He rights himself in the water. Opens his eyes. Pauses. Blinks.
It’s been a long time since Hiram last thought of that night, so when he sees her at the water’s edge, he scrubs a hand over his face, wondering whether he’s hallucinating. His foot scrapes against a rock under the water, and pain jolts through him. She’s real.
Memory made flesh.
Same petite frame, brown skin, and deep-set brown eyes. Thinner than he remembers, cautious rather than carefree. There’s a poise that’s distinctively her, an awareness that’s intriguing and screams perseverance, not preservation. She’s wearing jeans, a gray CrestwoodUniversity shirt, hiking boots, and the same amulet that drew him to her in the first place. Her hair, full and free as it was the first time Hiram saw her, is now longer, copper-brown instead of black, and halfway down her back, threatened by the cave’s humidity. Hiram has never known her last name, but her first has been etched into his memory for a decade.Veda.
“Why is my amulet tattooed on you?” she asks, studying him with narrowed eyes.
“I . . . don’t know.”
He takes one sloshy step toward her, and she retreats in equal measure. She’s gone before Hiram has a chance to follow.
Three
Clouds cloak the sky in gray gloom.
Veda is restless, nauseous with anxiety and questions after her visit to Nénuphar was altered by a wet, half-naked stranger bearing an exact replica of her amulet tattooed on his arm. She runs back to Weston, where Clinton Desai waits alone on a bench with a small radio on the table. It’s turned down, but not off. There are two steaming cups of tea.
“You’re late,” Clinton’s voice rumbles quietly.
“Am I?” Veda quips. “I was looking for Peter.”
“ISaw.”
A blind man with Sight. The irony isn’t lost on Veda. Clinton is strong, not overly tall, and doesn’t look a day over fifty, though he turned sixty late last year. Deep-brown skin. Black hair. Strands of white in his beard. The wrinkles at his eyes age him more than the scars he wears with pride like the decorated soldier he is. Dressed in a plum blazer, cream linen shirt, and gray slacks, he looks ready to teach one final lesson for the day.
“Peter left for his meeting with the school board just as I returned from speaking on Khadijah’s behalf to the Oracle Council about what happened at the apothecary.”
Seers answer to their state’s Oracle Council, the governing body that addresses their community’s problems and intervenes when they break the Mage Protection Laws. These laws forbid Seers from using magic on others, even accidentally or in self-defense. Those who intentionallybreak Seer Laws or defy the Code—which prohibits using visions to alter the future, meddle with time, or interfere with life and death—are punished. The Oracle Council strips them of Sight, leaving them as Unseen. To a Seer, that fate is worse than death.
“Will they punish her?” Veda asks.
“I do not understand their paranoia, their caginess.” Clinton frowns. “There were no charges filed, yet I had to argue for leniency. It makes no sense.”
“Did you argue as her uncle, head of the Oracle Council, or former congressman?”
“All of the above.”
As the first Seer elected to Congress, Clinton is well known for standing firm in the face of outright hatred. Once retired from politics, he moved to Washington state, arguably one of the worst states for Seers’ rights, returned to teaching, and has made headway fighting for Seers in his four years as head of the state’s Oracle Council. There are still miles to go before progress takes hold.
“They believe missteps are a sign of trouble, but I disagree.” Clinton angles his face to the breeze. “Drink your tea, Veda. You’re rattled, more than usual. Tell me about Nénuphar.”
Hiding the truth from a Seer is fruitless. “There was a man there. I don’t—”
“Anyone in need of healing can find Nénuphar.”
“I know, but his arm was covered in tattoos, and one lookedexactlylike my amulet, right down to the imperfections.” She covers it with her hand. “It’s one of a kind, my dad made it by hand. No one should have a replica.”
“Unless you’re linked through the Cosmos.”
“I hope not.”
Clinton chuckles. “Describe him.”
“Well, he didn’t look like he needed healing.”
Tanned olive skin, a swimmer’s build. Taller than Peter. Undeniably attractive. Dark hair, striking blue eyes, and a shadow of stubbledarkening his jaw. Veda can’t detail his tattoo sleeve, but she remembers his soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Funny how memories work.
