Dry days are spent outdoors: sailing in the Sound, whale watching, exploring the beach, and enjoying the sun when it peeks through the clouds. Antaris didn’t get his love for the outdoors from Hiram, who prefers any activity that doesn’t involve mosquitoes or too much sun, but he shares his father’s interest in working with his hands. They build together, not only sand castles and blanket forts, but memories. Wet days are quieter, spent watching movies, reading books, playing games in the house, and listening to music while Hiram experiments with baking. Veda enjoys the fruits of his labor while he takes a swim in the indoor saltwater pool on the lower level. Antaris isn’t a fan of water. Hiram’s gentle prodding has only moved him to stand on the top step. Nothing more.
It’s peaceful here. The rest of the world is a distant memory. Nights are the biggest change, with stargazing, telling stories from memory,or roasting marshmallows until Antaris’s bedtime, which Hiram won’t relent on with school restarting next week. Hiram reads him a story before they tuck him in and linger as the lantern floats around the room.
Then she and Hiram are alone. They split dessert and dance around topics until they end up someplace quiet. He knows when Veda’s silence shifts to stress and how to push back her encroaching anxiety. Even for a moment. Still fearful of what is to come, she can’t deny the truth: She’s tired, she needs the rest. The holes in her spirit are being repaired during these little moments ofmore. Veda doesn’t wonder why she allows Hiram as close as he is. She knows, and plans to push it back into the recesses of her mind when they return. But for now, he’s the reprieve from a harsh reality she never thought she needed: a safe distraction, a reminder of the happy, fearless person she once was.
At least, that’s how she feels when he kisses her each night. Undemanding. Deceptively slow. Beneath the surface of him lies a blunt, unapologetic desire. She can see it’s as cautious as he is. Hiram isn’t pushing her, which sounds like the kind of bullshit men spew to charm their way into women’s beds. But Veda has this festering urge to test the validity of his claims—for selfish reasons, of course.
One morning, Veda wakes up feeling relaxed yet stir-crazy and walks in on a comical scene. Flour is everywhere, on the counter, the floor, and Antaris himself, dusting his cheek, hands, and shirt. Hiram bears a small handprint on the leg of his jeans, and the front of his hair is streaked with white. It’s sweet.
She holds herself in the present, smiling. “Should I ask?”
Antaris smiles bashfully.
“We had a little trouble,” Hiram says, giving his son an encouraging look.
Veda joins them but doesn’t offer help with the pancakes. She makes the tea and eggs, watching Hiram show Antaris how to perfectly flip a pancake. They eat in comfortable silence, Antaris proud of his oblong creations. He wanders away after helping with the dishes, clutchingHiram’s phone to wait for August’s video call. It’s how they’ve been keeping in touch during their separation.
Hiram lingers until Veda finishes wiping down the table and countertops before drawing her outside. Rain starts falling. He opens the doors to the deck, letting the sounds of the downpour and the scent of an incoming storm smother fragments of August’s loud ramblings filtering from Antaris’s open window.
“He meant it when he said he’d talk enough for the both of them,” Hiram mutters.
Veda’s laugh is cut off by Antaris’s little giggle. “Chaos and order. They’re good for each other.”
He sighs. “Unfortunately, I agree.”
Settling on the outdoor sofa, Veda doesn’t make it to five before she feels his arm around her shoulder. “Peter called before you woke up. The fallout from Ariadne is massive. She did more than corrupt files and use the Registration to hunt down the Oracle Council.” Hiram’s expression turns grim. “She left the trickster pendant at the school with a note to Antaris, saying he was the rightful owner and his mom would have wanted him to have it.”
Veda’s blood chills at the murderer’s message to her victim’s child.
“She has no need for it anymore,” he says. “She can’t hide the pendant because everyone is looking for it, and she can’t hide her cursed mark.”
That heaviness returns. “I’ve fought her twice. You saw what she did at the school. I know she’s coming for me, but I also know what’s at stake if she succeeds.”
“Who’s to say she will?”
“You’re an optimist.”
“No, I’m a realist.” Hiram turns to her. “There’s a reason you’ve beaten her, and it has nothing to do with power. Ignore the fear, ignore what happened. What did she do both times?”
“She ... hesitated. At least with me. I got lucky.” Veda sighs. “Now that I know more, I understand being young and believing you haveyour entire life ahead of you only to find out you’re going to die from a vision you had.”
“Or from seeing something you shouldn’t.”
Hearing it from someone else hurts more. The scars on her back ache instinctively. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right,” Veda says softly, raising her head to stare out at the trees and water. “Realizing your life is a footnote in someone else’s is hard.”
“Would you do what she did?” Hiram asks. “Could you keep trying after seeing the consequences of your actions?”
“Wouldyou?”
“I’m an attorney. My morals are situational,” he replies, shrugging.
Veda rolls her eyes, huffing a laugh that fades as she turns the question over in her mind. “The desire to live can drown out any contemplation about the quality of the life you’re fighting for and what that would look like. Am I capable? Sure. Would I? Never.” She finishes her tea. “Being young doesn’t justify her misguided punishment of those who held her accountable for her actions.”
“No. But it does make her human.”
