Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Reality jolts Veda with a surge of adrenaline that should have forced her into an upright position, but she can’t feel her arms or legs, let alone move. She can only blink and breathe.
Needing to calm the rising panic, Veda focuses on the simple act of wiggling her toes. The relief that accompanies the sensation is palpable. Opening her mouth, she tries to call for someone, anyone, but nothing comes out.
Her memories are a blur. The forest and blood and fire and water, and opal.
Nothing makes sense. A knock on the door startles her before a doctor enters, visibly shocked to find her awake.
He raises her bed and checks her reflexes.
The doctor mentions that Veda will always carry the scars; some were too deep for even the cave waters to heal.
“Everything looks good. Your voice should come back. It’s likely strained from the tubes. Rest will help you regain some strength.”
Once he departs, Veda takes in her surroundings properly for the first time.
Her room is a forest of potted plants—pothos and monsteras, bamboo and palms, orchids and peace lilies, roses and English ivy.
Plants cover every surface, line the windows, and stand in the corner, elaborate and beautiful.
It reminds her of the greenhouse. Her safe place.
But her gaze is drawn to something smaller, near the head of her bed.
Insignificant to some, but it means the world to her.
A lantern.
Clinton is led in by Peter, and he sits in the chair beside her, his walking stick in hand. Peter hovers close by.
Peter looks frayed, like he hasn’t slept. Still, he smiles. “I told you . . .”
He never finishes the statement, but she understands. He told her she would survive the impossible—and, more importantly, that she would live.
“Fuck . . . off,” Veda croaks, her throat burning.
Peter laughs. “Of course that’s your first sentence after three weeks.”
Three weeks? Time has moved on without her.
As petty as it seems, it’s all she can think about, and she obsesses over until it leaves her weary.
She has to let it go; she’s not strong enough to hold on.
Blinking at the ceiling, she takes several deep breaths to release it, swallowing the growing lump in her throat.
Her second attempt at speaking is one word: “Khadijah?”
Peter’s expression turns solemn, and Clinton’s does the same. “What matters is that she’s alive,” he says gently. “But she . . . she no longer has Sight.”
The news knocks the breath from Veda’s lungs. She tries to sit up, but Peter stops her.
“She’s okay—well, she’s acclimating. She’s in a therapy session right now. We’ll come by when you’re discharged.”
“After your magical testing,” Clinton adds before she can ask. “There’s been considerable attention on Ariadne—”
“She . . .”
“Survived? Yes. Do you want to know? Hiram didn’t want any updates on anything except you.”
Her heart races at the mention of his name, but she needs to know. “Tell me.”
“Gabriel found her not far from where he and Hiram found you.”
Flashes of him flutter through her mind, too quickly to grasp. The way he broke down. The way he held her. Carried her. And something else . . .
A dream, maybe, where she floated, but . . .
“Ariadne is awaiting trial,” Peter says. “She’s in a high-security prison hospital in Montana, denied bail. She’ll never be free ever again. The public knows everything—about the Great Vanishing, what she did to the Council, Everett, Grace, Khadijah, Marlene . . . and you.”
“Is Ariadne—”
“Cursed? Yes,” Peter confirms. “They’re maintaining a block to keep her alive and will let nature take its course when it fades.”
Death, it seems, would have been too merciful. Veda settles back on her pillow, drained but not quite ready to sleep. A knock at the door draws her attention, and when she sees who it is, whatever weariness she feels dissipates.
Hiram stands in the doorway, holding a thermos.
Peter and Clinton offer quick excuses before slipping out.
Clinton squeezes Hiram’s shoulder on the way, and Peter exchanges a look of quiet understanding with him.
They’re alone and Veda can’t look away from him.
Hiram is impeccably dressed but visibly exhausted.
Frayed at the seams, his face shadowed with stubble, quiet even as he settles into Clinton’s empty chair.
Silence rolls on, but all is not still, least of all when Hiram picks up her scarred hand, the one that bears faint scars from the shattered vial. His palm engulfs hers.
“Antaris?” she asks.
“With August and Gabriel. He’s anxious to see you, but—”
“I don’t . . .”
“Want him to see you like this? I know.” Hiram dips his head, not to kiss her knuckles but to rest her hand gently against his cheek.
As he leans into her touch, weariness seems to pour off him like fog descending in a darkened hall.
It spreads through his demeanor, settling his slouched shoulders and half-lowered lids over crystal-blue eyes.
Hiram looks like he might fall asleep like this. It won’t hurt to let him.
“They want you to rest before your magical test,” he says quietly, just for her.
“Then we rest.” She raises the cover in invitation.
Hiram is careful when he joins her. The breaths that follow are measured by the beat of their hearts.
Foreheads touching, eyes drinking each other in, Veda moves first, brushing her lips against his, then seeking more.
He gently cups her nape and deepens the kiss, the scratch of his hair against her skin sending sparks down her spine.
Hiram tastes like survival, revival, and something purely him that carefully unravels the tightness in her chest. After she kisses the piece of his hand she can reach, they touch only for the desire of contact.
Movement catches her eye.
“Did you bring my lantern here?”
Hiram offers a weary smile. “Antaris didn’t want you to have bad dreams.”
The last visitor Veda expects is the one sitting next to her when she wakes.
Simran’s saree is burnt orange and trimmed with ornate gold designs. Beautiful and sharp, like her. Deep in concentration, she crochets something sock shaped. It’s not perfect, Veda can see the flaws, but her expression offers no place for commentary.
“I thought you would sleep until I finished.” Simran’s eyes cut to Veda. “Unfortunately, I am not quite as dexterous as I once was.”
“That’s not for me, is it?”
Veda earns a look cold enough to freeze magic. “And if it is?”
“I’ll be surprised by the latest development in . . . whatever this is. Why are you here?”
“Three weeks ago, my son told me to be his mother for once in my life in this very room, and I’m doing just that.” Simran sets her project on her lap, resting the hook and sock atop the ball of yarn. “I have never cared for you, Miss Thorne. I believe the feeling is mutual.”
“It is.”
“But it seems we are, for better or worse, entwined.” She rises, moves to the windows, and opens them one by one, letting light flood the room.
When she returns to Veda’s bedside, she reaches out and gently touches the end of her braid.
“I have always believed that hair is an extension of the self. There is a certain intimacy in caring for it.”
Veda says nothing.
“When I taught my son to braid, I will admit, I did so because I had no daughters, and I did not care for anyone touching my hair. Braiding is an act of love, care, and creativity. Hiram has not braided my hair since he was a boy begging for my attention, but I still recognize his work, even in a simple French braid.”
Suddenly self-aware, Veda pulls back from her touch. “He must’ve braided it again while I was unconscious.”
Simran tilts her head. “Again? How many times?”
Veda is too tired to lie. “This makes three.”
Observation turns into an assessment. “I have underestimated you. I believed your sole role was to encourage Antaris to speak. You fought like he was yours. I did not realize that would extend to my son. Let it be known, I do not approve of you—”
“Well, it’s a good thing your opinion doesn’t matter.” Veda stops herself. “Not that I’m in any position to be seeking approval.”
A frustrated breath escapes. “You did not allow me to finish. As I was saying, I do not approve, however, I am willing to try. The socks were meant as a gift.”
“Perhaps you should focus that effort on Hiram and Antaris. Not me.”
“I intend to. I was told to be his mother, for once in my life, and this is why I am here. I need to step outside of my own expectations of him and begin to see what he values. And that is you. He has coordinated everything, paid for the best care for you, and insisted not only that you have the room with the best light but also that no one brings cut flowers because potted plants—”
“Are more sustainable, can improve the air quality, and reduce stress.” Realization of how deeply he not only listens to her but knows her disarms Veda. “I—”
“Hiram is a creature of habit. He faces a decision and makes his choice. He waits, yes, but he rarely changes his mind.”
The patient man.
“I am proof of this,” Simran says grimly.
“And where does that leave you?” Veda asks quietly.
“Fighting to change his mind about me.”
Veda sinks into her pillow. “Okay, then you need to protect him and Antaris. I doubt what’s happened hasn’t reached the rest of your family.”
“It seems Phillip, even in death, has stirred things up—conversations about the forgotten branches of the family tree. They have distanced themselves from him publicly, made statements. Some of the castoffs have begun to speak. Children he fathered out of wedlock with Seer women, discarded when they did not manifest Sight. I imagine there will be quiet deals made, money paid, and silence secured. I will continue to ensure Antaris and his . . . Sight do not become part of that.”