Page 87 of Ulune's Daughter

“Hey, hey, no biggie. I’ll just hop over to Albany for a change of scene.”

“Callan’s invited us to London to meet with the Five Pillars. It’s about Evan,” Rachel says.

“I can’t think of anything more important. Keep me posted, yeah? And if there’s anything I can do, you only have to ask. You know I’ll do anything to help.”

Rachel reaches over Teddy and squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, Kells.”

I wrap my fingers around hers and squeeze back.

“Now, let’s find something outrageous for you to wear under your gowns for the opening,” Rachel says, fishing a crotchless thong decorated with black studs out of the bin. She twirls it around her finger. “Something that no one but you needs to see that’ll make you feel like a million bucks.”

“Okay but not that,” I respond, laughing, knocking the terrible thing back into the bin.

We leave the store a half-hour later, armed with three sets of lingerie that I’m embarrassed for the girls to see me in, much less a guy. But they are undeniably beautiful, and I will feel sexy and confident with them under my dresses.

Freya favors couture and drags us through Burberry, Rouje, and Greta’s Ghost, racking up gown after gown. But designer clothes violate both my aesthetic sense and my wallet, so my shopping bag stays empty. It’s Teddy who spots the perfect dress for me, in a tiny boutique down one of the mall’s side alleys.

A quick browse through the racks nets me a beautifully beaded, plum evening gown, a deep claret pants suit, and a pale, pale gray silk tea dress perfect for cocktails with generous alumni, all for half of what Freya’s paid for one designer piece. Well satisfied with my haul, I hug Teddy and Rachel goodbye and head back to Bevington with Freya.

* * *

My first bigevent requires no fancy clothes.

I wear a plain coat, sweater, and jeans to attend the Mother’s fires in Albany. Other than a text saying he’s going home for the weekend, I haven’t heard from Rhodes. He didn’t invite me home with him and I didn’t tell him I was planning to go to Albany. I carry the weight of our lack of communication like a lead weight in my chest as I drive down Route 2 across the state border into New York.

Everywhere that hosts fires to celebrate the Mother has its own flavor. The fires I went to in California were very ... Californian. Lots of tanned skin, chanting, incense, and weed. Disappointingly little food and certainly nothing with processed sugar.

Bevvy’s fires are held in clearings in the pine forest, with the Mother’s bounty spread on rough-hewn trestle tables and lots of bowers tucked away in the forest nearby for Maidens and Hunters to worship the Mother.

Albany’s fires are held along the Hudson River, with the Patroon Island Bridge towering in the background. The trees along the river are a velvet curtain of deep greens, browns, oranges, and reds, the tannins of their fallen leaves as thick as the smoke in the air. Instead of leafy bowers, there are dozens of two-man tents tucked along the edges of the clearing where the three bonfires roar. Canvas and aluminum chairs, like the ones fishermen use, ring the three fires. Plastic tubs between the chairs hold hot dogs, buns, marshmallows, graham crackers, squares of chocolate, and peeled sticks. Much more modest than either the Californian or Bevington celebrations.

It fits my mood perfectly.

The crowd around the bonfires sport a lot of hiking boots and flannel. Weathered faces and calloused hands. The first fire is for the Green Men. The Hunters are already circulating, their leafy masks in place, bare chests on display. The second fire is for the Maidens in their thin gowns and feathers. I nod at them as I pass. Some look nervous. Others tremble with anticipation. All look excited.

I don’t know where Rhodes and I are. On a break while he focuses on swimming and I focus on the exhibit? In the middle of breaking up? Wherever we are, I’m not looking for excitement. I don’t need to release tension in some stranger’s arms. I want to honor the Mother and recharge my Element in peace.

I walk to the third fire. The folding chairs that ring it are mostly empty. There are carafes of coffee and tea and tubs of bottled beer among the chairs along with the hot dogs and S’mores fixings. There’s a pile of Crone masks at hand, but I don’t take one. No one knows me here and I’m not looking for a hook-up, so I’ll leave the mask off tonight.

I pick a chair, a beer, a stick, and a hot dog, pull it all close to the fire and spend a few minutes cooking. An older lady, wearing jeans, a deep maroon coat, and the Crone’s hook-nosed mask, sits down next to me. She tips the mask up on her crown of gray curls to drink a beer and joins me in cooking hot dogs. We make comfortable small talk through several hot dogs and S’mores while the Hunter’s horn sounds and people rush around us as the chase begins. The older lady, Susan, watches them go but doesn’t make any move to join the Hunt or seek anyone out. Maybe she’s waiting until later. There tends to be a second wave at the fires, latecomers and people who were unsuccessful in finding what they were looking for in the first wave. Susan looks experienced enough to know that.

A man in worn hiking boots, black camos and a sheepskin jacket, everything above his strong jaw, wide mouth, and the tip of his nose hidden behind a leather, horned mask, pulls up a chair on my other side.

“I’m not looking for companionship tonight,” I tell him, to avoid him wasting any time on me.

“Can I stay if I’m content with conversation?” he responds.

“Sure.”

I offer him a S’more, which he claims he’s never had before. I make several, sparking a round of heated debate with Susan about whether the marshmallow is best lightly browned or charred. The Hunter, whose name is Lawson, sides with me on the lightly browned side.

After stuffing myself with S’mores, I’m ready for a walk. Susan decides to stay by the fire but Lawson accompanies me down to the river. I find a path and begin walking toward the bridge. The sun’s set in a blaze brighter than the trees. Sleepy coos from roosting birds harmonize with the river’s burble. Leaves crackle under the treads of our boots. Lawson’s a good head taller than me, even without the horns of his mask. His hair, brushed back from his forehead and temples, curls at the nape of his neck and is a deeper blue than the darkening sky. Walking with him is comfortable, lacking tension, since I’ve made my position known.

“Do you live in Albany?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “My family has several houses, but I spend most of my time at the one near Northampton.”

“Amherst, boo, hiss,” I tease.

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