Not all sacrifices are equal.
Administration had its drama, but this sounded like something else. She thought about the prescription again. Her supervisor was unraveling. It remained to be seen what would be left once the dust settled.
Her phone buzzed. It was such a surprise that she nearly fell off the balcony. The message was from her mother.
Dinner at 6. Bring garlic bread. Grandma insists.
Shelby laughed. She felt a drop of rain on her cheek, then another. She looked up. The clouds were about to explode.
You owe us, they said.
“Right.” She opened the window. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
• • •
Neil answered the door. He was wearing a winged cape, and his hands were full of brightly colored stones. He’d already dropped several.
“Oh,” he said, as if mildly surprised to see her. “You must be here for mine lecture.”
Carl smiled at this. “What’s the topic?”
“You will be learning about dragons and their eggs.” He placed a pink stone in Carl’s outstretched hand. “I give this lecture often.”
“He really does,” Ingrid called from the living room.
“You have forgotten your exercise books!” He patted Carl’s hand in an avuncular way. “That is fine. I can lend you something to write in. You will need to take a lot of notes, because I speak so quickishly.”
They stepped into the hallway. Neil’s rain boots had a layer of fresh mud on them. He must have been puddle-jumping again, searching for the elusive changeling-dragon who lived beneath the merry-go-round.
Ingrid rose from the couch. “There’s wine. I didn’t know if you wanted red or white, so I opened up one of each.”
“She’s a ball of nerves,” Paul confirmed from the kitchen.
“Not really.” Ingrid smiled at Shelby. “I know it’s just dinner.”
It was and it wasn’t. Shelby knew that she should say something comforting, but her mind had gone blank. Then Neil handed her a yellow stone, and she enthused about its various draconian properties. That was safer than discussing the fact that Ingrid was walking into a battlefield. She’d invited Carl as a buffer. He sensed this but was being surprisingly kind about it. Maybe he just wanted free food.
“It’s not just dinner,” Shelby said, immediately regretting it.
“It’s not?” Ingrid’s tone was light, but there were several competing questions beneath the one that she’d actually voiced.
Shelby took her hand. “Don’t stress about it. Think of it as any other dinner, except for the fact that three generations of my family will be there.”
“A generation is a very long time,” Neil added. “Millions of years.”
“Actually, bubs,” Ingrid said, “it’s closer to thirty years. Mummy and Paul are a part of the same generation. But you represent a whole new one.”
“Ha!” Neil’s expression was triumphant. “Mine own generation will be quite impressive. I can feel it.”
“He’s already sounding like a postmillennial,” Carl said.
Ingrid touched Neil’s cheek. “You’re the apple of my eye.”
“Oh, Mummy. You have a lot to learn about the human body.”
Her look didn’t waver. “Go get your easel. Uncle Paul was telling me that he wanted to see your latest drawing of King Cobra.”
“I also drew snakish runes!” He ran for the stairs. “I’ll go get it!”
As soon as his small form disappeared, Ingrid lunged for her shoes. “Transition time, everyone. I hid the easel underneath his Lego, so we’ve got thirty seconds to dash.”
“More like twenty,” Paul said. “He could find that thing in the dark.”
“Thank you so much for watching him tonight. I won’t be home too late.”
“I’ve got practice tomorrow, so you can return the favor.”
“You guys are like a well-oiled machine,” Carl observed. “It’s impressive.”
Paul laughed. “You should have seen us during year one.” He pointed at Ingrid with a wooden spoon. “This one had a penchant for nearly burning the house down.”
“I barely did that twice,” Ingrid replied. “Three times, tops. And Paul flooded the basement. He also—”
“—ten seconds!” He waved the spoon.
Ingrid ran out the door, with Shelby and Carl behind her. They didn’t stop running until they were all in the truck. Shelby resisted the urge to peel out of the driveway, as if they were being pursued by a motorcycle gang.
“Sorry about the rush,” Ingrid said, once they were on the road. “Our parenting style is all about the bait and switch.”
Shelby smiled. “You seem to be doing a great job.”
“It didn’t feel that way during his meltdown at Canadian Tire, after we told him that he couldn’t have a three-foot-tall garden gnome.”
“I feel the little guy’s pain,” Carl said. “My mom told me that, when I was his age, I cried hysterically for three hours because she cut my pizza the wrong way.”
“Every child is easy and difficult in their own way,” Shelby added. She didn’t mean it to sound quite so pedantic. Her mouth was clearly against her.
“That’s a gem,” Carl replied from the backseat. His voice was neutral, but she could tell that he was struggling not to laugh. “Really puts the whole thing—”
“—fuck off.”
“You’re sort of right, though,” Ingrid said kindly. “Some things go well, and some things are a constant battle. You can’t tell in advance how it’s going to turn out. I never thought I’d find myself staring at my child, asking him, Aren’t you even a little tired? But I’m sure I’ll end up doing just that when I get home tonight. When I was little, I used to love the ritual of going to sleep, with my toothbrush and water cup. It was sacred. Neil told me the other night that he fears oblivion. How could he even have a concept of that?”
Carl was staring out the window. He looked suddenly vulnerable, like a child trapped on an unexpected car ride. “Of all the fears that I can think of,” he murmured, “that one makes the most sense. Kids have no proof that they’ll wake up the next morning. You can hardly blame him for wanting some kind of guarantee.”
They were dancing around the more obvious topic. Shelby had come to think of herself as something of an expert in this area. She was always dancing around a bonfire. Carl seemed to be doing it more by accident. He was just along for the ride and could really go either way.
Shelby looked at Ingrid, who appeared to be reading the safety instructions on the visor above her head. Stress reading. Did she suspect that anything was wrong? Ingrid had once told her that lying had gotten easier over time, which was precisely what scared her. The simplicity with which you could fold the truth like a cocktail napkin and use it to create a pleasant distraction. Now she was doing the same thing, and the ache in her chest would surely fade. Soon it would just feel like writing a bullshit thesis.
The rest of the drive was silent. When they arrived, Shelby willed herself to unbuckle the seat belt, as if this were any other visit. Ingrid tried to straighten her hair, then realized that everyone was watching and put her hands at her sides. Shelby knew that she should say something reassuring, but it was taking everything she had just to remain upright. Her grandmother answered the door. She winked at Shelby, and suddenly it was possible that everything might work out.
“You must be Ingrid.”
“Yes,” she replied, a tad uncertainly.
Shelby hoped that she wasn’t slipping into some kind of fugue state.
Her grandmother squinted at the car. “I thought your little one was coming.”
Ingrid appeared visibly relieved at the opportunity to talk about Neil. “He’s staying with his uncle tonight. I’m sure he’d love to visit, though.”
“He’s
currently on a lecture tour,” Carl said.
“Well, he must take after his mom, then. We’re an academic family too. Except for me. They can’t teach me anything.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
She shrugged. “When they try, I just go into another room. I find that works quite well. Now come inside. Granddaughter, did you pick up dessert?”
“It’s in the trunk.”
Her grandmother frowned. “That sounds a little ominous.”
“It’s neopolitan ice cream,” Carl said. “Almost new.”
“Be still my heart.”
Ingrid followed them inside. Her hands were clasped together, like a medieval saint. Shelby was just about to say something about it when her mother walked into the living room.
She looked first at Ingrid, then at Shelby. Her expression was written in Sanskrit. Shelby wanted to put an arm protectively around Ingrid but found that she couldn’t quite move.
“I’m Mel.” She shook Ingrid’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
She didn’t say finally. Maybe her grandmother hadn’t said anything. She needed the ability to stop time, so that she could interrogate both of them individually. Was a little chronomancy too much to ask in this kind of situation?
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” Ingrid said.
“It’s a pleasure having you.”
Just say what you really mean! Stop communicating in mom semaphore! Shelby ignored the urge to scream.
“We’re all pleased,” Shelby said. “Let’s eat.”
Her mother frowned. “Are we keeping you from writing a conference paper?”
“No,” she mumbled.
“You must be hungry.” Mel turned to Ingrid. “She always gets a little fussy when she’s hungry. Isn’t there a slang term for that, now?”
“I believe it’s”—Ingrid’s tone was apologetic—“hangry?”
“What a perfect word.”
“Leave them alone,” her grandmother said. “Come help me with the gravy.”
“I could also help with that,” Carl exclaimed. “I’ll be your gravy copilot.”
She gave him a long look. “You’ll stay out of the kitchen. Understood, grabby?”
His expression fell. “Yes.”
Shelby and Ingrid set the table while Carl tried to think of reasons for sneaking into the kitchen. Ingrid turned the napkins into animals, which Shelby thought was a neat trick. Now they were dancing around the table in warm silence, but it wasn’t a tactic. It felt careworn and domestic, as if they’d been doing exactly this for years. Shelby imagined a future in which Ingrid was a part of her family. It seemed within reach. She could picture Neil listening spellbound to one of her grandmother’s stories, or delivering a lesson on snakish runes. She could see the delight in her grandmother’s eyes as she followed along. She’d always wanted a full house, brimming with conversation, and a busy kitchen at the heart of it all. It was right there. All she had to do was . . . something. But what? How could she move from this peculiar limbo to the hovering dream, where everything was bright and finished?
They sat down to eat. Shelby almost hip-checked her mother as she rushed to claim the seat next to Ingrid. Carl sat next to her grandmother, who made a subtle gesture with her knife when she caught him eyeing her potatoes. They were silent for a while. Shelby reviewed and rejected topics in her mind until she was tripping over thesis statements.
“You have a son,” Mel said. It was halfway between a statement and a question, as if she found the idea mildly curious.
“Yes. Neil. He’s five.” She seemed relieved to be talking about him, but the relief evaporated when nobody said anything else. “He’s a dragonrider, currently.”
Shelby’s grandmother chuckled. “When Mel was five, she wanted to be a unicorn. Even taped a wobbly pencil to her forehead. I thought she might put someone’s eye out.”
Carl stared at his plate. Shelby could see that his head was exploding.
Her mother actually smiled. “That was my finest hour.”
Shelby felt the unexpected need to rescue her. “Remember when I thought I was Spider-Man?”
“Thought? You were convinced.” Mel turned to Ingrid. “She even made web shooters and ran through the house yelling pew-pew.”
“Neil woke me up the other morning pretending to—” Shelby stopped in midsentence as her mother fixed her with an interested look. “On the couch, I mean. I was sleeping on the couch, and he woke me up. It was hilarious.” Her voice fell on the last word, and she found herself staring at the cutlery.
“Ingrid, are you from Regina?” Her grandmother’s voice was smooth.
“My . . . parents are from Alberta. I moved here for school.” Her hesitation over the word parents was like a car backfiring, but no one pursued it. Shelby felt as if they’d all been handed the wrong scripts for whatever this conversation was.
Her grandmother smiled. “Well. Family can be impossible, can’t it?”
After dinner, she tried to help in the kitchen, but her grandmother shooed her away. Ingrid was lost in her mother’s bookshelves. Carl ducked outside, and Shelby took the opportunity to follow him. The air was cool and felt strangely elastic. She could smell the roses in her mother’s garden. They were more real than she was.
“So full,” Carl groaned. “I needed some air.”
“Me too.”
“I think it’s going pretty well. Your mom seems to like her.”
Shelby rubbed her hands together ineffectually. “It seems that way. But the woman has no tell. I’ve never known what she was thinking.”
“Your grandma’s soft on her. That’s the most important thing.”
“She used to think that you and I were dating.”
Carl laughed. “What a shit-show that would have been.”
“Meh. I’ve always maintained that you’re charming at first.”
“Thanks.”
Shelby stared at the fogged window. “I shouldn’t have left her in there.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“I wish I could hang a piece of sackcloth over my grade school pictures. I don’t want her seeing them.”
“We’ve all got those pictures. I had a fierce mullet.”
“I could see you rocking that. I had glasses and headgear. Not flattering.”
“She’s into you. It’s obvious. Don’t stress yourself into a neurotic episode.”
Shelby sighed. “How long can we keep her in the dark?”
“We may as well spill it. Secrets have a way of biting us in the ass.”
“What am I supposed to say? That I went to the city of Egressus without her and met with Latona’s rival? Then lied about it?”
He winced. “It doesn’t sound great. Have you tried rearranging the words?”
“She doesn’t know that I’ve been trailing Andrew, either. Or that I met with Narses. Yesterday, I told her that nothing happened. My whole day was a non-event. What I should have said was: A shifty spado dragged me to a purple chamber, where a queen basically scared the shit out of me. I’m still dreaming about it, and not in a fun way.”
“We need her help. If you come clean—”
“—then what? Everything will be okay?” Shelby stared at him. “I don’t want to tell the truth. I want this.” She gestured to the house. “Whatever this is. If it’s a lie, then I don’t care. I want it. And her. And nothing. I don’t know. I can’t do this anymore.”
Carl’s expression changed slightly. She turned and saw that Ingrid was standing in the open doorway. Her mouth was a thin line.
“There’s ice cream,” she said.
Then she walked back inside.
PART TWO
TROVADOR
1
Naked again, but at least it wasn’t raining. The cobblestones were warm agains
t his bare toes, which he flexed, as if to ensure that they still obeyed him. Shadow played along the brickwork, making peaks and valleys. The sun was a reassuring presence on his back. Like a familiar hand, guiding him into a room. One of those small acts of tenderness that only seem to happen when nobody is paying attention. Babieca closed his eyes. If he stayed just like this, the world would continue to revolve around him. Everything would remain in its graven state, with his body in the middle, an insensate pin balancing a lock of impossible beauty. It couldn’t last. Julia was already on her way to the clepsydra. They had responsibilities, and she was still uncertain of her place in all this. However had he become the more certain one? He was no pack leader. Without Morgan and Fel to keep him in line, he was little more than a wastrel with a talent for strumming. Or a strumpet with a talent for wasting. He stared at his fingers, which were soft, unmarred by the calluses of a real trovador. His whole body was out of practice. What did they expect him to do?
He could dimly recall a conversation with Morgan’s shadow. You’ve got this. She’ll listen to you. Because he had no gens, no honor. Because he was a disaster, and some people collected them. He would fit perfectly on her shelf.
Julia was the guide. Their cranky artifex. And if anything happened, she might have something with gears that could provide a distraction. Hopefully it wasn’t just a pocket full of mechanical frogs. He couldn’t remember if those were still popular with the aristocratic set. Judging from the mosaics that he’d seen in wealthy houses, they’d already moved on to ducks.
All we need to do is get our hands on some goslings.
He reached into the brick wall and withdrew his bundle. The lute case was covered in a fine layer of brick dust. He drew out the instrument and played a few notes. It was still in tune. For a moment, he forgot that he was naked and full of questions. The alley disappeared. There was only the staff of notes and the sweet sting against his fingertips. The yellow moss rustled, as if pricking up invisible ears. The sunlight riddled his eyelids, until the world was amber stillness and fire. He and the music were alone with each other. They stayed like that, dancing slow, for a stitch in time. Then he stopped and became aware, finally, of the sweat on his shoulders, the light cramp in his hand. The alley, his sole audience, kept its opinions to itself. He replaced the lute and slowly dressed. There was a pebble in his sandal, which he couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how many times he shook it. His tunica was sour and needed mending in the worst way possible. The song was over.
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