back on the memory and cringe. "Let's just say I didn't have to ask twice."

I had woken from my nap next to Poppy, screaming so loud a small group of drunk women were knelling beside me, trying to calm me down. Once I was officially out of the circle, I made a break for Ben's house and told him what happened. He's the only one who both knows where the Swan is and is sober enough to take me there.

We're riding a lot faster than we did on our trip to burn Margo, so I'm forced to wrap both arms around Ben to keep from falling off the saddle. A few times Brego rears up to jump over obstacles in the path, and I stop apologizing for my death grip.

The second we arrive and Ben helps me off Brego, I run over and rip away vines until the Swan Station logo shines through. I start banging on the metal door with my fists. I tug at any piece of metal I can get a grip on. I scream for Desmond to open the door. Nothing.

Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please don't be—

"Alright," says Ben, "now what?"

The door swings open and a man dressed all in bright yellow comes storming out, a rife loaded and pointed at me. Slowly his rife drifts down towards the ground. Muffled speech barely reaches me from behind his mask. As if burned, he tosses the gun away and sinks to his knees with his hands raised in surrender. He's trying to say something, but his mask is in the way.

"You don't have to wear that suit anymore, Desmond" I tell him. "We're not under quarantine."

Without a moment's hesitation, he rips the helmet off. "I surrender!"

"Yes," says Ben, "we can see that."

"Are you her?" he drawls in his thick Scottish accent. "The goddess from the movie?"

Ben and I exchange a quick confused glance before I ask, "What movie?"

A few crackles on screen, a few dips in the weathered sound, and the movie finally projects on the wall. It begins exactly how the Swan Station orientation is supposed to start. The obnoxious 70's music starts blaring over the loudspeakers while a Dharma logo flashes. Then Dr. Pierre Chang begins to speak.

"Welcome. My name is Doctor Pierre Chang, and this is the orientation film for Station 3 of the Dharma Initiative." I notice the stiffness in his posture. He's rigid as an ironing board, and his voice has a worried edge to it. "In a moment you will be given a simple set of instructions for how you and your partner will fulfill the responsibilities associated with this station." Chang then goes into a brief history of Dharma—why it was founded and by who—and a video of two polar bears fighting flashes on screen.

I think of Margo and sneak a glance at Ben, but his expression gives away nothing.

"You and your partner," Chang continues uncomfortably, "are currently located in Station 3, the Swan, and will be for the next 540 days. Now, Station 3 was originally constructed as a laboratory where scientists could work to understand the unique electro-magnetic fluctuations emanating from this sector of the island. Not long after the experiments began, however, there was . . ." His eyes dart off-screen for a fraction of a second. ". . . an incident. And since that time, proper protocol has been observed. Every 108 minutes, the button must be pushed. From the moment the alarm sounds, you will have 4 minutes to enter the code into the microcomputer processor. It is highly recommended that you and your partner take alternating shifts. In this manor you will stay fresh and alert as it is of the utmost importance that when the alarm sounds, you enter in the numbers correctly and in a timely fashion."

And then the script I know—the script I've had memorized since this episode first aired—deviates into a warning. A warning about me.

Dr. Chang instructs them not to go outside. Sketches flash on screen of what is supposed to be me, but it's a little comedic how inaccurate it all is. I'm 4'8, but this Freyja is described as 6 feet tall, almost always covered in feathers, face painted, sometimes veiled, with two antlers sprouting out of the top of her head.

"You are under no circumstance to engage with the goddess Freyja or her people," Dr. Chang continues. "If in the unforeseen emergency the norsemen breech this facility, we can only recommend you immediately lay down your weapons and hold your hands high over your head. The governing rules and regulations of their culture are far too complicated to be listed here. Please consult your Norse Manual and Guidebook for more specifics. Again, until your replacements arrive, the future of the project is in your hands. Congratulations, and good luck."

Norse Manual and Guidebook? There could be something of importance in there! Where is it? I hope Desmond knows where it is. That sounds like a great place to start my research.

Instead of inquiring about the video, or the manual, Ben turns to Desmond in the semi-darkness and asks, "Have you been down here alone this whole time?"

I immediately feel selfish for focusing on the manual and not focusing on the fact that the entire reason we're here is because Desmond is suicidal. "He's been down here for a little over a month," I answer for Desmond, and he startles at the fact that I know this. "It's way past time for him to get some fresh air. We'll need to find his replacement. Get a few people on a rotation."

Desmond stays silent as Ben turns to me and asks, "A rotation for what?"

"The. . . button? Were you not paying attention to the video?"

"I always knew this place existed, I just didn't know it was active." Ben glances around, an air of fascination in his eyes. "Your people are superstitious of all things Dharma. Nobody I know of would step foot near this place."

"Well, looks like they're going to have to get over their superstition," I say. "Because somebody needs to be alert enough to push a button every 108 minutes. Maybe you can get some of your people to volunteer?"

"I hate to interrupt," Desmond says at last, "but does this mean you're not going to kill me?"

1 Week Later

Most people are unaware of this, but you don't need to trick others into divulging their deepest darkest secrets. You simply have to smile and treat them with the most basic human decency. When people trust you, it's not long before they'll tell you anything—sometimes completely unprompted.

This is how I learn about my people. Which families hate who and why. Complaints about the young men most interested in their daughters. Who has the ugliest baby.

I've already half-filled my replacement notebook with everything from random to-do lists to mindless gossip. Most of the notebook is just frantic scribbling about who has a crush on who. It's now common knowledge that any and all romantic problems are now my problem to solve. The irony is not lost on me.

"Hello Goose," I say, waving at the aptly named swan. I greet the chickens, goats, a horse, two raccoons, and a very confused rat on my walk down to the beach. It feels like I should have met every animal on this island by now, but there's always a new name for me to memorize when I wake up in the morning. And that's just the animals.

For the past week, my schedule has consisted of enjoying a nice breakfast with Gail, then an excruciatingly long day of sitting on a throne, blessing babies, and listening as people tell me their problems. Adults. Children. Animals. Everyone needs something from me.

At first it was kinda fun. The problems were almost all things I could offer good advice on. For example, this one pair of bickering children literally needed me to explain that yes, taking things without asking is theft. Even if you really, really want that thing. But as nosy as I am, I'm also introverted, and being forced to talk to people from sunrise to sunset has worn me ragged.

It's been a long week, but today is the first day that I've woken up to an empty longhouse. No long line of people looking for answers. No more babies left to bless. I guess there are only so many people on this island, so there are only so many problems I can solve. You won't hear me complain. To the beach!

"Lady Cora? Oh, my lady, I apologize." A woman rushes towards me, and I recognize her face but can't remember her name. "I hate to interrupt your day, but my youngest has run off and I can't find him anywhere."

Oh well. Maybe one day I'll get the chance to actually relax on the beach. "Oh no," I exclaim and give the woman my full attention. "What happened?"

"One of our chickens passed last night. Sten was very fond of Henrietta, may she rest in peace." The woman presses her hands together and bows slightly. "My husband let slip that he was looking forward to chicken soup tonight, and now Sten has run off with her body."

"Ah," I exhale, smiling. "I see. Well, if I can find him, I'll talk to him." This unfortunately isn't the first time I've had to chat with the children of Hydra about death and the circle of life, and how it's ok if they want to eat animals after they die. Many a tearful little face has come crying to me about a dead pet rabbit or goat. This is my first dead chicken.

It takes a few hours to find him holed up in one of the many pseudo-caves near the main source of freshwater. Poor thing doesn't even know I'm there until it's too late.

Instead of screaming at the sight of me or flying into a slew of arguments for why this particular animal shouldn't be eaten, the little boy simply sobs quietly and cradles the wrapped up body against his chest.

"Hey, Sten, it's okay." I approach slowly, hands raised, palms up. "I'm not here to take Henrietta away from you, alright? I promise I'm not here to take her from you."

Sten looks up at me, sniffling so hard I can barely understand him. "No soup."

"I won't let anyone make her into soup." I finally get close enough to touch him and slowly sink to the ground next to him. "Ok, we're gonna breathe. Ready? Deep breath in." I suck in a lungful of air. "Slow breath out." I exhale, waving my hands in emphasis. "Good. Let's do it again, ok?"

Now that he's calm, Sten doesn't seem to know what to do next.

"You loved Henrietta very much, didn't you?" I smile and pat his back when he nods. "She knew that."

At this, he looks up. "She did?"

"Of course she did. Animals can tell friend from foe, and you were a very good friend. I can tell." Sten seems comforted by this, so I continue. "What do you think we should do with her? No, no soup. I promised she wouldn't be made into food."

Sten holds tightly to the dead hen while he thinks.

And that's how I attend my first chicken funeral. Sten and I watch as the twig pyre ignites, filling the sky with a tiny trail of smoke. Honestly, my biggest fear was the scent of roasted chicken making my stomach grumble loudly, but I quickly learn how awful burnt feathers smell, so that isn't a problem after all. Sten sobs and leans into me as I pat his back and flatten down his wild hair.

When Henrietta is nothing more than a charred black mass, we dig a small hole with our hands and bury her remains. Then I kneel down to his level and ask, "You want some ice cream?"

Sten thinks for a moment before sniffling one final time and nodding.

Lifting his tiny body up and balancing him on my hip, I begin the walk back to the longhouse. "We just made some yesterday. What kind do you want? I think I have some strawberries. You want strawberry ice cream?"

Pris—my assistant of sorts—nods hello when we enter the longhouse. She waits patiently for me to get Sten situated at one of the long dinning tables before announcing, "Your husband is looking for you."

"Thanks, Pris." I open the door to my bedroom, but I don't see him. I take one last look around the longhouse before walking back over to her. "He's not here."

"I sent him away."

"Pris, I told you to stop doing that."

The young woman shrugs indifferently and wanders over to check on Sten.

I find his boat docked in the sand, but there's no sight of him.

"I don't think your new assistant likes me very much." Ben emerges from under the shade of a nearby tree, pausing to slide a bookmark into place. "It's a good thing I had the foresight to bring entertainment."

"Sorry." I shake my head to try and express the full extent of my exasperation. "I explicitly instructed her to let you wait in the longhouse when you drop off Alex. I think she took it as a suggestion instead of a direct order. Actually," I add, "why are you still here?"

"It's nice to see you, too. I'm doing well, by the way. How about yourself?"

Since the wedding, we communicate almost exclusively in overly sarcastic jabs, even though we both promised we would stop. I have no real way of knowing how much of his quiet contemptuousness is genuine or not, but he never says anything insulting—either in person or through letters—so I see no reason to complain. "I just held an exclusive funeral for a chicken destined for soup."

Ben pauses, pensive. "I will admit, that was fairly low on my list of expected responses." He doesn't smile when I laugh, but his eyes give away his amusement. Amusement slowly shifts into one too many blinks, which means he's nervous. "I brought you this. Might be a useful alternative to carrying that notebook around under your arm."

I accept the satchel from him and wonder why I never thought of that. "Oh, wow, thanks!" Slipping my notebook and pen inside, I sling the strap over a shoulder and make a show of swinging my arms. "Free at last. Now maybe I can finally catch the kids who keep filling my socks with moss."

Ben finally smiles.

I wait for him to say something because this hasn't happened before. He usually drops Alex off or picks her up without bothering me, but he keeps shifting his weight in the sand from one foot to the other. It doesn't look like he wants to leave.

My stomach plummets. "Did something bad happen?"

"No," he answers quickly.

"Has the first submarine left on schedule?"

"Yes." Ben checks his watch. "Left for the mainland two hours ago. Won't be due back for three weeks."

"Three weeks?" That's going to be tons of fun explaining to the remaining survivors… We had a lottery to see which lucky few got to go home first, but it was my understanding the trip was going to take about a week at most.

"If all goes well, yes," Ben says, and then stands quietly, his eyes eventually shifting from me to the sand.

"Are you hungry?" To keep away the awkward silence, my domestic training kicks in at last, and I blurt out, "I can make you something to eat before you head back. Or if you're craving sweets, we just made ice cream. And no, I'm not interested in a lecture about how your ice cream is superior."

"I would very much appreciate some inferior ice cream, thank you." Ben falls in step next to me on the hike up the hill to the longhouse. I feel his hand on my sleeve. "This is new."

"Yeah, Astrid made it for me." I smile and reach down to show him the hem. "Look, it has little goats embroidered on it!"

"It's lovely," he says, and I feel my face warming. I'm used to people my age overusing words like hot or gorgeous or beautiful. For some reason, lovely sounds more complimentary. "How have you been?" Ben asks. "Exhausted yet?"

"Way past that point," I answer under my breath. "There are so many kids, I can't keep track of them all. If I've learned anything in my stay here so far, it's that children are really, really weird." The comedic timing could not be more perfect, as a small excited child bursts out of the bushes and approaches.

"Lady Cora! Watch this." He stands with his arms out, concentrating. Nothing happens. He shifts his feet, then deflates. "Nevermind," he says, disappearing back into the jungle.

"Case in point," I tell Ben right as another small child approaches. "Connor? Yes, hi. No, I'm sorry, I'm kinda busy at the moment." I exhale heavily. "Connor, I've already told you, it's not nice to scare people."

"No, no, it's not a scary surprise," he promises, but his barely contained giggles say otherwise.

I accept the tiny box he's presented me with and raise a suspicious eyebrow. "So, what you're telling me is there's not going to be a spider in here? Because if there is, I'm going to have to have a very serious conversation with your mother."

Connor's mischievous grin flatlines, and his eyes widen in fear.

"Okay," I announce, slowly reaching for the lid, "I'm gonna open it."

Connor snatches it out of my hands with a mumbled, "It's not ready yet." Tripping in his haste, he scampers off into the trees.

Ben waits until Connor is completely out of sight before huffing a laugh. "I'm suddenly very thankful for Alex."

"Mama? Wake up!" A cold wet snout presses against my feverish cheek. "It was just a dream."

I open my eyes, momentarily too disoriented to recognize Pumba or Fenrir. As I take in my surroundings, I choke and cough up phlegm, bringing even more water to my already teary eyes. My whole body trembles in the aftershock of my nightmare.

My nightmare.

I tear out of bed in search of my shoes, disorientated in the darkness, my path only lit by the glow of a dying fireplace. I'm in the Temple. What was I doing here? Not important. I need to get to that tree. Should I ask for an escort? Everyone's asleep and there's no time. There's no time!

As I sprint through the jungle in the middle of the night, flashes of my nightmare cut through my thoughts, fueling me to run faster when my legs ache and my lungs catch fire. I have to keep running. Keep running. I'm losing steam. My legs are cramping. I'm here. I'm here!

"Alex?" I bend over and cough. "Alex? Where are you?" It's so dark tonight because there's no moon, thanks to a thick clump of clouds. I scream into the night, hoping and praying I'm not too late. This is the tree, right? I see it whenever we travel between the barracks and the beach. This better not be the wrong tree. Where is she? Please God, don't let me be too late.

I suck in lungful after lungful of air to scream for Alex, but there's no answer. I'm spinning around in the darkness, dressed only in my nightgown, screaming with a feral terror that only increases the longer I go unanswered. I start running towards the tree in search of her, in case she's here and I just can't see. Maybe it hasn't happened yet? Maybe I saw too far into the future?

I'm down on my knees, searching the ground near the trunk when a horrible pain shoots through my skull and down my spine. I slump forward, dazed.

My attacker's fingers tangle in my hair as I'm yanked backwards, slamming into the ground, pinned by their suffocating weight. I can tell it's a man, but I can't really see the details of his face, not enough to recognize him. I can see it well enough to gather up saliva and spit on him, thrashing with every ounce of strength I have, freeing one arm and clawing at his face until I feel blood.

White flashes behind my eyes, and I'm suddenly so dizzy I don't know where I am or what's happening. An arm presses down against my throat. He hit me. He hit me, and he's going to kill me. What's happening? I'm afraid… but where's my strength? Why can't I toss him around like I did Erik? I'm dying. I can't breathe. He's killing me.

I close my eyes and think of my sisters. There's no music this time as I drift off, just flashes. Old buried memories that feel like dreams. Small moments of happiness in a lifetime of tension. I remember their smiles. Their laughter. The way they always tried to trick people into confusing one for the other.

I come to with a jerk, finally able to gasp the cool night air. For the first few seconds after I open my eyes, I am in a transcended state of confusion. Blood pours from the gurgling man's neck, coating me in thick spurts that match the tempo of his heartbeat. I thrash and struggle to push his limp body off me, and then I sit up, rubbing my sore throat as I try to piece together what happened. A disgustingly salty-copper taste is in my mouth. I bring up a hand to get it out and wipe away blood. I am covered in his blood.

Alex stands behind him, wide-eyed and stone faced, holding a bloody knife in a trembling hand. She won't look at me when I call her. She won't stop staring at the man she's just killed.

"Alex?"

"It was self defense," she says quickly, assuredly. "He attacked you. I had to. It was self defense." Alex looks at me, then back at the man, his motionless body now pouring blood out onto the grass. A sliver of cloud parts, giving us just enough moonlight to illuminate the body. "You'll be a witness at my trial, right?"

"Alex?"

"I think we have to report it to my dad." Her neck twists from one side to the other as she whips her head around. "This is our territory…I think? Which means I have to report it to dad. Oh." A lungful of air exhales in a rush, and she sinks to the ground. "You'll be a witness at my trial, right? Cora? You'll speak for me, right?"

"Alex?"

"We have to. . ." Alex holds tight to the knife, her body now wracking with grief. "We have to report this. . . to my dad. He's. . . he's never going to let me leave home ever again—"

"Alex? Alex," I say sternly, and she stops bawling and looks at me. "Go back to Hydra."

"What?"

"Go back to Hydra," I repeat. "Tell Gail what happened and immediately send your dad a note that you're running really late. I'll take care of this."

Alex looks beyond confused.

"You're in shock." I smile in an attempt to calm her down. "You're going to be fine, but I need you to go back to Hydra and tell Gail what happened, okay? You can trust Gail."

"My dad's expecting me for dinner. I can't be late again, or—"

Alex's entire body trembles, and I wonder why mine isn't. In fact, I don't feel anxious at all. I don't feel anything, really.

I stand and get close enough to take her hands in mine. "Keep the knife, and go back to Hydra. Talk to Gail. Tell her what happened. I'll talk to your dad. This man attacked me, not you."

"Matt," Alex whispers. "His name is Matt. Was Matt. He was kinda creepy. I should have told dad."

"Hey," I soothe, making sure to keep my tone jovial. "You didn't do anything wrong. I mean, he's dead. What's he going to do now? Nothing." I squeeze her hands. "Go. I'll talk to your dad. Just get home safely."

"Are you sure?"

"Go," I whisper, and she nods, finally running back down the path that leads to the beach. The path I saw in my nightmare. The path that would have ended differently had I not gotten here first.

I wait for the flashes of my nightmare to return—the screaming, the fear, the pain—but nothing happens. I don't feel scared, or angry, or sad. I feel empty, like instead of being overwhelmed by too many thoughts, I don't have a single one. For the first time in my life, my mind is truly blank.

Hurley squints at me in the dim barracks lighting, swearing and backing up when I get closer. Someone is whispering. A door slams shut. A women stares at me, too terrified to even run. I stop and look down, realizing all at once what the issue is. I forgot I'm covered in blood. I can sense it now, dripping from my hair down onto my dress, drying against my face, sticking my nightgown to my body. I blink and look around at the people staring at me from their barrack houses.

How did I get here? How did I get past the fence?

I walk to Ben's house as if in a silent dream. I find him in the kitchen, stirring something on the stovetop, his back to me when I step inside.

"You're late," he chides, not turning around. "Curfews are instated for a reason, Alex. What's the point of a curfew if you don't—" Loud clanging echoes through the kitchen as Ben turns, sees me standing in the doorway, and drops the pan of food in his hands.

I watch his body freeze so completely that I can't even tell if he's breathing. A droplet of blood tickles down my cheek and I jerk a hand up to wipe it away. I sniff. I clear my throat. I say, "I need to report a crime."

As anxious of a person as I normally am, I'm remarkably calm as Ben pulls a gun on me.