DARK HAIR. Wool coat. A rolling suitcase beside her boots. Her gloved hands were clenched around the handle like she didn’t know whether to hold on to it or let it fall.
“Lily?”
Her voice—soft, breathless, a little hopeful—punched straight through fifteen years of silence.
Lily didn’t think. She ran.
“Mary!” Her throat tightened as she collided with her, and her arms wrapped around her old friend before her brain had even caught up. Mary’s chin pressed against Lily’s shoulder, and for a second, the world stopped spinning. The terror of the last hour, the blood and foam and screaming, the vial burning a hole in her jacket lining—all of it fell away under the familiarity of Mary’s scent and the familiarity of her embrace.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Lily whispered.
Mary pulled back,
