Jethro nodded. “Your mother knew no one could replace Vaughn. You’d grown up together. You loved each other so much. But she also knew not having that connection would be one of the hardest things you’d have to face. So she asked Kes to be your brother while your true one couldn’t be there.”
My stomach knotted as I wrapped arms around myself. Kes’s friendship had been invaluable, but now, it’d become priceless knowing every touch and joke had come out of respect for my mother.
In a way, it could’ve cheapened Kes’s kindness to me—knowing he’d been asked to do so—but I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a selfless deed, and I was confident enough in our mutual affection that he hadn’t just done it for Emma. He’d done it for himself, for whatever bond blossomed between us.
Jethro came closer, moving behind me to envelop me in a hug. My back fell into his chest, my head tilting to the side for his kisses to land on my neck. “She also asked him to give you the Weaver Journal. I knew you thought that was a tool for my family to spy on your thoughts. That we were the ones to create such a tradition. But we didn’t.”
His lips trailed lovingly over my collar to my ear. “That was a Weaver secret and at least one Hawk in every generation kept it hidden. Kes was tasked to give it to you. But he wasn’t asked to tell you why he’d given it. It was yours to do what you wanted—write in it or not. Read it or ignore it. The choice was yours.”
How could I learn so much in such a few short sentences? How could I fall in love with the dead even more than when they were alive?
Spinning in Jethro’s hold, I pressed my face against his chest. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.”
His embrace tightened. “Thank you for making your mother’s premonitions come true.”
We stood still for so many heartbeats, thanking the dead, reliving the secrets, rejoicing in the rightful end.
Finally, Jethro let me go. “Open it. And then we’ll join the others.”
I looked at the box. The air around it seemed to throb with welcome, begging me to look inside.
Jethro shuffled, moving toward the door.
I held out my hand. “Wait. Don’t go.”
He halted. “You don’t want to be on your own?”
“No.” Shaking my head, I smiled. “I want you beside me. She would want you to be here.”
Biting his lip, he returned to my side.
Wordlessly, I pulled the box closer and slid off the lid.
A puff of lint flurried with the opening pressure, scattering onto the table-top. My heart stopped beating as I reached into the tiny coffin of memories andpulled out the letter sitting on top.
“It’s addressed to me.”
Jethro looped an arm around my waist, trembling with everything I felt.
The confusion.
The hope.
The sadness.
The happiness at hearing from her one last time.
“Open it.”
The glue on the envelope had weathered and unstuck, gaping open as I turned it over and fumbled with my sling to pull forth the note.
Dear my sweetest daughter,
I’ve promised myself I would write this letter so many times, and every time I begin, I stop.
There is so much to say. My mind runs wild with guidelines and tips for all things you are yet to enjoy. First love, first heartbreak, first baby. I’ll never get to see those things. Never see you grow into a woman or enjoy motherhood.
And that upsets me, but I know I’ll be proud of the woman you became because you’re part of me, and through you, I shall remain alive, no matter what happens to my mortal body.
