Chapter 4
CAREFUL ISN’T MY STYLE
ELLIOT
“It doesn’t make sense,” I tell Henry. “Mama thinks the Mother is punishing her for the sun curse. If that’s true, her sickness should have started with the ritual itself. Twenty years ago! Not now.”
Henry Blume—my closest friend and a top-performing healer at the center—sits on one of the brown sofas in my living room. He’s wearing a simple pair of slacks, a lavender buttoned shirt, and expensive grey shoes. Legs crossed, Henry rests his feet on my circular tea table.
“The curse only recently sealed though, when the Pruce woman died. They’ve yet to find another living descendant, right?” he asks. “There probably isn’t one. Grace Pruce died, the curse fully sealed, and now that it has…your mama is facing the consequences.”
I pace my living room. This house is too big for one person.
Back when I first bought it, Mama insisted I needed the space to raise a family.
I’d done it, mostly to appease her, but part of me hoped she was right.
Mama raised me by herself, and I’d grown up lonely, on a large estate just like this one.
I’d always loved the idea of having a big, rambunctious family.
Instead, I’m nearly thirty, and I’ve yet to find a serious girlfriend.
I pause at the far wall, leaning between two framed pieces of artwork.
Mama picked them both, and it doesn’t escape me how little my own preferences have gone into this place.
If I’d chosen, there’d be colors beyond the typical autumnal hues.
Mama balked when I considered purchasing black furniture instead of brown, and as usual, it was easier to indulge her.
Besides, having this home is less about the details and more about my personal success.
Despite Mama’s insistence that I join her on the council, I’d started my own healing center.
Seven years in, and the Lyrie Healing Center is one of the most profitable in the Day Realm.
I bought my home with the money I earned, and I’m infinitely proud of that, brown couches and all.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say again. Insist because Mama can’t be dying.
Henry doesn’t reply right away. He plucks an olive from a ceramic bowl on the table and drops it in his mouth. Behind him, elongated windows span the length of the entryway, showing off the unobstructed view of Lake Astoria.
“So, what’s your plan?” he finally asks. He crosses his ankles and settles deeper into the brown cushions.
“I don’t know,” I say. I pace toward the kitchen, tapping my fist against the stone counter. On it, I have several medical texts. My impromptu evaluation of Mama’s symptoms lies in the center of the mess.
I can only hope she was honest. That she didn’t leave anything out.
“Her skin is decaying, Henry,” I say. I look over my sloppy handwriting, eyes catching on words like fatigue and stiff joints and intermittent breathing pain. “If it continues this speed of progression, she doesn’t have much…”
I trail off. As a healer, I’m embarrassed at my inability to speak about this. Luckily, Henry doesn’t mock me. For the entirety of our ten-year friendship, he’s been brutish, obnoxious, and relentlessly unserious. I expect the same playfulness now, but his face is surprisingly somber.
“You need to buy yourself time,” he says. He continues, even as I keep my attention on the counter. “If your mother is dying as quickly as you believe, you can’t focus purely on the cure. You have to slow the progression.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” I ask. My voice is a snarl, but I can’t help it. “It’s impossible to treat if I don’t know the source.”
“Legally, yes,” he agrees.
Only now do I look at him.
Henry is no longer slouched on the sofa. His feet are planted firmly on the hardwood floor, an elbow propped on each knee. Though his blond hair is as messy as ever, his face is solemn.
“You can’t be serious,” I say. My voice is low, almost threatening.
After all, I am his boss.
“You’re right,” Henry says. He raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s illegal,” I say anyway. If he hears the way my voice wavers, the way my words drop to a whisper, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Yes,” he agrees. “It is also dangerous. Potentially fatal, if not administered correctly.”
I swallow.
“She would never allow it,” I say. My voice is so quiet now, I’m not sure I’ve spoken aloud. The fact Henry doesn’t reply makes me think perhaps I haven’t.
Before long, he buttons his coat near the entryway of my house. I stand across from him, leaned against the metal-and-wire railing. The designer insisted it was a wildly popular trend in the human world, destined to gain popularity here, too. It’s one of the few features Mama didn’t pick.
“I truly am sorry about your mama, Elliot,” he says. “If you need anything, tell me.”
Something unspoken lingers beneath those words, but I can’t bring myself to interpret it.
“Thank you,” I say. My throat feels thick. Perhaps because Henry is a better friend than I deserve. More likely because I’m debating sacrificing every value I thought I had.
“You’ll get through it,” he says. Then, with an impish smirk, he adds, “If you need someone to take your mind off the stress, Mary has a couple friends who would love to distract you.”
“I’m sure she does,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You be careful with her.”
“Nah,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder. “Careful isn’t my style.”
I know, I almost say. It’s mine.
Instead, I stay quiet, offering a final wave as he departs my doorstep.
I stand there for longer than I should, staring at the gentle waves over Lake Astoria.
When I first moved here, I had great expectations of spending weekends on the water, or at least the shore.
I’ve been here for years, and I’ve only stood on its sand twice.
Long after Henry has left, when evening approaches and most witches are entering their homes until morning, I walk the path alongside the lake in the direction of the Night Realm.