Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
“For the love of everything, Mom, stop cooking.”
“I know, I know. You see the repast and are fretting because you think there’s no rice pudding.”
“That is not what I’m fretting about, Mom.”
“Not to worry,” Hilly continued, tapping the slow cooker with a wooden spoon not much older than she was. The runes carved into the bowl preceded Christ. “Ready in five.”
“Ready in five. Sure, sure. Totally on the same page. Such a relief.” Amara rested her face in her hands and began counting to ten. “Gaaaaaah.”
“Is Gray coming soon? He mentioned he liked smoked turkey so I made him another one.”
Amara sighed. “No. He needs a couple of hours at least. Possibly three if he shaves. It’s an adorable inversion of the guys-don’t-need-hours-to-get-ready trope.”
Her mother laughed. “I always liked your own inversion. Ten minutes to get ready, even at the height of your cat’s-eye makeup phase.”
“You know they have a stamp for that now? It looks like a Sharpie and is almost as cheap. You pop the cap off and lean in—a mirror is still crucial—and stamp yourself. The whole thing takes about half a second and you get a perfect cat’s eye. Gray’s the one who told me about it.”
“Ah. How handy.”
Amara had to smile, remembering the bathroom chaos.
“Hold still, you silly tart! Now you’ve got a perfect cat’s eye in your eyebrow!”
“Poor boy. Poor, poor, boy.”
“Mom. Don’t.”
“What will you do?” Hilly asked softly. “When the time comes?”
Amara was already shaking her head. “I can’t talk about that, this weekend of all weekends. I can’t even think about it.”
“Oh, darling . . .”
Amara burst into tears and hid her face in her hands again, this time for shame.
Her mother clucked and pulled her into a hug. Resistance was futile; Hilly could hoist a twenty-five-pound sack of flour on each shoulder and jog up a flight of stairs. “You kissed him, didn’t you? You gave in and kissed that doomed boy.”
Amara gritted her teeth in mid-snivel. “Graham Gray is a lot of things, but ‘boy’ doesn’t apply.” Then she really showed her mother a thing or two by ugly-crying harder.
“Oh-oh-oh, my poor darling.” Her mother patted her back, and Amara was petty enough to want to burp in response. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not fair. I know that’s childish.”
“But true. It’s not fair.” Her mother pulled back and held Amara at arm’s length. “I’m proud of you.”
“What?” Amara dropped her hands. “Why? All I’ve done since we arrived is give you sh— Uh, be more hurtfully sarcastic than usual.”
“You Reaped. And you did a splendid job. Not a splendid job for your first time; splendid, period.”
The praise made her glow, but she was compelled to honesty. “It’s not like there was any choice. What with your other children being long dead.”
“Yes, that’s so.”
“We’ve never really talked about it.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“I’m very sorry you had to outlive most of your kids.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“And had to return to the drawing board to get me.”
Hilly frowned. “Is that what you think we did? I once was the goddess of fertility, did you forget? I wanted another baby because it’s my nature, not to bring forth a spare to fill a job opening.”
“Oh. I guess I owe you another apology.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Stop feeling my forehead, I’m not sick.”
“Just checking. It would be an utter catastrophe if you, too, fell ill.”
“Whatever Death has, I don’t think it’s contagious. But until he recovers, I’m on the spot.”
“You are, indeed. And I say this with all love and admiration—”
“Oh, boy.”
“—but I fully expected you to spend at least three or four days resisting your duty.”
“I was tempted. So, so, so, so tempted. But I had Gray. He made it almost bearable.”
“Ah. Yes. It’s very brave to allow yourself to get close to someone knowing he’s . . .” She tilted her head to one side. “. . . ready for breakfast!”
Amara turned just as Gray loped into the kitchen. “Oh my God. That’s another smoked turkey, isn’t it? Hilly, I love you more than I love Milky Ways.”
“Wow. Half an hour,” Amara said with a smirk. “I’m impressed, Gray.”
“I can be speedy when it suits me.” He opened the fridge, pulled out a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “I love that sweater on you. It’s like a blanket with sleeves.”
She looked down at the vast green field she was wearing. “It’s not ‘like’ a blanket, it is a blanket. With sleeves. Oh, no. I’d know that curly paper anywhere.”
Gray held up the printout. “Yeah, I took the liberty of swinging by the libe and grabbing today’s list.”
She stared and stared and, for good measure, stared. “I don’t deserve you,” she muttered, then was mortified she’d spoken aloud.
“Well, yeah. What’ve I been telling you all these years?”
And I ruined it. Couldn’t resist making a bad situation exponentially worse with a bungled lip lock.
“Good morning, Hilly.” Skye came into the kitchen with a wave, sporting her trademark braid. She was wearing cargo pants (she adored all the pockets) and a black sweater with plain shoulder epaulets. In deference to the house, she’d left her hiking boots at the entryway. “Hi, Amara. Gray.”
“Hi, Skye! I was reading about you yesterday.”
“Thoughtful, Gray.” Skye’s smile faded as she looked Amara up and down. “How are you doing? I took a look at the scroll—the faxes—in the library earlier. I’m sure yesterday was rough.”
“Rough, torture, never-ending torment . . .”
“But we stopped at Dairy Queen on the way back,” Gray put in. “Which made it all worthwhile. Who knew they’d be open in March?”
“Still. I imagine it was unbearable.”
“You’re not wrong. Thank you, Skye.” As always, Amara was grateful for Skye’s kind interest; more than once growing up, Amara was convinced the only ally in the compound wasn’t of the compound, but lived on the Isle of Skye.
“I’d come up with a self-deprecating platitude like ‘it wasn’t all bad,’ but it was. ”
“Well, I might have a little good news. Check this.” Gray handed over a stack of printouts. “Only a couple dozen people die today. Well, more like six hundred, but apparently when we Reap one, we’re really Reaping a whole bunch. Or something. So it’s practically a vacation.”
“Not for them.”
“I think it can be argued that it’s a vacation for them, too.”
“Yes, but we won’t have that argument, will we?” Amara replied. “Let’s eat and get back to it.”
Skye gaped, which was amusing for no other reason than she was not the gaping type. “You’re going back in, too, Gray?”
“We’re a team,” Gray replied. “Ever since I swan-dived into a giant mud pile back in college.”
Amara snickered. She’d never told the full story of their meeting to anyone, and never would, without Gray’s leave.
“Wow. Okay. I—good for you guys.” Skye shook her head. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be so . . .”
“Competent?”
“Don’t answer that,” Gray advised. “It’s a trick.”
Skye nodded. “Excellent advice.” To Hilly: “La Croix asked me if I’d sit with your husband a bit. He had to flit off and deal with . . . whatever he deals with.”
“Probably looking for someone to devour a lobster omelet while he watches,” Amara muttered.
“Speaking of devour, breakfast is ready,” Hilly announced.
“Woo-hoo! I call the smoked turkey!”