“We drank a lot. A bunch of us Hellions climbed the clifftop path with the dogs. You made a pass at Kumar Seth and threw a bottle at the moon.”
“Missed again, didn’t I?”
“The moon survives.” I handed Faraday the glass of water I’d left at her bedside last night, still full.
She sniffed it. “Do we really have to do this meeting thing? Today seems bright and loud.”
“And cold, but this is why you’re here.”
“I came to pay my respects.”
I tapped her nose, like a puppy’s. “You did not respect Peter.”
“No one did. But I have great respect for your gracious and venerable family and its awesome boss-grandma.”
“Then you must show up when we offer to help.” I stood. “Come on, dear. All you have to do is listen.”
“And make decisions. Daddy never taught us that.” She sat up in bed,tangle-haired and lush. “My parents didn’t teach us anything—not even how to take care of bunny rabbits.”
“You ride better than me. And your first serve is magnificent.”
“Instructors,” she said. “Not the same.”
I considered this. I’d learned everything I knew from family, or at Helshire, an institution we’d helped build. From the day my own curae was complete, I’d been tasked with training younger Mortons. I was a product of teachers who shared my last name.
“That’s why you can trust us,” I said.
“Because you’re homeschooled?”
“Because loyalty is in our bones.”
Faraday reached for a shirt and pulled it over her head, still buttoned. Outside, someone was loading luggage into a car—a somber, practical noise after last night’s frenzies. The assembly of Mortons was preparing to disperse.
When Faraday spoke again, her voice was sad.
“But your loyalty is to this place, this family. All you legacy kids are so cool, with your secret club, and I’ve heard maybe twenty stories about what it really is, but none of them make any sense. It’s all whispers, and I hate not being part of it.”
I took her hands in mine. “What if we could fix that?”
The Sky Roomwas in the west dome, an octagon with a large window in every facet, the walls and ceiling painted with a cyclorama of clouds.
A small lacquered table sat in the center, framed by a Persian rug. Four chairs surrounded it. Aunt Veronica and Garrett already occupied two.
My mors curae had taken place in this very room. Aunt Veronica had presided, with Sebastian’s mothers and my cousin Arabella witnessing. A white sheet instead of the Persian rug, the whir of a straight razor down a leather strop, Rabbit warm in the crook of my left arm.
Before starting, I’d let him sniff the blade.
Now, I nodded at Veronica and Garrett, filled with the same pride as that night twelve years ago. They returned the bow.
Grandmother occupied an armchair in the corner of the room, regal in her white-haired bob and silver-gray suit. Her metal needles were at work on something intricate in burgundy wool, an echo of her oxblood lipstick.
She’d taught me and Sebastian how to knit—how to throw knives too. Knitting in public, she told us, assures people you are not a threat. Throwing knives, less so.
At Grandmother’s warm smile, Faraday relaxed a little. The two of us sat down and placed our coffees on the table. There hadn’t been time for breakfast.
“We hope you slept well,” Aunt Veronica said.
“My room is lovely.” Faraday brushed a frizzy strand of hair from her eyes. “It was a moving service.”
