In Chap­ter 64, Henk finds him­self at Rock­grove Vine­yard, where he has come to fit in among a tour group, even though he has nev­er tried Irish wine. He secret­ly prefers milk, a drink that odd­ly makes peo­ple uncom­fort­able. As they stroll through the vine­yard, he spots the tree where Mark Gooch was found dead and can’t resist men­tion­ing it to the group, prompt­ing mut­ed hor­ror from his fel­low tourists. Henk open­ly dis­cuss­es the influ­encer’s mys­te­ri­ous death, not­ing that he was nailed to the tree, much to the dis­may of the tour guide, who quick­ly shifts the con­ver­sa­tion to the Bac­chus grape and its grow­ing sig­nif­i­cance to Irish wines.

The oth­er atten­dees begin to dis­tance them­selves from Henk, unaware that he has a gun dis­creet­ly hid­den in his waist­band. Check­ing his phone, Henk antic­i­pates the arrival of Amy Wheel­er in about half an hour. He pon­ders what they might uncov­er dur­ing their inquiry, as he spec­u­lates on their find­ings about Gooch’s arrival in a taxi, his miss­ing leather holdall, and his dis­cov­ery by a local police offi­cer.

How­ev­er, Henk expects that their true break­through will occur when they share lunch, reveal­ing cru­cial infor­ma­tion about Jeff Nolan’s involve­ment in the events sur­round­ing Gooch’s death. While in the fresh air, Henk approach­es the tree and inspects the holes that have been filled and paint­ed over, pleased with the con­ceal­ment. He announces to the rest of the tour group about the wood glue fill­ing the holes, dis­play­ing his typ­i­cal blunt­ness and enthu­si­asm, despite the dis­com­fort it sows in those around him.

In Chap­ter 64 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Misty Mey­er boards a bus with Joseph Patch Macauley, ini­ti­at­ing a jour­ney that reveals their devel­op­ing rela­tion­ship. As they trav­el, Misty express­es her excite­ment about rid­ing the bus for the first time, liken­ing it to a long car ride. Their des­ti­na­tion is Bran­ton, where they help Patch hang posters on a south­ern pine util­i­ty pole. The oppres­sive heat accom­pa­nies their efforts, and they lat­er take a moment to rest at a bus stop. Dur­ing this pause, Misty shares per­son­al details, such as her col­lec­tion of snow globes and the fact that she has two dogs she mis­tak­en­ly thought were relat­ed.

The play­ful ban­ter con­tin­ues, with Patch jok­ing about the dogs pos­si­bly shar­ing a lin­eage. As they return from their out­ing, the atmos­phere between them shifts, becom­ing more con­tem­pla­tive. Once at the edge of the lake, they lay togeth­er, enveloped by the twi­light and the encroach­ing stars. Misty reveals her father’s dif­fi­cul­ty dis­cussing cer­tain top­ics, hint­ing at com­pli­cat­ed emo­tions regard­ing Patch’s expe­ri­ences. She notes that while he has returned, peo­ple see him as both a hero and a reminder of trau­ma, and she express­es a phys­i­cal appre­ci­a­tion for him.

Emo­tion­al­ly charged moments unfold as Misty cries, shar­ing her strug­gles while stay­ing con­nect­ed to Patch. He offers her reas­sur­ance, empha­siz­ing that choic­es made in trag­ic cir­cum­stances were unavoid­able. Their deep con­ver­sa­tion delves into themes of trau­ma, mis­takes, and per­son­al growth, with Patch reflect­ing on the nature of learn­ing and the con­cept of mis­takes in life as mere step­ping stones.

As their evening togeth­er draws to a close, Patch walks Misty to meet her friends out­side the Palace 7. While she pre­pares her­self to face her group, includ­ing Chuck, Patch con­tem­plates the weight of their shared his­to­ry, see­ing him­self as a bur­den in her life. Misty poignant­ly express­es that every­thing she enjoyed dur­ing her life was some­thing Patch had been deprived of, high­light­ing his endur­ing pain. As she walks across the street, Patch grap­ples with feel­ings of inad­e­qua­cy, wish­ing he could con­vey that his past lacks sig­nif­i­cant loss, as he had very lit­tle to begin with. The chap­ter intri­cate­ly por­trays their emo­tion­al bond while grap­pling with the com­plex­i­ties of their shared and indi­vid­ual pasts.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
64
Rhysand went still as death. Cass­ian snarled. Hang­ing between them, Azriel
tried and failed to lift his head.
But I was star­ing at Tamlin—at that face I had loved and hat­ed so deeply
—as he halt­ed a good twen­ty feet away from us.
He wore his ban­dolier of knives—Illyrian hunt­ing-blades, I real­ized.
His gold­en hair was cut short­er, his face more gaunt than I’d last seen it.
And his green eyes … Wide as they scanned me from head to toe. Wide as
they took in my fight­ing leathers, the Illyr­i­an sword and knives, the way I
stood with­in my group of friends—my fam­i­ly.
He’d been work­ing with the King of Hybern. “No,” I breathed.
But Tam­lin dared one more step clos­er, star­ing at me as if I were a ghost.
Lucien, met­al eye whirring, stopped him with a hand on his shoul­der.
“No,” I said again, this time loud­er.
“What was the cost,” Rhysand said soft­ly from my side. I clawed and
tore at the wall sep­a­rat­ing our minds; heaved and pulled against that fist
sti­fling my mag­ic.
Tam­lin ignored him, look­ing at the king at last. “You have my word.”
The king smiled.
I took a step toward Tam­lin. “What have you done?”
The King of Hybern said from his throne, “We made a bar­gain. I give
you over, and he agrees to let my forces enter Pry­thi­an through his ter­ri­to­ry.
And then use it as a base as we remove that ridicu­lous wall.”
I shook my head. Lucien refused to meet the plead­ing stare I threw his
way.
“You’re insane,” Cass­ian hissed.
Tam­lin held out a hand. “Feyre.” An order—like I was no bet­ter than a
sum­moned dog.
I made no move­ment. I had to get free; had to get that damn pow­er free
—
“You,” the king said, point­ing a thick fin­ger at me, “are a very dif­fi­cult
female to get ahold of. Of course, we’ve also agreed that you’ll work for me
once you’ve been returned home to your hus­band, but … Is it hus­band-to-
be, or hus­band? I can’t remem­ber.”
Lucien glanced between us all, face pal­ing. “Tam­lin,” he mur­mured.
But Tam­lin didn’t low­er the hand stretched toward me. “I’m tak­ing you
home.”
I backed up a step—toward where Rhysand still held Azriel with
Cass­ian.
“There’s that oth­er bit, too. The oth­er thing I want­ed,” the king went on.
“Well, Juri­an want­ed. Two birds with one stone, real­ly. The High Lord of
Night dead—and to learn who his friends were. It drove Juri­an quite mad,
hon­est­ly, that you nev­er revealed it dur­ing those fifty years. So now you
know, Juri­an. And now you can do what you please with them.”
Around me, my friends were tense—taut. Even Azriel was sub­tly mov­ing
a bloody, scarred hand clos­er to his blades. His blood pooled at the edge of
my boots.
I said steadi­ly, clear­ly, to Tam­lin, “I’m not going any­where with you.”
“You’ll say dif­fer­ent­ly, my dear,” the king coun­tered, “when I com­plete
the final part of my bar­gain.”
Hor­ror coiled in my gut.
The king jerked his chin at my left arm. “Break that bond between you
two.”
“Please,” I whis­pered.
“How else is Tam­lin to have his bride? He can’t very well have a wife
who runs off to anoth­er male once a month.”
Rhys remained silent, though his grip tight­ened on Azriel. Observ­ing—
weigh­ing, sort­ing through the lock on his pow­er. The thought of that silence
between our souls being per­ma­nent …
My voice cracked as I said to Tam­lin, still at the oppo­site end of the
crude half cir­cle we’d formed before the dais, “Don’t. Don’t let him. I told
you—I told you that I was fine. That I left—”
“You weren’t well,” Tam­lin snarled. “He used that bond to manip­u­late
you. Why do you think I was gone so often? I was look­ing for a way to get
you free. And you left.”
“I left because I was going to die in that house!”
The King of Hybern clicked his tongue. “Not what you expect­ed, is it?”
Tam­lin growled at him, but again held out his hand toward me. “Come
home with me. Now.”
“No.”
“Feyre.” An unflinch­ing com­mand.
Rhys was bare­ly breathing—barely mov­ing.
And I real­ized … real­ized it was to keep his scent from becom­ing
appar­ent. Our scent. Our mat­ing bond.
Jurian’s sword was already out—and he was look­ing at Mor as if he was
going to kill her first. Azriel’s blood-drained face twist­ed with rage as he
noticed that stare. Cass­ian, still hold­ing him upright, took them all in,
assess­ing, ready­ing him­self to fight, to defend.
I stopped beat­ing at the fist on my pow­er. Stroked it gently—lovingly.
I am Fae and not-Fae, all and none, I told the spell that gripped me. You
do not hold me. I am as you are—real and not, lit­tle more than gath­ered
wisps of pow­er. You do not hold me.
“I’ll come with you,” I said soft­ly to Tam­lin, to Lucien, shift­ing on his
feet, “if you leave them alone. Let them go.”
You do not hold me.
Tamlin’s face con­tort­ed with wrath. “They’re mon­sters. They’re—” He
didn’t fin­ish as he stalked across the floor to grab me. To drag me out of
here, then no doubt win­now away.
You do not hold me.
The fist grip­ping my pow­er relaxed. Van­ished.
Tam­lin lunged for me over the few feet that remained. So fast—too fast
—
I became mist and shad­ow.
I win­nowed beyond his reach. The king let out a low laugh as Tam­lin
stum­bled.
And went sprawl­ing as Rhysand’s fist con­nect­ed with his face.
Pant­i­ng, I retreat­ed right into Rhysand’s arms as one looped around my
waist, as Azriel’s blood on him soaked into my back. Behind us, Mor
leaped in to fill the space Rhys had vacat­ed, sling­ing Azriel’s arm over her
shoul­ders.
But that wall of hideous stone remained in my mind, and still blocked
Rhys’s own pow­er.
Tam­lin rose, wip­ing the blood now trick­ling from his nose as he backed
to where Lucien held his posi­tion with a hand on his sword.
But just as Tam­lin neared his Emis­sary, he stag­gered a step. His face
went white with rage.
And I knew Tam­lin under­stood a moment before the king laughed. “I
don’t believe it. Your bride left you only to find her mate. The Moth­er has a
warped sense of humor, it seems. And what a talent—tell me, girl: how did
you unrav­el that spell?”
I ignored him. But the hatred in Tamlin’s eyes made my knees buck­le.
“I’m sor­ry,” I said, and meant it.
Tamlin’s eyes were on Rhysand, his face near-fer­al. “You,” he snarled,
the sound more ani­mal than Fae. “What did you do to her?”
Behind us, the doors opened and sol­diers poured in. Some looked like the
Attor. Some looked worse. More and more, fill­ing up the room, the exits,
armor and weapons clank­ing.
Mor and Cass­ian, Azriel sag­ging and heavy-lid­ded between them,
scanned each sol­dier and weapon, siz­ing up our best odds of escape. I left
them to it as Rhys and I faced Tam­lin.
“I’m not going with you,” I spat at Tam­lin. “And even if I did … You
spine­less, stu­pid fool for sell­ing us out to him! Do you know what he wants
to do with that Caul­dron?”
“Oh, I’m going to do many, many things with it,” the king said.
And the Caul­dron appeared again between us.
“Start­ing now.”
Kill him kill him kill him
I could not tell if the voice was mine or the Cauldron’s. I didn’t care. I
unleashed myself.
Talons and wings and shad­ows were instant­ly around me, sur­round­ed by
water and fire—
Then they van­ished, sti­fled as that invis­i­ble hand gripped my pow­er
again, so hard I gasped.