Chapter 6
Six
As the doleful cry of chaotic magic swirls about, doors rattle and floorboards creak. The scent of worms and driftwood permeates the air, intensifying as the walls weep tears that vanish before they touch the floor.
Antaris’s nightmares are getting worse.
Hiram can do nothing but watch as his son, drenched through his clothes and shivering, tosses and turns.
He won’t let Hiram near. Each attempt to approach his son is blocked by a magical wall.
Still, Hiram refuses to leave, standing guard, waiting for the barrier to vanish.
Tonight, it takes only minutes. Antaris wakes up mid-gasp.
The barrier pops like a bubble. The stench of magic fades, and for the first time in hours, silence settles.
The urge to do something, anything, overpowers the advice he’s been given: Go at his pace.
Be present. Give him space when he needs it.
Hiram kneels beside the bed, grabs the fallen rabbit, and puts it gently in Antaris’s arms. He hugs it tightly as Hiram places a tentative hand on his back.
“Breathe.”
Antaris’s breaths race on.
There’s more he wants to say: that he’s okay, that he doesn’t need to worry. Empty platitudes won’t form, but truth does. “I can tell you’re scared, and that’s okay. I’ll stay here, if you want.”
He repeats it until Antaris loosens his death grip on the rabbit. Antaris lies back down, owl-wide eyes fixed on him. Hiram makes a quick decision.
“Just a second, okay?”
Antaris’s expression morphs into alarm.
“I’m coming back.”
Hiram moves quickly, first to the kitchen for a glass of water, then to his bedroom for a blanket and pillow.
When he returns, Antaris is sitting up, holding the rabbit and a folded piece of paper.
Hiram recognizes it immediately. He still has the itinerary?
Confusion flickers into something warm as Hiram drops the pillow on the floor and spreads the blanket before sitting.
Only then does Antaris lie back down on his side, blinking at Hiram.
“I told you I’ll always come back.”
It takes half an hour for the twitch in Antaris’s lip to stop, and another hour for him to finally sleep.
Only when his son’s breathing deepens does Hiram lie down on the blanket beside the bed.
He checks his phone and notices one missed call from John, Grace’s stepfather.
Needing someone to talk to, he returns the call. It’s morning in London.
“Hiram?” John answers. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Hiram replies stiffly, worn to the bone. “You?”
“Holding on.”
They sit in broken silence with so much to say.
“And Antaris?” Soft and wary, there’s sadness laced in John’s question.
“School helps, but he has nightmares. I used to have them like this when I was his age. He had one tonight, but he’s asleep now. I’ve been meaning to ask if he had them . . . before?”
“Not often, no. Is he . . .”
“Talking? No.” Hiram hesitates to get the next question out even though he’s dying to know. “What was he like?”
The ensuing silence is so unbearable, Hiram almost changes the subject, until John’s ragged sigh cuts through the line, his exhausted exhale is soul deep.
“Antaris was . . . shy with strangers, but overall happy, creative, and observant. He loved the bow ties Grace made him. Like her, he was curious. Smiled often, laughed more. She used to call him the sun because he brightened her world.”
Hiram tenses.
Compel the sun to shine.
“I—I miss her every day.” John’s pain is palpable. “I can’t believe she’s gone, but I also can’t shake the feeling that Grace knew she wouldn’t see him grow up.”
No combination of words can return what he lost. “Grace sent a stone message to the FCD three months before . . . She left clues for the investigators, and called herself a dying star. She said she had Seen her end.”
Knowledge is a double-edged sword that cuts John deep. He bleeds the sound of pain slipping through the line. Hiram pulls the phone away, giving him a moment of peace to grieve the daughter he raised from childhood. When he presses the phone back to his ear, the line is still and silent.
“I’m sorry,” Hiram murmurs.
“Nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault. I . . .” A pause. “They told me she was murdered, but since she was a victim of a serial killer in the States, they would be handling the case. Have you—”
“They’ve spoken to me. Twice. They wanted to speak to Antaris, too, but I wouldn’t let them.”
“Are you assisting with the investigation? I remember how you pulled strings here when—”
“My father did, but I doubt he cares. Not many people do.”
“You do.”
To an extent that it involves Grace, and that’s because of Antaris.
Hiram stares at the blank wall. “I’ve done all I can. I’ve been compliant, answered their questions, but it’s best if I let the authorities do their jobs. Mine is to take care of Antaris.”
“You’re right.” John clears his throat. “Help him find his voice.”
“Right now, I’d take his trust over his voice,” Hiram admits quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s late. When he wakes up, I’ll have him—”
“No, no. You don’t have to.” John pauses. “His silence . . . is hard.”
Hiram, who doesn’t even know what Antaris’s voice sounds like, understands more than he’ll ever admit. “You can write to him. I’ve started giving him notes each morning. He likes it.”
“Yeah? Okay, I’ll do that. Call me next month?”
“I will.” They’ve agreed to keep the communication open, no matter how difficult it is.
When Hiram ends the call, he lies back down on the floor beside Antaris’s bed. His indifference to the white walls and crown molding reshapes into distaste.
Sleep is impossible, but he tries.
Lunch on Saturday is yet another in a series of failures. Hiram’s still cleaning up when Peter arrives, the talisman letting him in without hesitation. Antaris greets Peter with a squint, but he’s mostly gotten used to his godfather’s presence. And his gifts.
Today, Peter brings a watercolor activity book that excites Antaris more than anything he’s received so far. Once the boy is settled and painting a picture of a cat—the animal matching his pendant—Peter joins Hiram at the table, where he’s sipping coffee because it’s too early for liquor.
“How did you know he likes painting?”
“Teachers and his tutor. Apparently, he’s most focused during art class and story time.”
“Maybe I should work on cracking his picky eating.”
Peter’s brow rises. “What do you mean? Didn’t you get the list?”
Hiram frowns. “What list?”
“Of course she didn’t give it to you.”
“Explain.”
“Antaris got a walk-through of the school kitchens. They made a list of everything he likes. It was given to Simran, but I guess she didn’t pass it on to you.”
“No, she didn’t.” Antaris barely touched the meat loaf and mashed potatoes he made last night, but he did catch him eating baby carrots and apple slices later. He didn’t say anything at the time, just felt grateful his kid was eating. Meanwhile, there was a goddamn list.
Is he surprised? No.
His mother has always liked to control the narrative, twisting details so she comes out on top. She’d rather let Hiram spiral into failure, to swoop in like a hero with a solution she already had.
He excuses himself to call his mother, who doesn’t answer. He tries twice more; the last call is declined after one ring. A strategic avoidance tactic. Irritated, he calls his father, who answers and tells him that his mother is playing games, but can’t remember where she went. Hiram knows, though.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asks Peter. “Watch him while I step out?”
“Of course.”
After telling Antaris that he will return, just like he wrote on his note, which earns him a cautious look, Hiram leaves.
Simran is a creature of habit, like Hiram.
She loves board games, and has a short list of places she frequents.
Hiram pulls up outside Zephyr, the members-only lounge his mother has frequented since his childhood.
The sign outside confirms she’s probably here.
It’s Mancala Day. Simran prefers Pallankuli, but this is the closest she’s found in America.
The entry fee is exorbitant for nonmembers, but Hiram pays with his Imprint and ignores the hostess asking where he’d like to sit. He’s not staying.
Inside, the ambience is a strange mix of pretentious displays of wealth and the casualness of a bar.
Music hums beneath the chatter of the city’s elite.
Some drink and laugh; others gamble over pachisi games with more money than most people earn in a month.
He spots her instantly, surrounded by older women, a white porcelain teacup in her hand—masala chai, knowing her—smile wide and gleaming.
It falters when she sees him, then snaps back into place, too tight. “Hiram, love. What brings you here?”
The table turns to look. He flashes a polite, practiced smile. “Afternoon, ladies. I just wanted to borrow my mother. It won’t be long.”
“Take her,” one woman says. “She’s been beating us for the last hour.”
“I cannot help that you are all sore losers,” Simran preens.
They playfully mock her as she leads Hiram to a quiet corner. Her smile vanishes the moment they’re alone. She’s not happy with him. Good. It’s mutual.
“How rude of you to barge into my game. What is it that you need?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
Hiram stares at her. “The last thing I’d ever describe you as is stupid.”
Simran’s eyes harden, but she pulls a folded paper out of the pocket of her navy saree. Hiram scans it, folds it, then slips it into his jacket pocket.
“Where is Antaris?”
“At home painting with Peter.”
“I have several friends with grandchildren his age. Th—”
“No,” Hiram cuts her off. “You’re not doing this today.”
Simran’s face shifts to confusion. “Surely you are not upset with me.”
“Not upset. Disappointed. This is your second strike,” Hiram warns with a tight smile, knowing they have an audience. “Enjoy your day, Mother.”
He steps around her and walks out without looking back.
Fueled by frustration, he walks four blocks, happens upon a grocery store, skims the list long enough to pick out what he needs for dinner, and leaves calmer than he arrived.
That night, he makes pasta with three vegetables the list notes Antaris likes. When he eats two plates without prompting, for the first time in months, Hiram doesn’t feel so lost.
The moving boxes from London and Los Angeles arrive on Monday morning.
While Antaris is at school, Hiram unpacks his son’s old life.
He organizes his closet, anchors pictures to the wall, and fills his empty shelves with books.
He suspects Antaris would rather decide where his belongings go, a suspicion that’s confirmed when he sees the boy’s face as they open the first box after Antaris gets home from school.
He isn’t prepared for the lessons packed into each box.
The first reveals that Antaris likes to paint more than the doodles Peter told him about.
The box is filled with art supplies, a small foldable easel, and several wrapped watercolor paintings.
Antaris stares at them for so long, Hiram wonders if they’ll finish unpacking at all today.
Trees with a winding trail. A gray cat with green eyes.
A vase of flowers. Storm clouds over trees.
None of them look like they were painted by a child.
“Your mom painted these?” Hiram feels odd for asking.
Antaris’s tension confirms it. Unsure what to say, Hiram watches as his son props each piece against the mirror on his dresser.
“We can get them framed and hang them up, if you’d like.”
Antaris looks over his shoulder, hazel eyes wide and hopeful.
Hiram sees his next mission. “We . . . can go buy frames together.”
Antaris looks at the art one last time, then nods. Hiram’s tempted to go now, to capitalize on the momentum, but he doesn’t want to push.
The second box reveals that his son shares Simran’s love of games and puzzles. The building blocks inside are the same kind Hiram had as a child. He stacks them in the empty hall closet while Antaris watches with curious concern.
“You can open the closet whenever you want,” Hiram assures him.
The boy relaxes, and they move on to the third box.
It’s the heaviest, and confirms that his son’s college-professor sense of style is normal.
The box is full of clothes he can wear now, and knitted bow ties that Antaris organizes with unusual care.
A few casual things Hiram folds and puts away, shirts with grass stains and jeans with paint splatter, but what he finds odd is the abundance of hooded coats, boots, gloves, and scarves.
They’re out of season, and all have tags.
Why Grace bought winter clothes in March is as unsettling as realizing everything is a size too big—perfect for the upcoming winter.
Antaris is too short to hang his own clothes, so he watches as Hiram does it for him.
The last box remains unopened when their pizza arrives.
Antaris likes extra cheese. Hiram prefers meat lovers, but it’s a small sacrifice to see his son practically inhale two slices.
They finish eating in record time, and Hiram is surprised when Antaris brings his plate and cup to the sink.
“You don’t ha—” Hiram stops when worry etches Antaris’s brow. “You want to help?”
This is how he learns his son knows how to wash dishes, as well as a six-year-old can.
Hiram dries and wipes the counters. When he finishes, Antaris stands in the living room doorway in rain boots, shuffling, note in hand. Hiram doesn’t understand what it means until he gets closer and Antaris hands it to him.
In only a couple of weeks, the itinerary Hiram gave him is now worn. He unfolds it and sees the issue: It’s torn.
“You want me to fix it?”
Antaris nods.
The only tape Hiram has is for moving boxes, but he sits at the coffee table and does what he can while Antaris hovers.
Three strips later, the paper is whole again.
After handing it back to his son, who leaves in the direction of his room, Hiram’s eyes fall on the table.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s writing another note to replace the one that’s torn. Just in case.
He’s on his fifth balled-up paper when he notices Antaris again, now in a rain jacket that matches his boots, hood up, despite clear skies.
Ready to wander, no doubt. Feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong, Hiram awkwardly folds the paper and offers it.
The same reassurance on fresh paper. “I thought you might want a new one to keep?”
Hiram is prepared to blame himself for trying too hard, but Antaris accepts it with both hands.