by Shannon Page
Yes, said a little voice inside me. They can be entirely wrong.
They could also be entirely dishonest, couldn’t they? Come to think about it. Hiding such an enormous secret—that we are not necessarily infertile with humans—didn’t make me any more inclined to trust anything my elders told me.
I’d gotten through my life until this point largely on the strength of trusting my gut. Listening to my inner wisdom. Yes, listening to my parents and elders and teachers too—I would never pretend that I was some sort of self-made miracle paragon of wisdom and specialness—but it was when I questioned stuff and went my own way that I often learned the most. Made the breakthroughs. Got things done.
If I was going to raise this daughter alone, I would do it proudly. She would never feel the sort of shame and humiliation that Niad must have. She would know that I had had options, and that I had chosen the one that was best for the both of us.
I sighed, scratching Elnor’s ears absently. If only I knew what that was…
Well, there was only one way to find out, at least about this part of it. I sent a message through the æther to Jeremy. Would you like to come to my house for dinner tomorrow night?
There was an unusually long pause. He hadn’t left the area again, had he? It had been a few weeks since our dinner. We’d left it vague, but it had been a nice time. At least, I’d thought so.
I had almost decided that he was not going to answer when I got, Calendula! What a delight to hear from you. I would be honored to dine at your lovely home.
Come at eight?
Perfect. May I bring anything?
Just yourself.
I look forward to it. Then I felt the connection close.
— CHAPTER SIX —
Though my favorite food was takeout, I decided to cook for Jeremy. If I was going to raise a child, we couldn’t spend twenty years eating out of Chinese cartons.
Just another way coven life had ill-prepared me for anything other than…well, coven life. I could teach biology to witchlets all the livelong day, but my cooking skills were basic at best.
Nevertheless, a few hours before Jeremy’s arrival, I went into my kitchen, pondered the contents of the cupboards and fridge, and ultimately decided on carrot soup and grilled chicken sausages. Simple, but it should be tasty. How much could go wrong with soup?
Weirdly, as I got into it, I found I was rather enjoying myself. I didn’t even let Petrana help. It was true, what Logan had said all those months ago. Cooking wasn’t a whole lot different than brewing potions.
The warlock arrived at eight on the dot, carrying a paper bag in which I heard the clink of bottles. After I invited him in, he handed me the bag.
I pulled out a bottle of Zinfandel, and then another bottle with a label so fancy I could barely read it. Eventually, I figured out that it was a handmade shrub—lemon-rosemary. “I hope this is all right?” he said.
I looked up at him and smiled, surprised and pleased. “Yes, this looks amazing.”
“I knew that the healers are measuring your intake of fermented beverages, but you seemed to enjoy shrub when we last dined, so I took a chance.”
And how did you know that? I wondered, but I probably shouldn’t have. Nora and Manka worked with his father at the clinic, after all. And who’s to say what Shella and Gentian might have passed along? It wasn’t as though it was a secret. It might even make things easier for me, come to think of it. Not having to make weird excuses or half-true explanations every time I hung out with anyone. “It’s all perfect,” I told him. “It’ll go great with the meal.”
“The wine is for me—though you are of course welcome to have some should you like,” he added. “I’m not as big a fan of the vinegar drinks as you are.”
“No, this is great. Come on back to the kitchen—it’s almost ready.”
He followed me down the long hall. I handed him a corkscrew and two wine glasses. “Don’t think I won’t put you to work,” I said. “Wine for you and shrub for me, to start. There’s soda to add to it in the fridge.”
“I am delighted to help in any way I can.”
Soon we were sitting at the kitchen table with fragrant bowls of soup before us. “This is delicious,” he said, savoring a spoonful, wiping the corner of his mouth. He was unbelievably attractive. That, at least, had not changed.
“I’m glad you like it.” I took a bite of my sausage and chased it with soup. “I don’t have a lot of practice cooking.”
“No, I imagine not. I like what you’ve done with the seasonings.”
“Thanks.”
Then we ate for another few minutes. Blessed Mother, did we truly have not a dang thing to say to one another? I tried to remember how suddenly and fiercely we’d connected, in the wake of Logan’s demise. How he seemed to be the only person on the planet who understood what I was going through…who might even have shared the loss, though in a smaller way.
Was there truly none of that connection left?
“So—you’ve been busy lately?” I tried. Ooh, not awkward at all! I cringed inwardly.
His green eyes rose to meet mine. “Indeed, I have. As have you, I understand.”
“Oh?”
“My father tells me you’ve been by the research lab at the clinic a few times.”
“Huh.” I shook my head. “I actually haven’t seen your father in…some time. I didn’t realize he knew I’d been by. I’m working with Dr. Fallon, mostly—if I work with anyone there.”
Though of course, Gregorio was certainly monitoring me with this blessed ring.
“I spoke with him this afternoon,” Jeremy said. “He sends his regards, by the way. He was delighted to learn that we are dining together this evening.”
I’ll bet he’s delighted, I thought, then caught myself and gave Jeremy a smile. He doesn’t know anything, I reminded myself. He doesn’t know how badly he’s been manipulated—and by his own father. And you’re trying to like him. To repair things. They were good once. Before… “Please tell him hello for me,” I said. I took a sip of the shrub (it was scrumptious, by the way) and went on. “Jeremy, everything is so…sideways these days.” I put my hand briefly on my big belly before picking up my soup spoon again. “It feels like ten different lives are trying to be crammed into the space for one. We never even got to talk about…what we did to Flavius Winterheart…before you had to go to the Old Country. Can we…I don’t know, start again? Maybe have regular meals together like this—no expectations, just getting to know each other once more?”
He reached out across the table, taking my right hand in his. “Oh, Callie. Of course we can.” He squeezed my hand, his finger brushing against the family ring. “There is absolutely no trouble between us.”
I looked back at him, feeling both relieved and sour at his words. “I am happy to hear that,” I said, almost automatically. Yet anger flashed through me as I spoke; I felt my cheeks flush. Blessed Mother, I couldn’t do this. Dishonesty would never work. I dropped his hand. “No, that’s actually not true. Nothing about this is normal—we were pushed together by your father from the start, to the point where I don’t even know what’s real between us or not.” I stared at him, frustrated, stymied by how much I couldn’t say. “Then we had to basically commit murder together—and then you left for months, and we couldn’t even communicate.” I huffed out a breath and leaned back in my chair.
He started to say something, paused, and then started again. “I…confess I have not known what to do. I am glad you are speaking of it. You are entirely right—this is a very peculiar, very awkward situation.” He swallowed and glanced away before looking back up at me with a small, endearing smile. “I am a diplomat, and I do not know how to talk to the woman I love.”
My heart softened. “Maybe diplomacy is the problem here.” He was trying, I knew he was. It was me who had the secrets. But I couldn’t even let him guess that. No wonder he was confused. And for someone with greater than average emotional intuition…“Just, I don’t k
now, let’s get to know each other again. Like we did before.”
“I would like that.”
We smiled at each other across the table. Okay, still awkward, but with a little more comfort now. It felt more like we had a common problem we were trying to figure out together, rather than that we were at odds.
“Well, what shall we talk about?” he said, after a minute.
“I don’t know, anything,” I said, shrugging. “I do still want to hear more about the Old Country—what it’s like there, what it’s even like to travel there. What you did there. Anything.”
It was like a shutter fell over his eyes as I spoke. “I have told you, the last time we dined. I looked into things and got nowhere. I also did a few errands to help my father with his research.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, my irritation rising once more. “I know you can’t tell me his precious secrets. I just wanted you to tell me about, I don’t know, the markets and the architecture and stuff. I know the people don’t talk to each other, but I don’t even have a sense of what it looks like.” His gaze stayed closed. I shook my head. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
He glanced away again, then took a deep breath. “Calendula, please, can we not quarrel?” He reached a tentative hand across the table again; I took it. “I would very much like to start over with you, as you say. I miss you…I miss your touch, your smile, your wit and energy. I want to raise our daughter together, in any way that is acceptable to you. I feel that we have the potential to form an amazing partnership, romantically and magically. I have no secrets from you.” He emphasized the “I” just a bit, just enough.
Oh, how I wished I could say the same. For the millionth time, I wanted to slap Gregorio Andromedus, scream myself silly at him. I sighed, still holding Jeremy’s hand, feeling worse by the moment. Wondering what to do with this—this whole thing. “I’m sorry. Pregnancy is making me weird. Emotional.” I felt bad using the baby as an excuse, but it was certainly the easy way out of so many impossible situations.
“I understand,” he said. And maybe he did, who knew? “The Old Country has a bit of a, well, old-fashioned look, I suppose. I’m not sure if you would like it or not—it’s a bit rustic, without a lot of the modern conveniences of San Francisco—but there’s a quiet comfort there. An ease in not having to hide our basic natures.”
“That must be nice,” I said, thinking about it. It would be like coven life, I decided, except everywhere.
“Despite the coolness and reserve I spoke of before,” he said, “there’s a feeling of welcome. At least,” he added with a shrug, “I feel it. But then I was raised there. I don’t know what it would be like for an American visitor. I do know that tourists—”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” I said. “I still want to go there.”
He glanced at my belly, looking mildly alarmed. “Do you realize—”
“Yes, yes,” I said. “Not now, I know that. After she’s born.”
“Then we shall do that.” He smiled at me. “We will go there together, after you recover, when you and the child both are strong enough to travel. Perhaps in a year or two. I will be happy to take you, to show you the ropes. To help you with the travel.”
“Do you really mean it?”
His smile grew warmer. “I do, Callie. I very much do.”
“All right.” I took a sip of my shrub. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure if I believed him or not, but arguing wasn’t going to get us anywhere.
“You are most welcome.” He glanced down at his bowl. “I fear my soup has gone cold. Would you…mind?” He held his finger at the ready.
I laughed. “By all means. You don’t need my permission to work magic in my house.”
He focused a small heat spell at his fingertip and pointed; steam rose from the bowl. “How is yours?”
“I could use a warm-up too, thanks.”
Our time together passed more comfortably after that, at least for a while. We veered away from sensitive topics and tried our darnedest to do what we’d agreed to do: start over, get to know one another. I told him about going back to Rose’s Bar, how nice it was to reconnect with some of the younger witches in the community.
Then I found myself telling him about Gracie running off, likely to Los Angeles, and that I was worried about her. I’d sort of blurted it out without thinking…Leonora hadn’t said anything about not telling the community at large—in fact, she’d immediately contacted her coven-mother friend in L.A.—but I had this guilty sense of airing dirty laundry. Oh well, too late now.
“She’s fifteen?” Jeremy asked, frowning.
“Yeah.”
“Only five years from her majority. When I was fifteen…” He trailed off, his face darkening a moment. “But then, as I was just saying, this world is not that world. She is a magical practitioner: she will not have to fear the ill designs of mortal men.”
“That’s true.” I’d had that thought myself. Not that it provided a whole lot of comfort. “I just wish she would let someone know where she is, that she’s okay.”
“I don’t mean to minimize your concern, but she is almost certainly all right. You’ve mentioned that she’s willful, strong-headed? Not happy with the old ways?” His eyes twinkled.
“Yes, that’s our Gracie.”
“And powerful?”
“She is. She’s one of our strongest students.”
His smile was kind, gentle. “She does sound like a certain witch I know, and for whom I care a great deal.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I sighed, smiling back at him. “I guess I’m just practicing to be a mom.”
“You will make a marvelous mother,” he said, his tone turning entirely serious. But still kind.
“You think so?” I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Well, not entirely.
He nodded. “I do.”
We gazed at one another over our empty dishes for a minute. Then, “Well,” I said, as he said, “I thank you—” We both laughed.
Jeremy recovered first. “I thank you for the delicious dinner.”
“You are most welcome.”
Another pause. “I am happy to be seeing you again,” he said. “Shall we dine together again soon?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said. “It’s…a good idea.” There was so much more to say, but that was a good place to start.
“I won’t impose on your hospitality any longer,” he said, getting to his feet. “But may I return the favor soon? There’s a lovely little Persian restaurant in Pacific Heights I’ve been wanting to try.”
“Sure.”
He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, completely chastely. “I can see myself out.”
“Don’t even think of it,” I said, getting up and walking him to the front door. There, we smiled at one another again.
“I’ll be in touch, about dinner. Thank you again.”
And he left.
That was nice, I thought. Very nice. The fact that he hadn’t assumed I’d ask him to stay—hadn’t even acted like it was a thing that could happen—perversely made me think about it more.
But this was a good way to go about it, I told myself. If we were to find our way back together, it should be natural. Not forced.
Like the way we came together in the first place—after working a complex, good bit of magic together, in warding my house. And that only after weeks and weeks of friendly, emotionally important conversations, during which we were most expressly not courting one another. Our connection had grown organically…before the outside world had busted in and knocked everything over.
If there was any hope for us, that was how it would have to work again.
I was getting my life in order. What I could control of it, anyway. It felt important to at least do that.
So, a few nights after that second dinner with Jeremy, I pulled my dusty cell phone off its charger and called Raymond.
Naturally, I got his voicemail. “Hi,” I said to the machine. “It’s Callie. I’m sorry a
bout how we left things, and I’d like to get together to talk, if you’re willing.” What else? I thought. “I…have some news, which is probably best conveyed in person.” There, that ought to get his attention. “Call me.” I hung up and stood in the kitchen, a little stunned at myself.
Petrana was at the sink, washing my dinner dishes. Her movements were so natural, they were frankly starting to get a little Uncanny Valley. She still didn’t look like a human, exactly. But she was darn close.
See, you can do good work, I told myself.
An hour later, I was upstairs on my way to bed. I’d stopped to gaze into the nursery, still unsure about a wall color, when the cell phone rang.
I pulled the phone out of my dress pocket. “Hi, Raymond.”
“Callie.” He sounded wary. And who could blame him? “What’s up?”
“I was hoping maybe I could, um, see you?”
A pause. “Sure, I guess.” Then another pause. “Right now?”
“Whenever works for you. But soon, I hope.”
“Sure, okay. You wanna come here?”
That seemed only fair. “It’s not too late?”
He laughed. “Dude. I just got in from a gig. Won’t be able to sleep for hours yet.”
“All right. I’ll be right over.”
“Cool.” Another brief pause, then he added, “Hey, I got a thing to tell you too.”
“Okay.” I detected something in his tone…excitement? Happiness? Though still very guarded. “In person?”
“You bet.”
I dawdled a bit getting ready, wondering if I should change clothes. None of my jeans fit anymore, of course, not even with magical assistance. I was wearing a shapeless long-sleeved cotton dress, basic San Francisco black (i.e., faded), and stretchy leggings. I finally decided that that would do fine. I pulled on a pair of boots, rebraided my hair, and headed downstairs, thinking to call a taxi. I decided at the last minute to try this new Lyft thing I’d been hearing about for the last few years…yes, I know, even young witches live on a different timeline.
