Briony's POV

My fingers tremble as I tug at the fabric of my hijab, adjusting it over and over in the car's visor mirror. Each movement feels feeble and futile, like trying to quell an earthquake with a whisper. Jareth sits behind the wheel, his hand tapping an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel, while Vivienne swivels a strap on her handbag nervously in the backseat. None of us speak for a moment.

“Maybe we should have called ahead,” I mumble, breaking the ...