Chapter 125 This Was Not in the Travel Plan
Bella
The water drops away beneath us. It stretches out into an endless dark expanse, glowing currents threading through it in long, twisting lines that braid and unbraid as the boat plunges forward. The light clings to the water instead of reflecting off it, coiling and slipping like it’s alive and slightly offended about being disturbed. The boat falls. Rapidly. Not tumbling or spinning out of control. It falls at a pace that feels intentional, suspended on nothing but its own free will, hull humming steadily as if this is exactly what it was designed to do. The current curves around us, the darkness opening wider, deeper, swallowing the edges of my vision until the only solid thing left is the boat itself. My stomach tries to exit my body. I lean forward, fingers locked around the bench, breath tight in my chest as the void ahead of us starts to move. The hole changes. The darkness folds in on itself, rippling like fabric underwater, and then—without warning—pictures bloom inside it. Flashes of scenes that make me feel like I've accidentally eaten mushrooms for dinner. I blink, convinced I’m imagining it, and then the first one flashes fully into view. A ballroom. Gold and candlelight and polished stone, a woman in a yellow dress spinning in the arms of something massive and furred. The Beast’s claws rest carefully at her waist as they turn, slowly in a dance, her face tilted up toward his with something soft and certain in her eyes. Music swells from nowhere and everywhere, the moment caught mid-turn before it tears itself apart and vanishes. The image collapses, and another replaces it. A shoreline under moonlight. A mermaid perched on a rock, hair wild and damp, singing toward a man stretched unconscious in the sand. Her voice carries longing and hope and a truly reckless lack of survival instinct. The waves lap closer. The man doesn’t wake. It's absurd. The scene flickers and dissolves. I see a cottage, crooked and half-hidden in the woods. A woman inside it, tearing through cupboards and plates, devouring everything she can reach with frantic determination, while seven tiny beds sit abandoned in the next room. Crumbs scatter. Dishes shatter. The woman laughs through a mouthful of stolen food like this is normal behaviour. The darkness swallows it, and the boat keeps falling. More images burst and collapse, one after another, too fast to linger on. A glass slipper slipping from a foot on a staircase. A spinning wheel slick with blood. A girl in red standing frozen on a forest path as a wolf smiles at her with too many teeth. My head swims. I don’t know if anyone else can see this. No one is screaming about it, which feels unfair. The visions overlap and blur, images bleeding into each other, joy and horror braided together in a way that makes my chest tighten. I’m so focused on the shifting images that I almost miss the sound.
A throat clearing. Deliberate and performative. Right in front of me. My attention snaps downward where Gilfred stands on the railing. Tail curved for balance. Tiny chest puffed out. Eyes half-lidded with an expression that can only be described as theatrical. He looks pleased, prepared and ready to ruin everyone’s night.
I lean forward and whisper very carefully, “Oh no. Absolutely not.”
He opens his mouth wide, and he begins to sing.
"Down we go and up we slide, hold your guts and mind the ride—"
“Oh my gods,” Ashlyn breathes. “Is he doing a number?”
I choke on a laugh that comes out half-horrified, half-hysterical, half-me desperately trying to keep my dinner where it belongs. Damien lunges for him but Gilfred dodges with a flick of his tail and continues, louder now, confidence blooming with every beat.
"Boats that bend and water sings, no more oars or normal things—"
The boat lurches violently. The darkness ahead ripples, and the images surge back, brighter now. A girl asleep in a glass coffin drifts past us, roses blooming and wilting along its edges. A castle rises from thorns only to collapse into smoke. A spinning teacup whirls by, empty and laughing.
The children clap behind me. They’re all awake now, sitting upright in their cots, eyes wide and shining, staring at Gilfred like they’ve just been given front-row seats to the greatest show they’ve ever seen. One of them laughs sharp and delighted, frost sparking around her hands before the blankets absorb it without complaint and Gilfred bows before he continues.
"If you scream or cry, boat don’t care, it passes by—"
“That’s not reassuring!” someone yells.
Gilfred grins and spins, tail flicking dramatically as the boat tips forward again. More images flash ahead of us again. A tower crumbling as a girl’s hair whips free. A boy climbing a beanstalk into clouds that stretch forever. A crown sinking into dark water, bubbles rising where it disappears. My pulse slams hard enough to rattle my ribs. I lean forward, bracing myself, magic coiling tight and ready beneath my skin. Damien’s hands tighten on mine. Heat steadies me instantly, his dragon’s presence pressed close behind his eyes, solid and unwavering, a reminder that whatever this is, we are not facing it alone. The channel ahead constricts sharply. The glowing currents pull inward, narrowing into a single brilliant line that screams toward us faster and faster. The light intensifies, pressing close, reflecting off the hull in fractured flashes. We’re not going to fit. Oh my gods, we are not going to fit. Gilfred hits his final note, high, sharp and triumphant, and the boat plunges straight through the centre of it. Everything goes white. Then... there's silence. The boat glides. The water stretches wide and calm beneath us, glowing softly again, slow and steady, carrying us forward without urgency. The hum beneath the deck eases into a gentle thrum. Oars extend once more, dipping into the current like nothing just happened. People breathe. Some cry quietly. Someone laughs, shaky and disbelieving, as the boat emerges back into reality like nothing happened at all. I exhale, tension draining out of me in a rush that leaves my hands trembling. Gilfred flops dramatically onto his back on the bench beside me, tongue lolling, eyes closed like he’s just finished the performance of a lifetime. I stare at him.
“You,” I say slowly and carefully, “are grounded.”
He opens one eye.
"Worth it," he whispers.
Damien snorts, leaning back, heat settling now that the danger has decided to take a break.
“Well,” he says, voice warm and amused, “that was memorable.”
I look out over the boat. At the people settling back into themselves. At the children yawning and curling under their blankets again. At the river carrying us forward through a world that finally feels solid.
“Next time,” I say, resting my head against his shoulder, “we’re walking.”
The boat hums. I don’t think it agrees.