The museum's vault of the archive hung heavy with ozone and buried secrets. White as a ghost, Sarah's knuckles tightened around the stolen locket in her coat pocket as Dr. Eleanor Voss, the curator, slowly pushed back her tortoiseshell glasses.

"You're holding something that belongs to us, Miss Montgomery."

Lucas shifted away from her, his shoulder bumping into Sarah's in the cramped room. The movement touched off a familiar spark in her—the same electricity that had cracked between them since the portrait. Since the dreams. Since before.

Dr. Voss slid a protective container across the metal table. Within it was an identical replica of the locket, its chain broken. "This is the one that was stolen last night." She tapped the glass with her very manicured fingernail. "So why does our security tape record this still in its case at 3:17 AM?"

Sarah's breath caught as she produced their locket. The dual lockets shone in the archival lamps, both featuring the identical intricate 'E+T' monogram.

"Impossible," Lucas breathed. His fingers touched Sarah's wrist as he removed the museum's locket, and—

—and Thomas's trembling hands as he fastened the chain around Emily's neck—

—"Wear this always," he begged, "so I'll know you in every lifetime.".

—Emily's tears spilling onto the silver as gun-toting men dragged him away—

Sarah inhaled sharply. Lucas's gaze met hers, pupils wide with mutual sight.

Dr. Voss audibly cleared her throat. "The Bennett-Everhart vendetta was never about land." She extracted a yellowed letter affixed with a red wax 'V'. "My great-grandfather saw the separation. Thomas did not depart Emily. He was murdered by her brother on the eve they planned to run off."

The lights in the vault started to flicker. Lucas's heart thudded in his ears as he gripped the table edge, the knuckles of his hand matching the portrait's white-knuckled grip on Emily's shoulder.

"And the lockets?" Lucas asked, his voice rough.

"One authentic, one a fake." Dr. Voss opened the museum's locket. A small hidden compartment snapped open, opening onto a creased slip of parchment. "Thomas's dying words. Never put on display."

Sarah's hands shook as she unfolded it:

"Find us where the hawthorn bleeds."

Outside, thunder crashed despite the bright winter sky. The archive lights flickered out, and they were left blind except for an unearthly glow from the lockets—Sarah's pulsing gold, the museum's drumming crimson.

Lucas's fingers wrapped around hers in the darkness, their hands meshing together like they'd done it a thousand times before. Because they had.