Dreams of the Golden Age (Golden Age 2)

“That didn’t go particularly well,” Arthur observed helpfully. As if she needed it spelled out.

“It’ll be okay. She’s been pissed off at me before. This is exactly how she reacted when she found out about me joining the Destructor. It’ll pass.” Eventually … Celia would call her later this afternoon, after she had time to settle down. After Celia figured out what she was going to do next.

Arthur’s own worry grew strong enough to be evident, pressing out past his usual carefully maintained mental shields. All of it was directed at her.

“What?” Celia asked.

“Get your things together. We’re going for a ride.”

“I don’t have time for a ride—”

“Yes, you do. I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day, and I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“What?”

He repeated, offhand, “I’m clearing your schedule and we’re going to the doctor. Tom will have the car outside in a minute.”

“But he’s supposed to be dropping off the girls—”

“Soren can drop off the girls today. Tom is driving us to the doctor.”

“Arthur—”

“Celia, you’re not well.”

“I’m fine—”

“You don’t believe that. You’re worried. You’re ignoring it, but you’re worried.”

She’d never been able to hide from him. “I’m just tired,” she said, but even she could hear the lie in it.

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ before. This isn’t it. When was the last time you went swimming?”

Celia’s favorite sport and workout of choice was swimming. She’d even had a current pool installed in the penthouse so she could duck in for a few laps whenever she wanted. In her early teens, it had been the only thing she was good at, and she still enjoyed it out of a sense of nostalgia if nothing else.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used the pool. Weeks—no, months. Maybe longer. Well, that explained a lot. But even now, the thought of swimming made her tired rather than inspired. She blinked up at Arthur, defeated.

“Please come.” He held out his hand, and her further arguments faded. She took his hand because he’d asked, because he was himself, and she trusted him.

* * *

Analise married a firefighter, which Celia always thought was perfect. They’d met at the rec center where Analise taught swimming. Morgan was teaching a first aid class. They’d hit it off, his fire to her water; they were opposites and a perfect match. He was methodical, she had a temper. He could always make her smile—it was a game, even, her trying hard not to laugh and him poking at her until she did. And he was a hero, without having a single superpower. He was living, walking proof that the powers weren’t everything and that maybe she was better off without them. At least she could keep telling herself that, and in the meantime live vicariously through Morgan’s exploits. He was tall, six three, with a great physique, dark skin, and close-cropped hair. Movie star handsome but down-to-earth, and his eyes lit up when Analise walked into a room.

They had a small ceremony with a justice of the peace at City Hall. Just a few friends, no fuss, and they all went out to dinner after. Partway through the evening, Arthur graciously took baby Anna home—at six months, she was too wiggly and her attention span too short to last the whole evening—so Celia could keep celebrating with her friend. Somewhere in between all the drinking and dancing, Celia ended up sitting in a booth with Analise, just the two of them slumped together shoulder to shoulder, and they talked.

“Have you told him about Typhoon?” Celia asked, her voice low.

“No,” she said.

“Are you going to?”

“Why bother? She’s gone now, long gone. No need to talk about her.”

“What if he figures it out?”

Analise turned a lazy, tipsy smile to Celia. “Cross that bridge when I get to it. It’s not important anymore.” She kept telling herself that.

Celia wondered what had happened to the scrapbook Analise used to keep, clippings of all the news stories praising Typhoon’s exploits. Maybe she still had it, well hidden. Maybe, more likely, she’d thrown it out when her power became blocked.