“You are all very calm about someone throwing knives disguised as pillows.”
“Most things in this town are disguised,” Miora said, settling back into her chair with soup and a sigh. “The trick is to treat the disguise and the truth as if they both matter.”
We ate.
The soup did its old magic
Keegan told a story about Twobble’s earmuffs that made my mother laugh-snort.
Halfway through second helpings, Keegan slid something across the table with the awkward care of a man offering flowers he’d just realized were the wrong kind. It was a folded dish towel wrapped around a small, heavy shape.
“For you,” he said to my mother. “Because…paperwork.”
She unwrapped the towel to find the cottage’s good letter opener: old, lovely, a sliver of bone smoothed by years, the handle carved with tiny leaves.
“It’s a knife,” she said, deadpan.
“It’s a letter opener that is practical,” Keegan corrected, not quite meeting her eyes. “And… pretty, but with the priestess…”
I was stunned by the gift, but my mother, who had always hated language that pretended to be subtle when it was meant to be kind, looked at him for a long second and then nodded.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll cut the stupid parts out of my life with it.”
“Atta girl,” my dad muttered.
We cleared the bowls and left the documents in a stack tied with a kitchen string.
Keegan washed while I dried. Our elbows knocked with the affectionate efficiency of people who have learned each other’s kitchen geography.
Miora dozed in the big chair and woke with little dips of the head, as if she were agreeing with a story only she could hear. My mother stood at the window with the letter opener in her hand like a charm, watching the path without saying what she waited to see as my dad stood on the front porch.
When I stepped outside to shepherd him back in like he was pretending not to need shepherding, the woods wore a thin shawl of mist. The Academy’s lights, far off, made a bracelet across the trees. A moth bumped the porch lantern and decided to rethink its life.
“You can tell me if you’re scared,” my dad said, not looking at me.
“I am,” I said, not looking at him. “Also furious. And a little hopeful, which feels like cheating.”
“Hope is always cheating,” he said. “That’s why it works.”
My mom stepped outside and stood close to my dad.
“You didn’t tell me you were going north because you didn’t want me to worry.”
“Correct,” I said.
“Didn’t work.” She smiled at me.
“Correct,” I said again, softer.
“A mom’s job is never finished.” She huffed a laugh and sobered. “Did the Hollows like you?”
“It tolerated me,” I said. “Let me m—” I swallowed. “Let me mend a loop.”
“Your grandma would be proud.”
“Which one?” A breath snagged.
“The only one who counts.” She smiled and let out a deep breath.
