Her memories are a blur. The forest and blood and fire and water, and opal. Nothing makes sense. A knock on the door startles her before a doctor enters, visibly shocked to find her awake. He raises her bed and checks her reflexes. The doctor mentions that Veda will always carry the scars; some were too deep for even the cave waters to heal.
“Everything looks good. Your voice should come back. It’s likely strained from the tubes. Rest will help you regain some strength.”
Once he departs, Veda takes in her surroundings properly for the first time. Her room is a forest of potted plants—pothos and monsteras, bamboo and palms, orchids and peace lilies, roses and English ivy. Plants cover every surface, line the windows, and stand in the corner, elaborate and beautiful. It reminds her of the greenhouse. Her safe place. But her gaze is drawn to something smaller, near the head of her bed. Insignificant to some, but it means the world to her.
A lantern.
Clinton is led in by Peter, and he sits in the chair beside her, his walking stick in hand. Peter hovers close by.
Peter looks frayed, like he hasn’t slept. Still, he smiles. “I told you ...”
He never finishes the statement, but she understands. He told her she would survive the impossible—and, more importantly, that she would live.
“Fuck ... off,” Veda croaks, her throat burning.
Peter laughs. “Of course that’s your first sentence after three weeks.”
Three weeks?Time has moved on without her. As petty as it seems, it’s all she can think about, and she obsesses over until it leaves her weary. She has to let it go; she’s not strong enough to hold on. Blinking at the ceiling, she takes several deep breaths to release it, swallowing the growing lump in her throat.
Her second attempt at speaking is one word: “Khadijah?”
Peter’s expression turns solemn, and Clinton’s does the same. “What matters is that she’s alive,” he says gently. “But she ... she no longer has Sight.”
The news knocks the breath from Veda’s lungs. She tries to sit up, but Peter stops her.
“She’s okay—well, she’s acclimating. She’s in a therapy session right now. We’ll come by when you’re discharged.”
“After your magical testing,” Clinton adds before she can ask. “There’s been considerable attention on Ariadne—”
“She . . .”
“Survived? Yes. Do you want to know? Hiram didn’t want any updates on anything except you.”
Her heart races at the mention of his name, but she needs to know. “Tell me.”
“Gabriel found her not far from where he and Hiram found you.”
Flashes of him flutter through her mind, too quickly to grasp. The way he broke down. The way he held her. Carried her. And something else ...
A dream, maybe, where she floated, but ...
“Ariadne is awaiting trial,” Peter says. “She’s in a high-security prison hospital in Montana, denied bail. She’ll never be free ever again. The public knows everything—about the Great Vanishing, what she did to the Council, Everett, Grace, Khadijah, Marlene ... and you.”
“Is Ariadne—”
“Cursed? Yes,” Peter confirms. “They’re maintaining a block to keep her alive and will let nature take its course when it fades.”
Death, it seems, would have been too merciful. Veda settles back on her pillow, drained but not quite ready to sleep. A knock at the door draws her attention, and when she sees who it is, whatever weariness she feels dissipates.
Hiram stands in the doorway, holding a thermos. Peter and Clinton offer quick excuses before slipping out. Clinton squeezes Hiram’s shoulder on the way, and Peter exchanges a look of quiet understanding with him. They’re alone and Veda can’t look away from him. Hiram is impeccably dressed but visibly exhausted. Frayed at the seams, his face shadowed with stubble, quiet even as he settles into Clinton’s empty chair. Silence rolls on, but all is not still, least of all when Hiram picks up her scarred hand, the one that bears faint scars from the shattered vial. His palm engulfs hers.
“Antaris?” she asks.
“With August and Gabriel. He’s anxious to see you, but—”
“I don’t . . .”
“Want him to see you like this? I know.” Hiram dips his head, not to kiss her knuckles but to rest her hand gently against his cheek. As he leans into her touch, weariness seems to pour off him like fog descending in a darkened hall. It spreads through his demeanor, settling his slouched shoulders and half-lowered lids over crystal-blue eyes. Hiram looks like he might fall asleep like this. It won’t hurt to let him.
