She makes a soft noise. The muted clinking in the background tell me she’s washing dishes. “You know, the last time we went this long without talking, you’d just gotten out of the hospital.”
After Mab’s torture. Right. I rub a hand over my eyes and wallow a bit in the guilt. “I’m healthy, promise. No unexpected hospital stays.”
“So what’s keeping me from talking to my favorite son?”
“Oh, just busy. I’m a bit stressed about finishing up this year,” I admit. Keep it vague. Don’t unload everything on her. She’s got enough to worry about already.
“A bit?”
That’s all it takes. I cave, incapable of lying to her. “Do you need me to come back and help with anything?”
She laughs. “We’re fine, honey—” It’s her patent response, one I’ve heard my entire life, but I know better now.
“Mom, I saw the letter before I left.”
Her laughter dies.
My stomach churns and I wish I wasn’t so far away from her. Fuck. I should have had this conversation face-to-face, should have been brave enough to talk to my parents right away instead of fleeing back to school, stuck in denial.
“Oh, Finny,” she sighs. The clinking stops. Water runs.
If I close my eyes, I can see her standing there, drying her hands off on a towel. The window over the sink looks out over part of the fields and the hill where the memorials for the babies lost before me rest under the shelter of an ancient tree. Losing the farm means I’ll never see her standing there again and I can’t let her be cut adrift like that, no matter the cost.
“Your father and I should have told you, but we didn’t want you to be worried about all of this during your last year. It’ll be fine.”
“Then why’d you already get moving boxes?”
She rolls past my concern with a breezy dismissal too practiced to be real. “They’re just in case. We still have time to finish the harvest and see where that puts us.” She must know I want to argue because her voice gentles as she reminds me, “You know your father. We won’t give up without a fight.”
Of course they won’t. Mom and Dad are high school sweethearts who got married and took over the family farm. It took them thirteen years before they had me and they still get weepy every Mother’s and Father’s Days. But Dad isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t continue a fight that would cost too much and hurt Mom.
So there’s still time. If I can master one good productivity spell, if I can learn to siphon off the ley line’s power correctly, I can help them make up for previous seasons’ losses.
“Now, stop acting like we’re already homeless,” she scolds me, “and tell me how this year’s going. Do you like your classes? Are you seeing anyone? What about that nice boy who lives at your apartment?”
It takes some fancy steps to divert Mom’s attention from my love life. And from Roark, who I cannot remember ever calling a nice boy. But the dance works. Our conversation drifts into the comfortable back-and-forth it normally takes. The lull of her voice reciting the weekly forecast, the adjusted prices for soy and diesel and water, Dad’s newest fight in the ongoing battle with the tractor, is a balm.
By the time I turn the corner to pass the outdoor amphitheater and finish my meandering walk to the apartment, we’re laughing and trying to plan when I’ll come home next. There’s a long weekend in October I could probably make, but she suggests extending Thanksgiving instead so I can help Dad with machinery repair. It’s great, until I see the students gathered at the amphitheater.
They’re all fae. They’re all watching the stage with rapt attention.
And then I notice the two kneeling figures on the stage. The third figure paces in front of them; his coiled, controlled movements are so terribly familiar.
“Mom, can I call you back about Thanksgiving? I just saw a...friend who I think could use some help.”
“Of course. Love you, honey.”
I mumble my love and a goodbye back to her, stuff my phone back in my pocket, and hurry toward the crowd. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Just because Roark’s talking to a large crowd of terrified-looking fae doesn’t mean anything. Just because those two fae kneeling on stage look like... Oh, crap, that’s blood, isn’t it? Why’d it have to be blood?
I push my way through the back rows, mumbling pardons as I go. At one point, I push past some of the Seelie who had been talking by the steps outside my class. Their earlier enthusiasm has vanished, replaced by shock and fear. They don’t notice when I move in front of them; they simply part like a silent sea to let me through.
Suddenly, I find myself at the front of the crowd. Suddenly, I see what’s actually going on. And I’ll be damned if I walk away from this.
; Roark
This morning did not start well. Before dawn, I awoke to a call from Mother, who informed me that the Pantheons had agreed to debate whether or not to punish the Seelie Court for their violence against Ripthorn. She attended the meeting between him and Dean Tanaka last night and ensured his complaint was formally submitted. It would take the Pantheons several days to review the evidence before they issued a verdict, so I was reminded to keep our students on their best behavior until we heard back.