The boy stood and opened the dishwasher. There was an unopened box of shortbread on the top rack, next to a dirty teacup and a bowl.
His back was to the woman, his face bent. He stared at the shortbread for a moment, and the calm, stoic expression he’d worn cracked. His shoulders slumped, and his mouth trembled. The wind caressed his cheek, and the boy squeezed his eyes tight, pressing his lips together. His shoulders shook, and his breath quaked.
Was he holding his tears in for the man, or for his mother?
The wind didn’t know.
“And tea,” the woman said. “Would you like tea?”
At her words, the boy opened his eyes and cleared his throat. The storm that had rushed through him was gone. It had blown through and left no sign of its passing. He was a placid lake once again. He turned back to his mother, the box of shortbread in his hands.
“Tea. Right. I can do that.”
The wind swirled around the kitchen as the boy set the shortbread on a plate and heated a kettle of water. These were familiar scents. The bitter, grassy scent of tea leaves. The sweet butter of shortbread. And then the delightful shriek of steam spitting from a kettle.
The wind gurgled against the boiling water as it poured over the tiny curls of dried leaves. It let out a sigh and then rose with the steam.
The boy wrapped his hands around his teacup. He sat with his mother, drinking tea and eating shortbread.
“I think you should go north,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Stay until . . . until.” He frowned. “Until the wind comes and tells you it’s safe to come back.”
The wind huffed, but only a little, because it wouldn’t mind racing to the north.
“Hmm. It will be autumn soon.” The woman dipped a bit of shortbread into her tea and then set it uneaten on her saucer. “Will you kill the Smiths?”
The boy smiled. That was agreement enough. His mother would be safe. “Do you want me to?”
She blinked. “Phil loved Wolf.”
“I know.”
They went back to drinking their tea. The wind slid over the boy’s cheek. His beard was coarse and thick. He’d never had a beard before. The wind blew at it. The boy scratched his cheek, then his eyes caught on the flickering television.
“What is that?”
The woman blinked at the screen. She stared for a moment, her gaze unfocused.
The boy watched the television with a hawklike intensity. The wind tapped the hard screen, bouncing against the flat surface.
It was the trickster.
Not the trickster of right now, but the trickster of the past, when he’d kneeled at his sister’s funeral and wept over her coffin.
The screen was filled with his starkly lined face and the tear that trailed down his smooth skin.
“Celia and Ragnor’s funeral,” the woman finally said. She pointed to the trickster. “They replay clips constantly. They love him now. The whole world loves him.”
The boy’s cheeks burned. They swept with a red fire that was as hot as the steam that billowed off the tea. The wind rode over the hard clenching of his jaw and the dark, sea-deep violence in his eyes.
The wind gave a startled shriek.
Perhaps the boy hadn’t escaped the madness of the sirens. He didn’t feel like the boy anymore. Where was the calm? The core of kindness?
He leaned forward in his chair, staring at the screen, pressing his fingers into the tabletop until the tips turned white.
“Luvic Bard,” the boy said, his voice a low, chilling scrape.
The wind shivered.
