The lack of pressure is its own gift. Just warmth, acceptance, support, and the promise of belonging.
Later, I excuse myself early, choosing to sleep alone so I can polish my latest report. Independence used to feel like loneliness; now it feels like balance.
Hours slip by in a blur of typing until my phone rings. A Chicago number. My stomach knots. Scott has always had a talent for timing his crises with my joys.
When I was ready to have David, he took a night shift. A big job interview? Fender bender. Academic success? A mysterious back injury that left me coordinating endless doctor visits.
The pattern was so reliable that by the end of our marriage, I’d brace for disaster every time something good happened to me.
Even divorced, the dread returns as the phone vibrates. Against my better judgment, I answer.
“Mom?” Ava’s voice is tight with stress. “Sorry to call so late on my roommate’s phone—my battery’s dead. But we have a problem. It’s Dad. He’s in serious trouble, and we need you to come home.”
The fairy-tale glow evaporates in an instant. My hands tremble as the familiar knot of anxiety coils tight in my gut. Scott’s chaos, reaching across state lines to steal my peace.
Quintus must hear the strain in my voice as I talk to Ava, because he appears in the doorway—eyes sharp, body coiled. The moment I hang up, he vows, “Whatever it is, you will not face it alone.”
Chapter Twenty
Quintus
Before dawn, the air changes—quiet, but wrong. A soldier learns this kind of silence: the pause before a storm, the breath the world takes before it speaks bad news.
Nicole’s phone vibrates on the bedside table. She answers, voice soft at first, then tight. “Ava? Slow down.” A beat. “I’m listening.”
I sit up, say nothing. In theludus, men survived by knowing when to move and when to be stone. I choose stone—present, steady.
“It’s Dad,” Ava says loud enough that I can hear. “We need you to come home.”
Nicole’s shoulders draw up like the ghost of chains tightening, though they no longer bind. I rise and stand in the doorway to the small kitchen, where she can see me if she turns. I do not interrupt. She finishes, promises to call again, and ends the line with a shaking breath.
“Tell me,” I say.
“My ex,” she says, palm pressed to her eyes. “Embezzlement. A lot. The kids are panicking. I need to go.”
“How far?” I ask.
“Chicago. Today.”
I nod once. “Then we make ready.”
She blinks, as if she expected argument or soothing words. I give her neither. Pity can weaken the spine; clarity steels it. She moves to dress. I gather her charger, the jacket she will forget, and water for the road. In battle we call it kit—simple, necessary things that keep a fighter upright.
“I can drive,” I say.
“Quintus, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” I answer. “I choose to.”
She studies me, searching for insistence, for command. There is none. Only choice, laid at her feet. She nods.
We move like people who have practiced together. She phones the Sanctuary office, leaves notes for Maya, emails her professor; I check the car—fuel, tires, lights. At the threshold, she hesitates.
“I’m afraid,” she admits, quiet as a vow before Fortuna’s altar.
“Fear carries the standard,” I say. “Let it march beside you, not ahead of you.”
On the road, the land unwraps in long, gray ribbons. She speaks in pieces at first—dates, numbers, the slow grind of a man who makes every storm another’s burden to bear. I listen. The Romans taught patrician boys to argue; the arena taught slaves to hear. When she pauses, I ask the questions a tactician asks.
