12. The Offering, Pt. II #3
Her mouth twitches, and for half a second she is entirely herself.
Then she turns back to me, and the return hits harder than it should.
I touch her face again, and she leans into the contact as though nothing about the blood there matters.
I know better than to interpret that as absolution, and I do it anyway.
Her wanting me does not erase Marcus, and my wanting her does not erase him either.
The body is simply more vulgar than doctrine.
It accepts contradictory facts without insisting one cancel the other.
She can have blood drying beneath her nails and still reach for me, and I can know exactly whose blood it is and still want her closer.
No prayer in the Book of Ashes is honest enough to say that plainly.
Rafe adjusts his hold on her, and I resent the movement until Lorelei’s weight sags suddenly and he catches all of it.
The resentment changes shape then, not into gratitude, since I am not generous enough for that tonight, but into recognition.
I need him here, and the fact humiliates me almost as much as being chosen second.
Without Rafe, Lorelei would be on the floor or in my arms, and I no longer trust myself to know which outcome I would prefer.
I look at him, and he looks back. For once neither of us needs language. Keep her here. He does.
I turn my attention back to Lorelei and let the ritual swallow the rest. She responds to me, reaches for me, says my name when I ask for it, and each response becomes proof because I decide it should.
I have already admitted the standard is compromised, and knowing that does not prevent me from using it.
At one point her attention flickers past my shoulder, and I follow it automatically.
The wall is empty where Ash should be, and the garage returns in one clean image: his face too close to mine, anger stripping years from his expression, I already have her, followed by his name struck through in red.
I push the memory away because I have enough men in the room with me tonight.
Lorelei pulls me closer again, and I let her. The liturgy proceeds around us while the claim continues and the blood dries.
By the time my father reaches the closing passage, I have stopped tracking individual witnesses.
Rafe has not. His response comes on time, and mine should follow immediately, but half a beat passes before I speak.
It is not much. The witnesses do not turn, Lorelei does not notice, and even Rafe may not hear the difference, but my father does.
His eyes find mine across the space between us, and then I give the line correctly, of course, the delay gone before anyone could put it in the record even though I feel it anyway.
The witnesses complete the response while I put my robe back into order.
My hands no longer feel entirely like mine, but they perform the task with the same competence they showed with the knife.
Lorelei’s grip on me loosens gradually, and Rafe keeps one arm around her waist. Her eyes remain open, though I am no longer certain how much of the annex she can still see.
Alistair steps forward when the final chant dies.
“The vessel has received both altars. Communion has been witnessed. The claim stands recorded.”
Helena approaches with the cream-stock folder, and I recognize Lorelei’s page before she reaches us.
Her name sits at the top, her lineage beneath it, then the physical assessment and the active claimants.
Ash’s name remains struck through in red.
Below it is a section that was blank when I reviewed the document earlier, and it is no longer blank.
Communion witness: Marcus Deering. Sponsor: Cassian Vale.
Lorelei’s name appears beneath mine, and Helena’s thumb covers the remainder.
My father extends the pen toward Rafe first. Rafe reads the page longer than necessary before signing, never releasing Lorelei, and then he passes the pen to me.
There is dried blood beneath one of my fingernails, and the pen rests perfectly between my fingers anyway.
Ink does not acknowledge what a signature costs, which has always been part of its usefulness. I sign beneath Rafe.
Alistair watches the final stroke settle before taking the folder from Helena.
“The rite is sealed. Let no one present speak of tonight’s specifics beyond these walls. What the house requires, the house keeps.”
The room answers him. Lorelei does not. She is staring at her hands, and I cannot tell whether she remembers why they are red.
Alistair extinguishes the central candle himself, smoke replacing the flame, and only then do the witnesses begin leaving.
Rafe shifts Lorelei more securely against him as her fingers slip free of my robe.
Helena carries the folder toward the same doorway Marcus disappeared through, and Lorelei watches it go for several seconds while I watch her watching.
Tomorrow, she may remember Marcus. She may remember the knife, Rafe’s hand at the back of her neck, or my hand closed over hers. She may remember none of it in the correct order.
The record will.
That is what the house is counting on.