Chapter Seventeen Homecoming
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HOMECOMING
T HE H OME FOR Temporarily Embarrassed Highborns was the safehaven Father and Mother had sought refuge in, and it had taken up residence in the abandoned mansion once belonging to Governor Hemharrow Corinthos, the first governor of Setgad.
Though rundown by time and pillagers, some of the estate’s former majesty remained intact, evident from its tall brownstone exterior with granite quoins and gabled dormers.
But where tall iron gates should have stood was now empty space, the estate free for all to enter. In the middle of the sandy road that led to the mansion’s entrance stood a statue of Hemharrow Corinthos, dwarfing Lythlet.
There really is a resemblance between Corinthos and Governor Matheranos, Lythlet thought, admiring the artistry of the white stone statue.
The incumbent Governor Matheranos was a descendant of Corinthos through his maternal line—a link frequently boasted about by his supporters in the United Setgad Party.
She knelt to the plinth and brushed the plaque free from dirt-ridden vines.
Here stands Hemharrow Corinthos, firstborn son of Harrowtar Corinthos and Mythleta Varinos.
Appointed Governor of Setgad by the Einveldi Court under the auspices of the Ora Empire on the 8th of Marben, in the twenty-eighth year of the Sephir Circuit, it is his divine duty to serve the people of Setgad with utmost honor.
Based on the few history lessons she had the chance to enjoy in her fragmented schooldays, Lythlet recalled the impact Governor Corinthos had made on the then-burgeoning city-state of Setgad.
Brokering the relationship between the citizens of Setgad and the Twelve Judges of the Einveldi Court, he had instated the notion of a democracy by successfully convincing the latter that future governors ought to be elected by the people, not handpicked by the Court alone.
Thus, he founded the United Setgad Party, and under his leadership, Setgad had grown into one of the most prosperous city-states on the continent.
He’d garnered so much public adulation in his early years that when the city-state held its first elections at the end of his appointed term, he won in a landslide victory.
A second landslide victory occurred eight years later, and a third would’ve happened had he not decided his twenty-fourth year as governor was to be his last, thus setting the precedent for every governor elected after him.
“ Otara menaré ,” Lythlet said, patting the statue’s feet. You’ve worked hard , it meant in Vas Terrim, one of the few sentences every person, low- or highborn, could not escape life without knowing.
She circled around the statue, heading deeper into the estate, hunting for her parents.
An unregistered woman taking rest in the gardens answered her question about Father’s whereabouts with a finger pointed at the long colonnade running around the estate’s grounds.
Following the yellowing columns, Lythlet spotted Father leaning against one, staring at a pair of birds nesting in a dried-up fountain.
“Father,” Lythlet greeted him, hands together behind her back. She shielded her trembling as best she could.
He turned, surprised. Before he could greet her, he coughed into his raggedy sleeve.
“Are you sick?” she said, worried.
“Just a mild cough I’ve picked up recently.”
She frowned. “Has the construction been hard for you?”
“It’s fine,” he said firmly.
She knew not to push it further—she’d hurt his pride if she insinuated he was anything less than capable of the work.
And despite his cough, something about Father did seem hale and sturdy then, a fresh scent lingering about him that reminded Lythlet of the far-off fields of harvest. Perhaps the construction had given him new purpose, something to cultivate his strength.
“Did you come to visit us?” he asked.
She nodded bashfully. Tentatively, she asked, “Today?”
A warm smile crept onto Father’s sunspotted face. “Today.”
Her heart flushed with relief, the unfamiliar sight of his smile calming her fears.
They went together through the portico of the mansion, past its wide double doors with stained-glass windows, and up several staircases until they reached the attic.
Eaves slanting overhead, the room was lit by a dormer window at the far end.
Much of the room was taken up by mountains of boxes and supplies, but a small, lumpy mattress had been shoved against the side of one wall.
In the corner of the room, Mother was sweeping, battling dust bunnies with a broomstick, and she looked up at Lythlet in surprise.
Mother looked as thin and stretched out as ever, like a hairpin pulled so far in the wrong direction it was on the verge of snapping in two, yet her eyes were lucid, bright, and brown. Lythlet felt her emotions overrun at the sight of her mother whole of mind and spirit.
“Lythlet, it’s been so long,” Mother croaked, laying the broomstick against the wall and gesturing her to sit on the bed.
But Lythlet went before her and prostrated herself on the ground—the proper ritual greeting a child owed their parents after a prolonged absence.
In hindsight, she should’ve bowed to Father like so when they’d met in the Homely Home, but she had been too flustered then to even consider the appropriate customs.
“To your good health,” she wished, forehead pressed to the backs of her hands.
No reply came, but she lifted her head to see Mother offering a hand to help her up. She took it, fondly thumbing the bony bumps beneath Mother’s fragile skin.
Mother guided her toward the mattress. She sat on it, while Lythlet sat on the floor, cross-legged.
Father had gone to a corner to rifle around inside a box, and he came back again with other things, plying the floor before the mattress with small cartons, some half-empty, some filled to the brim.
Dried sour plums drenched in both sugar and salt; roasted brown mangos; many little tins of tapuri, fried, crunchy noodles coated in spices.
Snacks that were cheap and could last forever, snacks she had enjoyed in her childhood.
“Some things we saved from the house when we had to leave. Take some home later,” said Father quietly, gesturing at the food.
She popped open the lid of one tin of tapuri . It was stale, bought some time ago, but the pink crescent peach seasoning remained sweet on her tongue. “Why did you get so many?” Father and Mother did not like crescent-peach-flavored tapuri as much as she had.
They looked lost as to how to reply, and she regretted her question. It grieved her to try to understand their silence, to solve the unspoken riddles of two detached souls. She made to say something else when Father finally spoke.
“In case you ever came back.”
Her throat tightened. “I’m sorry I never did.”
Mother met her gaze with a slight shake of her head. “You’ve been busy. Father said you’ve been struggling with some debt, too.”
She wiped her seasoning-covered fingers on her trousers, straightening her back. “That’s what I’ve come to talk about. I have good news: I’ve paid off my debts. And I vow to pay off yours, too.”
Father and Mother exchanged a surprised glance with each other, uncertain for a moment.
“You don’t have to,” Mother said, doubt evident in her voice.
“We’ll do it on our own,” Father said, hacking a cough into his palm. “It’s no small sum, and it’s our own business to take care of. I’m earning good money at the flats, and my debt will be repaid in two years.”
“Two years isn’t soon enough,” Lythlet said. “I don’t want you to struggle at the flats for that long. Tell me the sum, and I’ll have it paid off by the end of this year.”
“Lythlet,” Father said delicately, “you mustn’t make a promise you cannot keep.”
“But I can, Father. I’ve come into some wealth recently.” She rifled through her haversack and took out a silver chain, presenting it to him. “A gift for you—for your birthday next week.”
Both Father and Mother stared wide-eyed at the chain.
It gleamed handsomely even in the dull light.
There was a small charm attached to it, that of a five-petalled neira flower—his first-moon flower, something she had in common with him.
It was a gift she had poured much thought into; she had considered simply offering money, food, or clothing, but knew something so blatant would offend his pride.
But this, masquerading as a birthday gift, was a reshunzi chain, a complex Oraanu creation where the links could be broken up and sold individually to pawnshops for nearly par value, should her parents have need for smaller allotments of coin.
Thrifty as she usually was, Lythlet had gone above and beyond to procure this, borrowing from Desil’s share of the recent jackpot to afford it.
“You could wear it around your ankle, under your sock, if you’re worried about others spotting it,” she said. “It’s thin and lightweight, and won’t burden you as you walk.”
Yet he made no move to accept it, simply staring at it dumbly.
Does he not like it?
Disappointed and baffled by their collective lack of reaction, Lythlet wavered.
They sat a mere arm’s length away, yet silence stretched as a desert between them.
She saw now a three-way tightrope between them, that miserable black line suffocating under the weight of the indomitable negative space.
Lythlet took a deep breath. “Please,” she said quietly, determined not to surrender so easily this time, “tell me what you’re thinking.”
Father spoke fearfully, “Can you really give us this? It looks so expensive.”
She dug deeper beneath the surface of his question, and realized then why they’d been so tentative, so skeptical thus far. They must have thought she’d stolen it the way she’d stolen as a child.
“I can. I promise you I can. I got lucky with an investment,” she said carefully, “and I purchased the chain with my own coin fair and square.”
She had never lied to him, not even in her youth, and her unwavering answer was enough to convince him then. The lines in his face softened, a cloud being whipped away from his mind with a gentle hand. “Thank you,” he said at last. “You...you’ve been doing well.”
“I have.”
“ Otara menaré ,” he said.
Her shoulders heaved in relief, the sheer honor of hearing her father say this to her overwhelming her.
“ Tollienimhé ristelle rimmonim ,” she whispered back instinctively, bowing her head, “ rimmonim napei gineret tollienim. ” We who will not forget you, you who have come before us.
It was an old-fashioned response, a ritualistic expression of gratitude and filial piety that most folk nowadays had foregone for truncated options.
But Lythlet was old-fashioned for her time, and there was no response more perfect for her to commemorate this moment.
“If you will not let me pay off your debt, then very well,” she said, voice bolstered by her resolve.
“Pay it off with your own work, Father. But I promise I’ll make my riches sooner than later, and I’ll buy you a proper home aboveground to return to.
A home better than the one we had before—better than anything you’ve ever imagined. ”
They looked at her with a brand-new light in their eyes, one that took a moment for her to decipher—it was faith.
For the first time in her life, they had faith in her.
The three-way tightrope was no longer alone on the canvas, buffeted by the walls of a white canyon.
The negative space was now splashed with flickers of this moment: the soft brown of Father’s and Mother’s proud eyes, the glinting silver of the neira charm dangling from the chain, the pink-and-orange flecks of the tapuri seasoning—and with a broad brushstroke, Lythlet added the dawning golden touch of her conviction.