She laughs weakly.
“Well, look at that. Augurys did impart some wisdom on you.”
I remove myself from the embrace and slap her on the arm.
“Shut up! I was trying to help,” I scoff.
She grins. For a moment, it seems off, when I haven’t seen a smile on her in so long. I capture this moment in my head, this brief still in the movie that’s our lives, and commit it to memory. Happiness is so few and far between, it’s nice to see it pop up amongst the gloom.
“It did help,” she says. “Thank you.”
We stand there in silence, neither of us ready to move, waiting for life to resume.
“Do you think Ezra will forgive me?” Ambrosia questions unexpectedly.
“I don’t know,” I answer, because it’s true. There’s a lot about Ezra that remains a mystery. It’s sort of . . . disheartening to think about. “I think . . . he’s angry with himself. He feels responsible for Conin, for dragging him into this. He lost it in all the chaos and took it out on you.
“I think when he . . . harmed himself, he woke up. He couldn’t justify pinning the blame on you anymore.”
Ambrosia’s stare is calculating, brows furrowed in question. She opens her mouth and then quickly clamps it, starting to chew her lips. I allow her to go through her process, but my patience is wearing thin.
“You appear to know him well,” she whispers.
(About that . . .)
“You love him, don’t you?”
(Ah, that’s a loaded question.) Maybe not love. Maybe more so that I’m falling for him.
“Yeah,” I say, because it’s true in some sense. “And Conin.”
Her brows rise further to the sky. She ceases the assault on her lips, going slack-jawed.
“Do they know this?”
“Ezra does, but I haven’t figured out how to tell Conin yet.”
She waits for more. I’m preparing for her judgment, telling me this isn’t a good idea and that I’ll have to back out while I can, or for her to never say anything to me again.
“We kissed.”
“Did he kiss back?”
“Yeah.”
Ambrosia reclaims her position and hugs me. “When Ezra wakes up, you figure this out, okay?”
Not if.When.
“Okay,” I say, exhausted.
“What’d I miss?” Matt asks with a beautifully chaotic bedhead. Ambrosia groans.
Chapter 61
Atlas
Ofa saunters over to where I’m harvesting the last of the corn. November is underway, the air not so prickly but dampening as the sun relents. Overhead, an eagle cries. Its call rings in my ears, drowning out Ofa’s attempt to grab my attention. She waves a hand over my line of vision. Her hair is tied up and sits on a mound atop her head, while her lips, uncannily identical to Mafu’s, grin in understanding.
