Page 85 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
Emerson doesn’t look away. “I won’t tell you how to feel. But I would just say... we don’t know. What she knew. What shedidn’t. She was the best, but I’m not saying that she couldn’t have made mistakes. I’m just saying that if anyone deservesthe benefit of the doubt, it’s her.”
Emerson is right. But how will we ever know for sure? Lillian has shown up for Emerson and Rebekah upon occasion, but that’sbeen rare. It takes considerable energy for a ghost to reach out to the side of the living.
And Lillian has never reached out to me.
I look down at the fairy-tale book in my hand, thinking about all those changes. And no doubt more changes to come. MaybethisisLillian reaching out.
Emerson says good-night, then charms the guest room for deep sleep on her way out. I can feel myself getting sleepy immediately, despite everything, and I’m grateful for it. I’m not sure I have the energy to find a charm for myself.
And I sleep well. Deep, no dreams.
When I wake up, there’s no evidence that I was burned yesterday. Nothing to indicate I was attacked. I look, but there areno marks on me. There’s also no hangover-like feeling from seeing all my past lives whirl all around me.
There’s just a rested feeling, and a big, fat cat curled at my feet. He glares at me a bit when I get up out of bed, but Igive him a nice long pet until he purrs. Then I get dressed. I have archives to search today. Work to do.
I want to bury myself in books, just like the good old days. It’s the first day of Christmas Around the World. Saturday morningwe’ll have a parade, but the crowds will start today. The bookstore and tea shop will be packed, so I’ll be helping Emersonand Ellowyn as needed.
Focus on the present and the future.I frown at Azrael’s words. Because he’s wrong. He’s justwrong. There areanswersin the past, and not just us bloody and dead, trussed up in the red thread of our sad destinies, but real answers hiddensomewhere in there.
And I have to find them.
I walk down to the kitchen to find Jacob and Emerson almost done with breakfast preparations, and I can tell that they didtheir own cooking. They move in the kitchen like a perfectly oiled machine. It’s beautiful to watch.
Emerson sits me down, piles my plate high with food I won’t be able to eat all of but I know will taste like my feelings anyway,and then chatters happily about St. Cyprian things.
Like she knows I need an Azrael-free conversation first thing in the morning. And shedoesknow that, because she’s not my best friend for no reason.
With breakfast done, the three of us walk back to the cemetery together. Cassie is bounding ahead on the path. I see Jacob’sstag familiar, Murphy, watching from a winter-empty field.
Octavius, naturally, opted to stay inside the warm farmhouse.
We meet up with Zander and Ellowyn on the path, walking up from their house closer to the river. Ellowyn looks flushed andannoyed, and I don’t ask why. We all know she’s furious about how hard it is to get around with her pregnant belly and incrediblytouchy about it too.
Zander walks beside her, looking proud and indulgent, like her crankiness is the best part of his day.
Like they fit together in every possible way.
Rebekah and Frost are ahead of us at the cemetery gate, no doubt having flown over. As we walk closer, I study the way theystand so close together. Rebekah smiles up at him the way she smiles at no one else, and Frost smiles only for her.
More things that hurt.
More things I want.
We all come together just outside the cemetery gates, that big statue of a dragon grinning dangerously down at us.
Or snarling, I guess, depending on your perspective.
I look past it, into the cemetery. Azrael is standing in man form in the center, and he’s not alone. He’s surrounded by theghostly apparitions of many a witch and familiar.
I can’t hear what he’s saying from this distance, but his expression is grave.
“Mom,” I hear Zander breathe out. He moves forward toward the ghost of his mother, Zelda, and Ellowyn isn’t far behind. Irealize that all my friends are rushing to their lost loved ones.
Except Frost. And me.
We remain outside the gates. I can’t tell what Frost is doing. Thinking about all his dead, wherever they might be in spaceand time, at a guess. But I can’t focus on that because I’m still looking at Azrael. Studying him.
Like if I stare at him long enough, the way I would any piece of lore I can’t make sense of—a string of dead languages orindecipherable images—I’ll be able to figure this out. Figurehimout.
