Chapter 12 Komal #3
“Crack the window,” I hiss. Maisie lifts the catch and slowly pushes the window open. We all lean closer, straining to hear. A girl’s voice, young and upset, pierces the night.
“—never let me do anything. You promised!”
“I know what I promised, but it’s too risky.” Augustin’s voice cracks with weariness. “The bookshop is full of vampires. If something goes wrong, we won’t be able to cover it up like last time. I got all the books you wanted. Perhaps we just go home and—”
“I don’t want to go home! I’m stuck at home all day. I wanted to visit a shop! Why can’t I do what I want on my own birthday!”
“I want that, too, more than anything.” Augustin’s voice is low, anguished. My heart hammers against my chest. We shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Whoever he’s talking to, she means the world to him. “But you know we can’t—sssh, someone’s coming.”
Augustin dives into the shadows just as a large group of vampires emerge from the bookshop and wander past the window. By the time the street is empty again, Augustin and whoever he’s with are gone.
I slide back onto the sofa, guilt gnawing at me. The other members of the Nevermore Coven exchange a look.
“I wonder what he meant by ‘it’s too risky’?” Mina says. “There’s nothing dangerous about my shop, unless you quote Poe at Quoth. Do you think he’s referring to us?”
“Could he have been talking to the husker?” Beth asks.
“I don’t think that was the husker. It sounded like a child,” says Dora.
“He must be watching her for a friend, or maybe he has a stepdaughter with a human partner,” Maisie says.
“He doesn’t have a partner,” I say. “Or a stepdaughter. We’d know about it.”
I’d know about it.
“Whoever she belongs to, looks like his babysitting isn’t going well,” says Dora.
“Can you imagine having Augustin for a babysitter?” I scoff. “Absolutely no fun allowed. She’d be better off with the Gorilla Gardener. At least they have a sense of whimsy.”
I touch the red flower in my hair, my brain spiralling into unscheduled gloom.
I think of my papa – his booming laugh, his absurd games, the way he always smells like delicious comfort food.
He would spend hours playing make-believe with Preeti and me, letting us dress him up as a princess or villain or unicorn.
I remember him throwing a huge street party when I graduated from RAF training as if he were the one who’d done it, even though he and Mamma made no secret of their disapproval of my career choice.
I think of how he smiles now whenever he sees those red flowers or tells someone that I’m running for mayor.
I think of tall, perpetually composed Augustin with his fancy suits and peacock watch breaking down outside. The fear in his voice reaches inside my chest and wraps around my heart.
The thought strikes me like a brush of cold fingertips against my skin.
He can’t have children. Ever. Because of the risk of Dhampir.
I think I remember him holding a baby once – a girl in a pink onesie.
I was back in the village on leave before my first deployment.
I was heading to the pub to meet my friends, and he was walking her around the village green, the stroller laden with bags, arms full of a tiny living creature, and his body stiff, awkward, quietly delighted.
He tilted his head when she gurgled, the way he does when he closely examines one of my proposals, intending to tear it apart.
He held her close and whispered softly to her.
I’d assumed he was a father, back then, but I never saw him with a child again.
Now I know he can never be a parent.
Like me.
I’m being maudlin. But I can’t help it.
I distract myself with my family, with flying my helicopter, with fixing things, and now by running for mayor, but it comes back to me sometimes. It stings, even though I’ve known for so long. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
I’m not having kids.
I can’t have kids.
All around me, my friends gossip and laugh. I fake a smile, accept another glass of wine. But I’m a million miles away, bleeding in a tiny field toilet. I’d never even been desperate for motherhood until the night it was taken away from me.
I’d be an amazing mother. Maybe Augustin would be a half-decent father. But neither of us would get the chance to find out. We’re both alone in a way that we can’t talk about.
I glance back out the window. To my surprise, Augustin’s standing there, still holding that mountain of books, staring at the bookshop. His expression soft, controlled, and painfully gentle. As if he can read my thoughts.
My throat tightens.
Maybe this wave of sadness isn’t just about children.
Maybe it’s about unfairness – what cancer is trying to take away from me, what death has already taken from him, what neither of us will ever have.
Augustin’s eyes flick over the window. He catches me staring and holds my gaze. His lip curls up – a small, curious half-smile.
I touch the red flower in my hair. For a moment, I wonder what he’d do if he knew my secret.
And what would I do if he understood?