I find it hard to believe that there will be any, but I’m not keen to tell her that. I don’t want to leave her disappointed.
But luckily it’s Beaufort who puts creed to that thought.
“We can’t just stroll straight into town, sweetheart,” Beaufort says, resting his hand on her shoulder. “The Empress has labeled us traitors. Fuck, she wanted to execute us. And now we’re onthe run, our picture’s going to be everywhere. We stroll into town, all chaos will break loose.”
“But I need to talk to the people,” Briony says.
“Beaufort’s right,” I tell her. “We need to do this gently, slowly. We need to find our allies in the town first.”
Briony glares at us both. I’m guessing that means she considers no one in this town to be her allies, and yet it was she who wanted to come here.
“Do you have any?” Beaufort asks me.
I scratch my fingers through my beard. I hesitate, inhaling the smoggy air. “My family.”
Briony reaches out, takes my hand, and squeezes it.
“Can we really trust them?” Beaufort asks, giving his shifter bond brother a filthy look, a filthy look which is well deserved considering what happened out in the prairie lands.
“Who can say for sure? It’s been a long time since I’ve been home. But if there’s anyone I trust in this Quarter, it’s my father.”
My words make Briony cringe, because her own father is the least trustworthy scumbag in the whole of the realm. Shit. I should have let him meet a little accident, just like his psychopath of a wife.
“Is there a way we can find your family without being seen?” Clare asks.
“They live on the edge of town, so we can come in round the back. But I also think it would be wise to use our shadow magic to hide ourselves.”
“You can do that?” Fly says, outraged.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
He mutters under his breath, as we wave our hands, beckoning the shadows to swirl around our group and hopefully disguising us in the coming gloom of evening.
And then I’m leading them around the outskirts of town towards my old family home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fox
We hear the rumbles of the factories and the groaning of the mines before we reach the main town. Here, the snow and ice has melted, reducing the roadways to thick bogs of mud. The smog hangs more densely in the air and everything is dirty and gray – from the windows of the buildings to the faces of the people out on the streets.
We hug the shadows, avoiding the few people that pass us on the road splashing through the puddles. Then I see the house in the distance. I have no idea if my family still lives there. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. That dead muscle in my chest sinks to my stomach. I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve avoided them for so long. I’ve been a truly awful son to them both. But I’m here now. And I have to do it. For Briony’s sake. For all our sakes.
“Wait here,” I tell them, leaving them lingering at the back of the house as I stride down the old alleyway that weaves between the different houses and up to the front door. Even after all this time, it’s still so familiar. Like the face of an old friend – a littleolder, a little more weather-beaten, yet the same. I reach out my hand and rest my fingertips on the old wood.
The house is not as decrepit or basic as Briony’s. But now I see how frail and poorly built it is. How insubstantial. There were times when the snow fell so heavily out here in Slate Quarter that my father would worry the roof would cave in. There were times when the wind howled so brutally that it would seep in through the cobbled-together brickwork and we’d shiver around the fire, unable to get warm. There were times when the water through the pipes would groan and creak and splutter brown, dirty and undrinkable.
I bow my head, thinking of the relative luxury I’ve lived in these last few years while they continued to struggle. And I never helped them, never reached out to them. I deserve to be shunned, and not just for what I’ve become but how I’ve behaved. If they turn me away now, I wouldn’t be surprised. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they turned us in to the authorities.
I take another deep inhale – force of habit; I don’t really need the air – and then I lift my fist and let it hang in front of the wood. There’s more color in my skin. It’s not as icy pale or as ivory as it once was. I don’t understand it, but I don’t have time to consider it. I force myself to knock against the door.
Nothing happens for a long moment. There’s silence within, and I wonder if perhaps they are dead or gone, the house now empty. Then I hear shuffling in the hallway, shuffling behind the front door. It creaks open.
I expect my father. I’m ready for my father. Ready for stern words and retributions, ones I utterly deserve. Instead I’m greeted by the face of my mother. So much older than before. Her once jet-black hair streaked with silver strands, her skin loose and creased, and her posture more stooped than it once was. She squints up toward me, the stark outside light making her blink. She’s probably struggling to see my face.
“Hi Mom,” I say, my voice croaking as I collapse against the doorframe, my whole body racked with sobs.
She takes a step closer, tilts her head back, squints up at my face. And then recognition swims through her blue eyes.
