“Grandpa’s mind is open!” Clarissa threw up her hands. “He didn’t brand me a liar. He...” She seemed to shrink. “He didn’t dismiss me. Not like everyone else does..”
“Clarissa...” Nara sighed.
“And he doesn’t devalue my voice simply because I lack the magic you all have,” Clarissa said, growing quieter with each word.
Tyreste left his place at the cabinet and went to his daughter. “That’s not true.” His hand lingered above her shoulder before landing. “I’m relieved my little treasure was spared. You see all this as some great adventure, but it’s a burden we carry, Clarissa. A mighty heavy one, and it would break my heart for it to dim your light.”
Sesto studied Jesstin’s observation of the scene with a damning realization. Somewhere in the clamor of his friend’s muddled mind was a way out of the darkness. But it wouldn’t come from Sesto’s meddling, nor the gathering of kin held together by a shared belief that bordered on zealous delusion.
Jesstin was right. There was nothing there for them.
He’d resolved to put a polite end to the meeting when Clarissant stunned them all with a disclosure that changed everything.
“He believed me, you know.” She made angry swipes at her tears. “Grandpa believed me. He... He didn’t understand, but he believed me. He believed us.”
“What?” Caterina whispered, breathless. “He what?”
“And he’s willing to help.” Clarissant looked straight at Jesstin. “He wants to meet you.”
“No, that’s not possible,” Jesstin muttered.
“He said he does. He also said that Grandma Rhiain’s memories only started to return when she was around him, and that maybe the same could happen if they were around you.”
Jesstin stared at the table in disbelief. He’d disassociated completely. Sesto had been stunned too, when the “Believers” came to him with the tall tale, but Asterin’s skepticism had eroded because of the dreams of his descendants. Asterin might not understand, but he wouldn’t deny the same magic that had brought Rhiain back to him almost four decades ago.
“Why don’t we give Jesstin some time to take this all in and continue this later?” Sesto rose and waved his arms to indicate they should leave. “To whom should I send word?”
“Me,” Tyreste answered. He gathered his daughter to him and nodded at the others. “Best for Mother and Father not to be involved just yet.”
“And yet, it seems they are,” Sesto said as he saw them out. Time would tell whether Clarissant’s boldness would prove a blessing or a bane, but she would make a formidable stewardess. She had her grandmother’s fire, and he could think of no greater compliment. “Travel safe. I will be in touch.”
Sesto bolted the door and leaned against it with a deep sigh.
He trudged back to the kitchen, but Jesstin was no longer at the table.
Elloven had told herself on day one, day two, and even day ten that she just needed time to adjust from everything that had happened. She had died, after all, had been resurrected, and could no longer be certain she was even the same woman. It was normal she’d need to collect herself and her thoughts. But her relationship with Esme had been complicated even when it was good.
Then days had turned to weeks, to months. Asterin’s gentle reminders that Esme would not be around much longer became less gentle. Earlier that day, after Sesto had given her the rest of the story about Gennady, Asterin said the words that finally spurred her to go home.
She’s only waiting for you, Elloven. She’s ready to be at peace.
The way he’d said her name, it seemed like he’d seen through her ruse of “Elloven’s daughter,” just as Castien had.
Elloven had only visited before when Esme had been sleeping. Now that she’d brought her courage, she noticed more. The place was immaculate. No dust sparkled in the sunlight, no unwashed bowls and cups stacked on tables. There was a mismatch of clean pots and dishes on a bench by the door, waiting to be picked up by whomever they belonged to, a sign the local women had been visiting.
It was beyond anything she’d ever been able to do for her mother, but she would repay Asterin one day.
Esme’s room was a vigil of candles and camphor. On every surface, someone had placed sketches of her family. Some Elloven recognized and remembered. Others were new. A watercolor painting she had always loved had been moved to the wall just across from the bed, at her mother’s eyeline, and now she recognized it was a real place—one of the turns of the foothills pass just before entering the Seven Sisters.
Esme was nestled into a pile of colorful quilts. It was tradition among the more devout women of Riverchapel to cut pieces from their favorite fabrics at home and donate them to a seamstress who made them for the dying. They believed the variety of hues and patterns was reminiscent of a life well-lived, and that these reminders aided in peaceful transition.
As Elloven approached the bed, she couldn’t help comparing the image of her emaciated but peaceful mother, surrounded by love and memory, to the vision of Sestinn and his cold, dank chamber of seclusion. No one left their favorite meals for a man like him. No one would have donated a scrap of their favorite cloth unless forced to.
“Are you planning to sit, Elloven, or stand there wearing a maudlin frown?”
Esme’s tired but clear voice startled Elloven. She was afraid to approach the bed and see her mother up close, but she did it anyway, and when their hands connected, when Esme’s tears of joy turned to a flood, Elloven remembered a time when they’d been a truly happy family.
“I know it’s you. Asterin tells me your ‘daughter’ has returned, but even he knows it’s a lie.” Esme patted the bed beside her, and Elloven tentatively sat. “A man with so much wisdom and magic of his own, but he could never understand the magic of the Seven Sisters, could he?”
