“How long ago did you decide this?”
“Eight minutes ago.”
Veda makes a small noise and stands, ignoring the strange looks he’s giving her. “I should change.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know,” Veda replies, then asks, “How do you know they’re having dinner now?”
“They have dinner at the same time every day, regardless of what’s going on. My mother always makes it a production.”
“How much time do I have?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, Veda is dressed in a floral jumpsuit Khadijah bought her ages ago, paired with sandals. Her hair is slicked back into a low braided bun. Hiram and Antaris wait for her in the foyer. She does a double take at the sight of Antaris. Instead of the usual black, his knitted bow tie is ...
“Green?”
Olive green, to be precise.
“That’s what he chose.” Hiram ruffles the curls his son has worn free only a few times. It earns him a funny look that makes Veda laugh.
Antaris leads the way to the car. Hiram stops Veda briefly with a hand on her stomach and a compliment that warms her.
The ride is as quiet as the finely dressed Simran when she notices their joined hands at the front door. She leads the way into an ornate dining room with soft light, where a pale Barrett sits in a wheelchair at the head of the table.
“How are you, Father?” Hiram asks, tone edged.
“I’m fine. My bones have been healed. The wheelchair is a precaution until I am strong enough to walk on my own,” Barrett replies, his eyes dropping to Antaris, then sliding to her. “You have only joined us for dinner twice since your return. Why is today number three?”
“I wanted to see that you were okay, but if you want us to leave—”
“No,” he says quickly. “Please sit.”
Veda looks at Hiram when he pulls out her chair, but sits without a sarcastic response. He takes the seat on the other side of Antaris.Dinner is served on beautifully decorated silver thalis: an assortment of vegetables, curries, naan, dal, chicken, and lamb. Antaris looks confused, so Hiram patiently explains each dish and how to eat them. Simran interjects occasionally, offering the cultural context Hiram doesn’t know. Veda enjoys her meal while sneaking glances around the room.
After dinner, they move to the sitting room and watch Antaris wander the sunroom, visiting the plants. When Simran attempts to join him, he stiffens. Children aren’t subtle. Antaris is no exception. He keeps a wide berth with Simran until she gives up and returns. Hiram replaces her, and the lights switch on. Antaris warms in his father’s presence, smiling, eager to show him the plants. Barrett excuses himself to take his nightly healing elixirs.
Simran wastes no time. “I am surprised to see you here, Miss Thorne.”
Me toodoesn’t seem appropriate, so Veda says nothing. The air between them is heavy, unchanged since their last interaction.
“I believe we are at a point where I can speak to you freely,” Simran starts.
“You’ve never been one to mince words with me.”
“Touché, Miss Thorne, but I believe the time has come for me to intervene. I would like my son back.”
“I haven’t taken him.” Veda wants to say more—criticism burns within her—but she reins it in. A full confrontation would only devolve into unproductivity. “Hiram is a man who saysexactlywhat he means. Instead of focusing only on whatyoufeel is right, listen to him. Oh, and rip up the guardianship petition you’re planning to file.”
“I had no intentions of following through with that threat. I believed he would be more amenable to conversation than the inconvenience of a legal fight.”
Veda nearly laughs in her face. “That version of Hiram doesn’t exist anymore.”
“I was not aware that you and Hiram were familiar enough for you to have such an opinion about his character.”
“A recent development,” Veda clips. “But you’re lying. If you truly didn’t know, you wouldn’t have started this conversation with me. If you think I’m controlling him, you’re mistaken. He controls himself.”
