I REACH THE ORCHARD, firmly blinking the tears from my eyes and wiping the kiss from my mouth. I’m such a mess, kissing the wrong character, falling for the wrong guy. Maybe Sally King was right, maybe you can fall in love in just a few days, if the person’s right, if you and they just fit together. For God’s sake, Violet, I tell myself, he’s from another reality, another universe, and you’re going home. The image of my body falling heavily against a rope flashes into my mind—in two days, I will hang. I push it away, blinking hard.

I turn these thoughts in my head again and again, briefly recalling the times when my worst fears were failing an exam or choking on another olive. I almost don’t notice how cold I’ve grown, how dark it’s become. Eventually, the clock chimes midnight.

The bottom of my stomach falls away.

Willow isn’t coming.

The most important scene yet, and Willow’s stood me up. It feels like my skin is missing. I’ve failed. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want me. Nate was right. I should have stuck to the script. I run through it all in my mind, the Gallows Ball, the kiss, the market.

Something clicks. The market. He’s embarrassed, of course. He failed to stand up for an Imp, an Imp clearly important to me. He let me down, and he knows it. I feel my heart rate slow. I just need to go to him, show him that it’s OK and get the canon back on track.

I push aside thoughts of Ash, thoughts of the noose tightening around my throat, thoughts of that truncated, floating body, and I feel a renewed sense of purpose. I take a huge mouthful of apple-scented air.

I run to the manor, loop around the back, and stare up the oak. Light spills from Willow’s window. He’s awake. I try chucking a few stones up, but the branches get in the way and I fail to draw his attention. There’s only one thing to do: I have to climb that stupid tree.

I recall Ash’s advice and slowly, steadily inch up the branches, never freeing more than one limb at a time, testing the boughs before I put my weight on them. I get numerous twigs in my face, leaves in my hair, and I graze my hand a couple of times on hidden shards of bark, but I make pretty good progress.

I near the top, never looking down, always looking up, anticipating the break in the leaves and the view of the stars, enjoying the wind in my face as the branches thin. And as I near Willow’s window, ready to reach out a trembling fist to rap on the pane, I actually have a massive grin plastered across my face. Me—Violet—climbing a monstrous tree, making a Gem fall in love with her. I feel invincible. I shimmy across a bough, fortunately strong enough to take my weight, and a little giggle escapes my mouth. The light from his window illuminates my hands as they splay before me. And finally, I pull my body upward so I look straight into his room.

He lies in bed. I can see the satin bedding crumpled around his perfect, muscular body. The shape of his hips, the line of his torso, the faint scars encircling his upper thighs. He sleeps, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

And he isn’t the only person naked in that bed—my own personal midway twist.

She lies beside him, her golden hair strewn across the pillow, her long, bronzed legs entwined with his.

And all the men and women merely players.

Alice.