I have a fierce kitten protector, was the outwardly insouciant response. She’ll keep me safe with the power of her ferocious meow.
Blue.
I’ve got my sword out. Happy now?
Yes.
Exactly. Don’t get all sarcastic with me for worrying about you.
Having reached the next room down the hall—on the opposite side and just offset from the living area—Aodhan didn’t reply in favor of keeping all his attention on what he was seeing.
It wasn’t much. The room held a single bed, the mattress covered by a handmade quilt soft with age. The scents of talcum powder and a faint sweet perfume permeated the space. His mind flickered with the memory of Demarco’s grandmother. The trim older woman had dropped by Guild HQ while Aodhan was there one day, having brought her grandson a “birthday treat.”
Demarco had grinned, lifted her up off her feet, and swung her around. “Thanks, Gams,” he’d said after she slapped at his shoulder and told him to put her down. Then she’d smiled and kissed his cheeks.
A look at the brush on the small table placed in front of an old mirror confirmed his guess that this was the grandmother’s bedroom—caught in the bristles were a number of gray hairs. The black-and-white photograph of the man he’d assumed to be her deceased husband sealed the deal—it sat on the bedside table, where she’d have seen it each night as she went to sleep.
Next to it was a lopsided clay mug as might be made by a child. A gift from grandson to grandmother. A cherished one, for in that mug were handcrafted cloth flowers with green wire stems.
“I’m sorry,” he found himself murmuring, though none of these people would ever again hear him.
This family was forever broken.
30
Yesterday
“Mother?”
“Oh, my baby boy, do be polite.” Illium’s mother’s face was serene, her eyes a joyful sparkle. “Can’t you see we have a guest?”
Illium glanced at the empty armchair of champagne-colored velvet that faced his mother’s seat. His heart hurt. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s no matter.” She held out a hand, and when he placed his in it, she tugged him to stand beside her. “See how strong and tall he’s become?” she said to her invisible guest. “Aegaeon will be so proud when he wakes and sees the man his son’s grown into.”
Rage threatened to burn Illium’s irises, but he kept his expression even. This wasn’t his mother’s fault. All she’d ever done was love him. Even now, when her mind was shattered glass that reflected everything and nothing, when she forgot herself much of the time, she didn’t forget him or how much she loved him.
Always when he came home, she’d say, “My son,” or “Baby boy” and hold him.
No, this was no fault of hers. It was Aegaeon who’d broken their family.
“Illium,” his mother said now, “have you met Raan?”
“Isn’t that . . .” He stopped himself just in time. Raan was the man his mother had loved a long, long, long time ago.
Raan was also dead.
He only knew the latter because his mother had been talking to herself one day, and he’d put together what she’d said with her visit to a memorial long forgotten by most of angelkind.
Recovering quickly, he bowed. “I’m honored to meet such a great artist.”
Sharine patted his hand when he rose back up, her eyes aglow with pride. “Raan taught me to paint, taught me to fly.” She cocked her head, listened. “Oh yes, so much has changed.”
A softness to her as she turned her face to the empty armchair. “We were beautiful once, my Raan. But our time has passed. Now it is the time of my son.” She smiled up at Illium. “He has fallen in love, you know.” Mischief in her eyes. “He thinks his mother doesn’t know.”
Illium felt his cheeks color. He hadn’t thought she knew about his tumbling heart, his desperate devotion. “Mother, you’re embarrassing me.”
Laughing, she rose from her seat, tucked her arm through his, and said, “Come, I have made you a cake. Where’s Aodhan? I made it for him, too.” The way she didn’t even glance at the chair told him that she’d forgotten her ghostly visitor.
“He’s in the Library, looking at copies of Gadriel’s early work.” The originals were held in Lumia, which Aodhan hoped to eventually get permission to visit.
“Oh yes, I did tell him to study the angelic masters. He will learn much by not forgetting the past. Every artist thinks he invents this brush stroke or that—but the good ones know that we build on the strokes of all those who came before us.”
At times like this, when she sounded so pragmatic and like herself, Illium allowed himself to believe that she’d never fractured, that she was still the mother to whom he could go with any problem and know it would be fixed. In these moments, he could be her son, carefree and reliant.
Today, he smiled and sat down at the kitchen table while she cut the cake, and made him a drink. They sat, talked, and he confessed to her about Kaia. “I know everyone thinks I’m too young to understand love, but they’re wrong. I love her until it’s hard to breathe without her.”
“I was young, too, with my first love,” she said with a tender smile. “My Raan. Such a kind man he was, Illium. I wish you could’ve known him.”
It was clear Raan was on her mind today, and he was grateful for it, for it was obvious the memories brought her joy. “Will you tell me about him?”
“Another day.” She leaned forward, her hands around her mug of tea. “Today, tell me about your pretty Kaia.”
So he did, pouring out his heart. Unlike so many others, she didn’t patronize him or dismiss his love as a fleeting infatuation. She listened, and she accepted that he knew his own heart.
Another kind of desperation choked at his throat: the need to have this woman as his mother always, rather than her fractured counterpart. He loved her in any guise, but to see who she could be . . .
His hate for his father burned even hotter.
After he’d finished his cake and talked his fill about Kaia, he told her about his continuing studies. “I keep thinking I’m done, but then I get hit with more. Today, Dmitri told me to follow around one of his junior assistants. At first, I thought it would be boring—Mirza isn’t a warrior, but a scribe.”
Shame heated his cheeks. “But, Ma, you should see all the things she handles. None of the warriors would even have their weapons if Mirza didn’t put in the orders for various materials. I think that’s what Dmitri wanted me to learn—that there’s a lot more to being part of an archangel’s court than just being able to command a squadron or strategize in battle.”