“In the elevator. It was one of my . . .visions.”
Oh.
“She was arguing with Mom. It must’ve been right around the time she found out about what happened to my grandmother because she was asking your mother if it was true. If she’d really killed Stella.”
“Is this the part when you tell me my mother brought out her dust to gas yours?”
He shot me a remarkable glare before averting his gaze and rubbing his earlobe. “Actually, it was my mother who brought out herwita.” He said this so quietly I thought I misheard him. “Your mom stepped back and clutched her neck, yelling at mine to stop. That she didn’t want it to come to this. My mother didn’t put it away, so your mother brought hers out and crafted some sort of shield.” His eyes seemed slightly unfocused, as though he was standing in the same room as our feuding mothers. “Your dad arrived then, shouted at my mother, threatening to throw her out of Neverra, and then grabbed yours and flew out of thecalimbor.”
If only Gregor hadn’t opened his big mouth and blabbed to Faith that Nima had murdered his former flame. He insisted the information had slipped out, that he hadn’t meant to cause a rift between my mother and Remo’s. Though knowing thewariff’s fondness to have a finger in every pie, I betted his oversharing hadn’t been accidental.
“It’s hard to believe our mothers were friends, isn’t it?” I kept expecting to see a younger version of Nima strut down Morgan Street. “It’s sad that your mother can’t forgive mine for the accident.”
He stared to the side again, played with his lobe again.
“No:It wasn’t anaccident, Trifecta.”
The vein under his birthmark throbbed.
“Gejaiwe . . . have you finally seen the light?”
He snapped his eyes back to mine. “What I saw was a scene that might’ve been fabricated for all I understand of this place!”
I crossed my arms. “Trust me, if you witnessed me calling your eyes poison-green and using flowery descriptors for your personality, everything you observed was very factual. As factual as everything I observed.”
He gave his jaw a workout. “Except your grandfather’s awfully lively for a dead person.”
A growl vibrated at the back of my throat. “Because Cruz Vega brought him back to life.”
“Your little hero.”
My blood heated so fast I thought my fire might’ve come back, but when I tried to produce flames to char off Remo’s eyebrows—apparently, I was spiteful like that—no fire lit up my tattooed palm, or my untattooed one. “What is your problem with him?”
“My problem is that everyone’s so obsessed with him. He didn’t single-handedly save Neverra. My grandfather was right there, helping him.”
“Aw. Are you lacking recognition?”
“I don’t give a shit about recognition, Trifecta.”
I glowered at him, and he glowered right back. I tried to reconcile my heart breaking over his death with the way my heart felt at the moment. I wasn’t sure how long we glared, but I suspected the pie was now as cold as the world we’d left behind.
I pushed off the island and shook my head. “Your family’s so blinded by hatred for mine that you guys wouldn’t see the truth if it smacked you in the face.”
Remo pressed his lips together, almost making them vanish. Unlike mine, which took up way too much space on my face, his lips were on the thin side.
“And itdidsmack you in the face. And you still refuse to believe it.”
I strode toward the swing door when he said, “My brother’s dust. Can you use it?”
Even though I didn’t feel like giving him an answer, I did feel like knowing, so I swept my fingertips to the sapphire whorls on my palm. Slowly, I tugged my hands apart.
Between them stretched three twinkling, golden strands. Their presence beamed some light onto my dark mood. I stared at them in awe and then in fear. What if I pulled thewitaout completely, and it didn’t return into my palm? The thought made my hands jerk away from each other. The ribbons of dust shriveled before slipping back underneath my skin.
Remo’s sigh was audible. “Never thought I’d be glad that my brother attacked you.”
I sought out the trapped dust again, stretching it out, before pressing it back into my palm like an accordion. I even began to shape it, managing to turn it into a rose, thorns and all. The flower bobbed in midair, resembling a real one, feeling like a real one, its petals velvet-soft.
I traced the edge of a green leaf. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
