31
The following Saturday, Rook and I arrive at the base of Fiama Society Tower A. Thankfully, second year comes with a lot more freedom, and we’re allowed to leave Amery whenever we want as long as we’re attending classes, keeping our grades up, and returning before curfew every night.
Instead of sneaking into the building like last time, we go through the front entrance.
The doorman, Cyril, is sitting at the desk, his hands folded over his stomach and his chin resting against his chest while he snores softly.
A single strand of his snow-white hair flutters in a nonexistent breeze.
The familiar sight drenches me in warmth. Despite everything, I miss this place.
Rook stands quietly beside me, dressed in his casual Amery uniform with his more formal jacket draped over it.
He’s slicked back his hair a little, tamed out some of the wildness, and I suspect he’d never admit it, but I think he was trying to look nice for my parents.
He didn’t need to, and I don’t want him to pretend he’s anything other than who he is, but the gesture is sweet nonetheless.
“Should we wake him up?” he asks, nodding to Cyril. I notice the old man’s mouth curve into a smile, and I imagine that he’s having a nice dream.
“Nah, it’s okay. Let him sleep.”
We brush past and head for the sleek bank of elevators.
Above us are rows of cameras with small red lights reminding us that, despite outward appearances, security is tight.
Rook eyes them warily as he stuffs his hands into his back pockets, like he’s trying to keep himself from fidgeting.
Thankfully, the sky is clear tonight, so he won’t also have to deal with the resulting discomfort of a brewing storm.
“It’ll be fine,” I promise, and he responds with a dry laugh. “Hey, I survived your dad. You can survive mine.”
Rook blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair, effectively undoing his efforts to tame it back. It’s perfect. This is far more him. “Fair enough.”
“Who do you think is scarier?” I ask as I press the button. “The high commander or the scion?”
Rook huffs. “That’s a good question. For me, your dad for sure.”
“Yours is no kitten,” I remind him, and he kicks up a smile.
“That’s until you get to know him better.”
The tenderness in his voice makes my chest ache.
The elevator slides closed before we ride up in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts and the churn of our nerves.
We reach the penthouse with a soft ding, and then I’m standing before the door.
Maybe I should ask myself what I’m doing here. Why do I keep trying to find my way back? What am I hoping for? A happy ending that’s never really been a possibility?
Should I knock? Just let myself in? I wasn’t prepared for this indecision. This is my home, or it was, yet I feel like I’m arriving as a stranger.
Thankfully, I’m saved from having to decide when the door swings open to reveal Cara, our housekeeper.
“Poet!” she says warmly. “I’m so happy to see you.
” She steps aside to gesture us through.
“Your mom said you’d be coming for dinner, and it’s been far too long since you’ve had my famous roast chicken.
” That’s when her gaze lands on Rook. She stutters, her face draining of color as she takes him in.
“Cara, this is Rook,” I say, my voice firm and probably a bit too bright while I try to make up for her rudeness.
I shouldn’t blame her. I reacted the same way once.
I know she’s been fed the same lies as everyone else, but it still sends a prickle of annoyance down my spine.
“My friend.” Again, I fuse the words with certainty, hoping to snap her out of her shock.
“Of course,” she finally says. “Mrs. Graves said you’d be bringing someone. I just assumed it would be Trin—” Her sentence cuts off as her worried gaze pings to me. “Or not her, maybe.”
Clearly, she knows what happened.
“Not tonight,” I say, pretty confident that I’m never inviting Trinity for dinner with my family ever again.
“Nice to meet you,” Cara says to Rook, regaining a semblance of manners.
“Likewise,” Rook says, using his formal voice. After witnessing him in his element out in the Veil, I understand more than ever that he knows how to play this game.
Cara blinks, almost as if she’s surprised to find he can speak in a civilized manner, and I resist the urge to growl. “Come in,” she says with a wave. “Your parents are in the salon. Can I take your coats?”
We hand them over as I scan the familiar space.
I think about the night Rook and I broke in to steal my dad’s keycard, when I felt his assessment of the luxuriousness of our surroundings.
While Cloudspire is awe-inducing for its sheer existence, its purpose is function, not form.
Rook’s room is comfortable but simple. Nothing like this.
I think about my masquerade dress and when I asked for somewhere to throw it away.
In the Tiera Frais, they use only as much as they need.
New Manhattan should have emulated that, but we let ourselves become seduced by the luxuries of the past.
Skirting through the living room, we turn a corner and head toward the back room, which my parents use for entertaining.
“Hello,” I call ahead of us. They know we’re here, but I want to make sure there are as few surprises tonight as possible.
“Poet!” my mother exclaims as we enter through the arched door. She’s dressed in a flowing yellow dress that reaches to the floor, with her hair pulled up into a high knot at the back of her head.
The room is like an egg cut down the center, with one flat wall and the other curving into an oval made up of windows, offering an unobstructed view of the city and the Tiera Frais far in the distance.
She rushes over and throws her arms around me, squeezing me tight. “I’m so glad you came.” Pulling away, she frames my face with her hands, soft tears forming in her eyes. “We’ve missed you so much.”
I don’t contradict the “we” in her statement as she steps back to reveal my father seated in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, wearing his usual crisp white shirt and pressed gray pants.
“Dad,” I say as he nods and then pushes himself up. He strides over and stops, assessing me.
“I’m glad to see you looking healthy,” he says. “After your time in that cell . . .”
He trails off as something troubled passes over his expression.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was— I am . . . fine.”
Not really, but I don’t know what else to say.
“This is Rook,” I say, reaching back and pulling him up beside me. He comes forward reluctantly from where he stands a few paces away. “Rook Athira.”
“Athira?” my dad says, his brows drawing together, and it occurs to me that if High Commander Summit Athira knows of my father, then maybe the reverse is true as well.
Rook and my dad stare at each other for a moment.
“Yes,” Rook says.
Another thought flits across my dad’s face. “Welcome to my home,” he says and reaches out to shake Rook’s hand. It isn’t warm or friendly, but there’s a thread of respect in his tone. I’m not sure what it means, but his reaction seems to deflate some of the tension in the room.
“Can I get you a drink?” my mom asks as Cara enters and heads toward the bar. “Anything you like.”
“Just some water for me,” Rook says. My mom presses her lips together as she takes him in. Obviously, they already met that night we broke into the apartment. The same night, he said he’d kill anyone who hurt me.
But her expression remains neutral, revealing nothing.
“A glass of wine, Poet? We need to celebrate. You don’t turn twenty every day!”
“It’s your birthday?” Rook asks.
I huff out a sound that is part laugh, part snort. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. With everything going on, I kind of forgot.”
“Forgot your birthday!” my mother exclaims, pressing an offended hand to her chest. She’s always been big on birthdays and loves to splash out.
Personally, I’ve always preferred to treat them like any other day, but I never objected to her over-the-top planning because it seemed to make her happy. “Cara, open the bubbly!”
“Yes, Mrs. Graves,” she says, already clutching a bottle of something pricey.
Cara pours three glasses for my parents and me and hands them around.
She then cracks open a green bottle of the precious rainwater collected from Emerald Storms and pours a glass for Rook.
He eyes it for a moment, and I don’t need to hear his thoughts to understand what he’s thinking.
The water that falls freely from the sky is collected and sold. People are forbidden from gathering their own. When viewed through my new lens, all these things are so unnecessarily cruel. So simple in their obvious attempts to exert control, and we all fall for it.
My mother doesn’t notice Rook’s hesitation as she lifts her glass in a toast.
“To Poet!” she says, and Rook and my dad echo the sentiment as we clink glasses and take a sip.
My mom is happier than I’ve seen her in a while, keeping up a steady stream of conversation and posing a thousand questions about Amery.
It’s clear these are the things she’s been dying to ask during our estrangement, and I’m happy that I finally get to share.
She even broaches a few questions with Rook, asking about his family and where he grew up. He keeps his answers polite, if vague, and he has no problem talking about how much he loves them all, so that seems safe enough.
The same continues through dinner, and I find myself relaxing, relieved that my parents are at least outwardly polite to Rook. I’m sure they have some very specific thoughts about a Solitude dining at their table, but they’re putting on a great act.
Once the meal is over, my father addresses me. “Poet, I’d like to speak with you in private for a minute.”
Some part of me understood this was coming.
I welcome it because I have questions, too.
“Sure,” I say, gripping the arms of my chair as I address Rook. “Will you be okay for a minute?”