A growl comes from my father’s direction. His eyes are wild with emotion, and his lips peel back from his teeth as he says, “No, Aurora. That’s a lie. I remember what it was like back then. She was seventeen, and you know damn well we would have pressured her until she caved. No, we wouldn’t have forced her, but we’d have made it hell for her before we accepted it. She was months from graduation. Would we have cherished the idea of her walking across the stage with a human in her belly? Had we accepted it, we would have been cut off by every small-minded fairy in Devashire. You think it was bad when she ran away? Think of what it would have been like if she stayed. Raising a human child here? Endless scorn.”
“So you think she did the right thing by leaving?” My mother spreads her hands, her face drenched with tears. Everyone is crying now, even my father.
“I’m saying we’re culpable!” he bellows. “We all should have pulled together. We should have rallied the troops and forced Delaney to admit what he’d done to her. The other pixies would have supported us if we took a stand and went public. But we were cowards. How can we blame Sophia for wanting better for herself?” A deep cough racks his body.
Magic stirs in the air around us, pixie magic, fueled by luck and blending with the heady, close scent of the blossoms that make up our family garden. Every one, every plant in here started as an emotion, and there are far more beautiful ones than thornbushes. The air is shifting. With my father’s admissions and understanding comes my own.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, my face awash in fresh tears. “I see now what it did to you when I left. You would have loved me through it had I stayed. You would have supported my choices.” I sob. “I still feel like I did what I had to do, but I should have written to you. I should have called. I should have…” My voice chokes off in a loud, barking cough before I can admit that I should have told them what I was doing and why. We’d always looked out for each other. My parents are good people, we are a strong family, and disappearing as I did didn’t give them a chance to be the best versions of themselves.
“I should have defended you,” my mother blurts. “I didn’t. I was too scared and too traumatized by what had happened. The panic… the social isolation… I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me was relieved.” She doubles over in a fit of coughing.
I know what she means. In the deepest parts of her soul, she was as relieved as I was that I left. My parents would have risen to the occasion, but part of them must have been glad they didn’t have to.
“I forgive you,” I scream, my hair and wings blowing back in the garden wind.
“I forgive you,” my father echoes, his eyes locking on mine and then on my mother’s.
“I forgive you,” my mother cries out, her red eyes still weeping even as a smile turns her lips.
We double over, coughing. My father is the first to spit out his seed, a prickly, walnut-sized pit that represents all the hurt we caused each other. There’s a smear of blood on his palm. There was nothing easy about bringing that one up.
I’m next. Mine is smaller, dark blue, and twisted. It represents my youth, my regret, and the mistakes that were meant to be. My love for my daughter is in there too. It’s both a misshapen reminder of the agony I’ve caused all of us and a beautiful work of nature, infinite potential wrapped in a thin organic shell. It hurt coming out but, seeing it in my hand fills me with warm, healing power.
My mother is the last to produce her seed. She raises her hand to her mouth and ejects a misshapen purple one the size of a pecan. Jagged-edged with a smooth, opaque outer dome, it holds all her shame, regret, and a tinge of betrayal.
Three seeds, each with the kernel of forgiveness inside, the magic of a pixie family bond we will never leave behind. The wind bites into us now, and my mother must bend her knees and throw her back into it to spear the ground with her trowel. She digs out earth at the base of the thornbush. Each of us drops our seed into the hole, watering it with the tears that still drip from our faces. Once she’s filled in the hole and smoothed it over, the wind dies down and the sun seems to shine brighter. Panting from exertion, we hug each other, my parents kissing my cheeks and helping me to stand.
A shoot breaks ground, rising out of the place we planted our seeds. Before our eyes, a bright green vine wraps around the base of the thornbush, weaving itself along the central stalk of the plant. Squeezing, choking, ending.
“Do you think it will be enough to kill it?” I ask.
My parents both look at me and smile. “I know it will be,” my mother says softly.
On the other side of me, my father laughs. “If it’s not, I’ll get a backhoe in here and rip it out the human way.”
“Daddy!” My eyes flash at the sacrilege.
“It will be enough,” he promises. We watch the green shoot spiral around and around, tightening its stranglehold on the thornbush, until my stomach growls loud enough for all to hear.
“You haven’t eaten yet?” my mother asks.
I shake my head. “I was going to take Arden to Foxwood’s.”
“Good idea. We’ll all go. But it’s not Foxwood’s anymore,” Mother says.
“No?” I turn to her in surprise.
“No. It’s River’s.” She leads the way back toward the house.
“River’s?” my mind flashes to River Foxwood, the satyr who showed me such kindness the night of the Yule Ball. A true friend, I’d often wondered what happened to him over the years.
“Took the restaurant over when his mother died and his father retired,” she explains.
“Let’s all go,” my father suggests. “I’m sure Grandma is hungry too.”
ChapterTen
Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck. ?Dalai Lama XIV
