Page 110 of A Winding Wave of Magic
Jonathan held out a hand. When I didn’t take it, he surprised me by tucking my arm through the crook of his elbow as we walked. The mild current of attraction was still there—he didn’t bother to hide it anymore—but his thoughts were dominated by concern.
We can be friends, I hope, he thought.I am here for you, you know.
Because he was still grieving too. Penny’s death was a major loss for him, more than I had previously realized. On top of that, he was still struggling with shame at the actions of his father and the fact that he still had yet to locate him.
No, I thought, suddenly paralyzed at the idea of Jonathan fighting that shadowed monster. I didn’t want him or anyone else I knew anywhere near him again.
Don’t worry, he chided gently.But I’m touched that you care.
I squeezed his arm back.That’s what friends do, right?
For once, I wasn’t in a hurry to let go. Whether it was on purpose or not, his touch felt more solid than most. Instead of the cacophony that was typically so disorienting, his touch made me feel grounded. Stable.
Sybil stopped at a Cape Cod that might have been quaint had it not been painted a particularly hideous shade of purple with bright orange trim.
“Like it?” Sybil turned, and her big blue eyes seemed to look right through me. It was like looking into a very aggressive mirror.
Now you know what I see every time you look at me, Jonathan thought.
I pushed him playfully in the shoulder and pulled my arm out of reach. He didn’t need to know every little thing I was thinking.
“It’s very, er, colorful,” I offered and tried to ignore Jonathan’s stifled cough behind me.
Sybil led us up to a porch lined with dead plants. “Potted those roses last month, but they didn’t make it. You’d think they’d be okay with all this water.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Jonathan said. “They need a lot of light, don’t they?”
“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips as if the flowers’ position under her roof hadn’t even occurred to her. “You’re right, I suppose. Although things die when they die.”
Inside, the house was warm, heated by a cranking furnace inside a hall closet. The walls were painted a lighter version of the orange, giving me the distinct feeling that I had entered a nursery rhyme.
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater
Had a Wife but couldn’t keep her
Put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.
Sybil abandoned her shoes at the front door, then strode through the railroaded rooms toward the back of the house. Jonathan and I followed through a living room decorated similarly to the shop, then through a dining room that had been converted into a yoga studio, with a shrine to Shiva built into one corner and an actual koi pond at the other.
“People think they live forever.” Sybil pointed as we passed the fish. “But they don’t. That one will be gone under a harvest moon. I thought last year, but it wasn’t the right one.”
I was too distracted by the tchotchkes littering shelves and tables around the house, some of which were familiar thingsmy father brought home from deployments: Middle Eastern figurines displayed across the fireplace mantle and walls crowded with Cuban masks and Asian prints. Sweaters and unfolded blankets were strewn over the furniture, and more than one teacup sat on the coffee table.
I shrunk into myself as we followed, unsure of where to look or even where to place my feet. The house throbbed with memories, but I was afraid of what the briefest touch might show.
My father, perhaps, or others who had been here too. I had no idea what the last fifteen years had held for her.
“I’m going to make us some tea,” Sybil announced, then tossed her jacket over onto a chair next to the koi pond and headed into the kitchen without another word.
Jonathan turned to me. “Are you all right?” he asked again. “She doesn’t sain.”
“She has one skill. She doesn’t need to.” I took a deep breath, willing the energy I felt beckoning from all surfaces to ebb.
Miraculously, it did. I wondered if Jonathan’s presence had anything to do with it.
“I’m fine, but how about you?” I nodded at a pile of dishes and the other clutter about the house. My mother was far from neat.
