Page 46 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

He hopes it tells her that she did good, and that he’s proud of her, and that everything is okay.

He tries to send the thoughts to her in the same way he would send a command, only less so, because he’s not reaching into her mind through his touch.

He’s letting his own magic reach out to her, like a gentle knock on the door, a whispered encouragement. He’s not sure if it works, but she does slowly relax, hip jutting against his side as she leans against him.

The feeling of her so close is distracting, and he struggles to pay attention to Bill’s story, laughing a split second too late when Bill exclaims that the grackle stole the worm right out of his hand as he wastrying to hook it.

They’re laughing when Martha comes back, a heartfelt apology already forming between her lips.

“It’s okay,” says Rory, quickly, squeezing Calliope closer to him. “Will Elijah be okay?”

“Yes,” she says with exasperation. “That boy will lose a limb one of these days, if he isn’t careful.”

The conversation continues, the ebb and flow of stories finding a sustainable rhythm. Rory’s hand stays around Calliope’s waist.

He turns braver as the night wears on, his light touch turning heavier, his thumb tracing a pattern up and down the seam of her dress. He waits for her to move away, but she never does.

* * *

Later, when Rory is driving home, he glances at Calliope with a small smile. Her face is lined in red from the light on the dashboard, and she smiles back, reaching over to rest her hand on his thigh. When he glances over again, her eyes are closed, head bent awkwardly as she drifts to sleep.

When he pulls into the drive at Graeme House, he turns off the car and looks up at the dark house in front of him. The air is thick with humidity, the promise of another storm that may never come. The moon is low in the sky, a heavy waxing gibbous, almost a full moon.

He closes the car door as quietly as possible, to not wake Calliope, then makes his way to the passenger side. He scoops her into his arms easily and makes his way up the front steps. The door opens obligingly, and Rory mumbles his thanks.

The hallway light flickers on and then dims as he crests the top of the stairs, as if the house, too, does not want to wake Calliope. Easing open the door to her room with the toe of his boot, he makes for the couch by the window and lays her gently down.

He brushes her hair from her forehead and her eyes flutter open, still heavy-lidded with sleep.

“Why did you save me?” she asks softly, nuzzling into the pillow.

He tucks a curl behind her ear. “Because you didn’t deserve to die.”

“How did you know? How could you tell?”

“Just could.” He brushes his thumb against the soft curve of her cheek, wishing he felt confident enough to kiss her.

“Thank you for saving me,” she mumbles, sleep pulling her away again.

He leaves the room, closing the door with a quiet click. A moment later, there is a flutter of wings and Kane lands on his shoulder.

“That was a close one,” says the bird.

Rory nods. “Thanks for being there, by the way. Sorry about what I said…”

“It’s okay. I’m not truly a grackle, you know right?”

“Oh yeah?” Rory arches an eyebrow. “What are you then?”

Kane squawks, nipping Rory’s ear affectionately. “I’m a menace, obviously.”

23

Seaweed Caught in The Tide

Calliope

Calliope awakes to the sounds of a hungry sky, gentle thunder rolling across the top of the house. Several thoughts fill her head at once: the feeling of Rory’s hand on her waist, his thigh beneath her palm clenching as he pushes the brake, his words from the night before: you didn’t deserve to die.

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