Mayfair Manor

[Okimiyage]

For a long time, Rynn did not turn to look at Alistair. He had almost half-convinced himself that he would not be goaded when he found himself, very slowly, tipping the pile of books off the bed. As though possessed, he rose to his feet, gathered Alistair in his arms—one around his waist, the other tipping back his chin—and laid a slow, languorous kiss upon the other boy’s mouth.
It was different this time. There was none of the illicit urgency. They had time to explore each other’s bodies, with fingertip and tongue, coaxing forth gasps and moans that they did not have to muffle.
There was no need for words. They seemed to know one another’s desires instinctively—and that was the gift of witchcraft, was it not? Those preternatural senses that warned of danger so well could be so useful in other regards.
When they lay together, afterwards, spent, skin still wet with sweat, smoke coiling out of Airi’s cigarette like from the cherry-red maw of a dragon’s mouth, Rynn heaved a sigh and said, “I suppose at least now you can’t keep ragging me about how we only do it when we’re drunk, right?” He flicked an ember of a glance across his shoulder towards Alistair. “I’m sober enough to make my own decisions, alright?”
He shifted back against the eiderdown mountain of pillows, propping himself up on his elbows. “I like you. I’ll admit to that. I just don’t want to—to rush into anything, ok?” They had plenty of time to get to know one another, after all. Propping a hand up, he held out his fingers, questing for the cigarette that Alistair had started.
“I guess,” he said, after a ruminative drag, “It doesn’t matter who knows. Antha certainly seemed to expect it out of us ages ago…which was part of the reason why I was so reluctant to—to go through with this. For any of this to happen. Is that ridiculous?”
Maybe a little.
“And the other thing I was scared of—well, I’ve seen what Antha’s like with her lovers. It’s not that she uses people—not intentionally, at least. But I don’t want to be—“ he fell silent, trying to work out the way to say it least offensively. “—I don’t want to be a tool, you know? I don’t want to be trailing after you like Cian does her, picking up the pieces.”
The truth was, Rynn was scared of that kind of love. What happened to his brother, the old Cian, the one who didn’t give a damn about anyone other than himself? That Cian had been reliable, at least—one could always trust him to serve his own interests. The new Cian, dad-Cian, husband-Cian, that was a brother that Rynn didn’t know how to deal with. Not yet.
The scent of peonies and oranges filled the room like a thicket. Reaching idly out of bed, Rynn found his fingers could just barely graze the floor, and tipped the heavy leather binding closed. “You’ve still got to pick these locks,” he murmured, sleep slurring his voice. “Aedan would never forgive me if I broke his diaries.”
With that, he rolled over and pressed his face against his lover's chest. It was how they woke, several hours later, with the sun slanting through the blinds and Rynn's cheek neatly pressed into the crook of Alistair's arm.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Admittedly, Alistair was a little surprised when he suddenly found Rynn’s arms around him, their lips pressed together. He’d been teasing him more than anything, and hadn’t really expected him to respond. But Airi wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not this one, anyway.
The change in him was almost audible, a click as his eyes went dark and intently focused, the switch in his brain flipping to black mode. The beast.
Afterwards, half-buried in a haphazard mess of pillows, he gave Rynn a thoughtful glance over the cigarette that passed between them, humming to himself in thought. “You can’t judge anything by Evie,” he murmured, pausing to blow a smoke ring up to the cluster of glittering stars strung from the ceiling, “Evie’s a force of nature, a whirlwind. Have you ever tried to keep up with a whirlwind? It can’t be done. I don’t have that kind of reckless ambition. If anything, I’m…a lake.” Reclaiming his cigarette, he gave a little breath of a laugh to himself, the orange glow of the dying cherry illuminating his pale features. If either of them was a whirlwind, it was Rynn. He was the reckless, chaotic force that needed someone chasing after him, picking up the pieces. But this was one of those things that Alistair didn’t point out to him.

Like usual, Michael came to wake Alistair up when it was time. Unlike usual, he found the door locked and instead rapped his knuckles across it, gently at first. Alistair came to with a groggy start, glancing once at the door before disregarding the sound and burying his face sleepily into Rynn's hair, the arms wrapped around him tightening, cuddling him as affectionately as a teddy bear. The second knock caught his attention a little more, and with the invocation of his name and announcement “It’s time to get up for school”, he propped himself up on his elbows, yawning and ruffling his hair, calling back thickly, “I’m up, Uncle Michael.”
Michael’s feet creaked on the floorboards as he turned, and then went silent as he paused, hesitating. “Ah, by the way...” he murmured through the closed door, and there was a painstakingly withheld laugh to his voice that it took Alistair a moment to understand, “If there happens to be anyone in there who clearly didn’t sleep in his own bed last night, tell him to wait for you after your soccer practice after school.” His amused tone sobered all at once, suddenly concerned. “I don’t want any of you walking home alone with the Talamasca out in full force, not even you.” He’d said as much to Liesse moments ago when he’d woken her up, subtly hinting that he’d rather her wait for Airi and Rynn than walk home with Thorne. Thorne had his talents, but he was no Alistair.
“‘Kay…” Alistair mumbled, sitting up with some difficulty, and then hastily added, “I’ll tell him when I see him.”
Michael chuckled lightly. No one was under the illusion that he was fooled, but it was important to keep up pretenses, flimsy as they might be. That was the game. “Make sure to get your lunches,” he reminded them simply, and then returned to his room.
Alistair gave a great yawn when he was gone, reaching over to ruffle Rynn’s hair, and then fumbled for his alarm clock. “Damn it,” he groaned, glancing at the time and then throwing the clock back on his nightstand. Michael’s wake-up call didn’t take into account the fact that they hadn’t showered the night before, which was a problem. “We’re a little thin for time,” he murmured, leaning over to plant a kiss on Rynn’s lips before rolling over him and into the floor, hastily retrieving his school clothes from his wardrobe. Glancing at Rynn, with that bright and innocent smile that didn’t match his mischievously glittering eyes, he asked, “Should we take a shower together? It might save us a few minutes.” More likely it would cost them time, but it was a risk he was perfectly willing to take.

When he finally made it into the kitchen for breakfast, his hair still slightly damp at the roots, it was nearly time to leave. Thorne arrived while he was still hastily choking down eggs, looking a great deal less composed, yawning out a greeting to his cousins. “You’re running late,” he murmured, in an astoundingly lazy sort of observation.
Alistair glanced at him over his shoulder, himself fresh and carefully put together in his pressed uniform. “I had a long night.”
His cousin gave a little amused snort, leaning against the doorframe and toying with the camera in his fingers. “You should put that on a banner over the front door.” And then, glancing sidelong as he snapped a few idle pictures, pointed at the cabinets and asked Alistair, “Is she dead?”
He shook his head, polishing off the last of the food on his plate. “Probably not. She was still trying to get Bastien to sleep when I got home last night.” Taking up his backpack, he went over to the counter and grabbed his lunchbox, reaching over his sister who was half-standing and half-leaning against the cabinets, her head on her folded arms on the counter beside a stuffed bear and an empty bottle, fast asleep. “Evie,” her twin sighed, trying to gently shake her awake, “Go to bed.” But she didn’t even stir, at least until a moment later when the first tiny, distant cry began to waver upstairs and she startled awake, bleary-eyed and on high alert.
The dread had only just started to cross her groggy face when a door opened upstairs, Courtland calling down the hall, “I got it!” To the surprise of no one but Courtland himself, all of the infants began crying in reaction to the sudden loud noise, bringing a second, intensely less enthusiastic call of, “I don’t got it…”
Antha’s arm went up over her eyes, her shoulders heaving with a few helpless dry sobs. “I don’t even have the energy to kill him...”
Sympathetically, Alistair and Thorne patted her shoulders before filing out into the hall. She had gotten up two stairs before Michael came rushing out of his room, hastily tying the sash of his robe, with calming reassurances of, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” as he passed her. By the time the teenagers got to the front door, she was curled up on the stairs with the teddy bear in a chokehold, passed out again.
“Being an adult is rough…” Thorne muttered when they were out the front gate, shaking his head at the harrowing sight he’d just beheld.
“I think these circumstances are a little extreme,” Alistair pointed out, “By anyone’s standards.” Unconsciously, he rubbed the back of his head where Antha had smacked him the night before. Guiltily, he was a little glad she didn’t have the energy to scold them more this morning.
Changing subjects, Thorne leaned forward to look past Alistair, who he remembered was in the advanced class, and asked Rynn and Liesse, “Did you read Le Morte D’Arthur? We have a test today…or tomorrow…or something.”
Sighing, Alistair chastised him, “You are criminally irresponsible.”
“I know Arthur dies. I’m sure one of the questions will be that. And the chick sleeps with the other guy, and that one guy is somebody’s son, and he wants to…something.”
“You’re going to be in high school until you’re thirty,” was all Alistair said, shaking his head.
“You know the stupid book, why don’t we just put a purple wig on you and you can take the test for me? I’m always sleeping, none of the teachers know what my face looks like.”
“…I’m telling Lawrence on you.”
The chatter carried on the rest of the way to school, with Alistair eventually breaking down and giving Thorne an overview of the book---which he was likely to forget before he even made it to his first class---up until they reached the gate.
The Mayfair boys both stopped in their tracks, trading sidelong glances, and then immediately burst into laughter. Hearing the commotion, Tyler glanced in their direction, his face immediately contorting with a pout. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, bastards.”
“I told you she would kill you,” Alistair reminded him sweetly, going up to gently touch the black bruise blossoming around his eye and partway down his cheek.
“It was the wrong room,” he muttered irritably, slapping an icepack back over his swollen, blackened eye, “I broke in through the window, they all look the same…” Hurrying to change the subject, his good eye shifted between Rynn and Alistair, questioning suspiciously, “What were you two up to when I called last night?”
Airi smiled, as blindingly sweet and innocent as possible. “Mischief.”
Passing them on his way inside, Thorne gave his cousin a single critical glance, as if he had the whole thing figured out already but didn’t even care to mention it, murmuring, “Suspicious…”
“We’ve still got to go get our schedules from the office,” he pointed out to Rynn and Liesse instead, gesturing towards the school, “Shall we?”
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Tyler draped himself heavily against Alistair, letting the other boy half-drag him through the gate. “If we don’t have gym together, I’m going to throw such a bloody fit.”
Fortunately, they were spared that particular spectacle. Going over their schedules in the hall outside of the office, the usual crowd (and Rowan) busied themselves figuring out which classes they now shared. “So you have French with me first period,” Katie noted to Liesse, peering over her shoulder at the sheet of paper, “And both of you have art with Thorne and Holt, and gym with most of us after lunch.”
“Well look at that,” Gretchen murmured, grinning wolfishly as she looked over Alistair’s schedule, “We have the same schedule, except for music first period. I have Latin.”
“Rynn has Latin first period,” James noted, and then to Rynn added, “Me and Sid, too. And Geoff…”
“Why don’t we have anything except for gym together?” Tyler was whining to Alistair meanwhile, clinging to his shoulders.
“Because you’re a goddamn idiot and we’re exclusively AP students,” Gretchen answered for him, casting Ty a brief glare---she was still furious about him breaking into her room the night before, and it showed---and then, noticing the looks everyone was giving her, hissed defensively, “What? I’m here on scholarship, remember? It’s not my fault you ******** didn’t know I’m a genius.”
“You know,” Holt purred, sliding up next to her, “I’ve always thought smart girls were sexy.”
She kicked him, hard enough that he almost toppled. “I’m not writing your papers for you! You want a black eye, too? They’re on discount today.”
While everyone else was preoccupied with the spectacle, Alistair inconspicuously leaned in towards Rynn, whispering teasingly, "Think you can survive until lunch without me? You're awfully prickly with strangers."  

[Okimiyage]

Rynn woke up feeling woefully unprepared for the day. Between the two of them, Rynn hadn’t gotten much sleep. It took him a moment to register that the bedspread he was in the process of drawing over his head was of an unfamiliar pattern, and so was the rest of the room. Rynn jerked upright, like a puppet on strings, and snatched the covers up to his chest as though he had something there to hide. While Airi sauntered into the bath, cool as a cucumber, Rynn sputtered something incomprehensible about finding his clothes, and took the opportunity to depart speedily and without further embarrassment into the halls.
Luckily, the Mayfair household was in no shortage of bathrooms. They had to be, with the amount of traffic that the house conducted. Rynn didn’t even want to think about what their water bill was like. The Calais had never paid bills; merely sent a very useful charm via letter to the Osiris City Water & Gas department every month, with a haphazard sigil scrawled upon it which encouraged any reader to pass it over as paid in full.
When they finally met eyes again, it was at the breakfast table. Liesse was cooing over the children, but had made time to straighten Rynn’s mussed locks and see that his tie was on properly. Dorian was fiercely shaking bottles of formula at the counter when they entered. The new parents needed all the help that they could get, it seemed. Quickly downing his bowl of oatmeal, garnished with fresh strawberries, Rynn waved a spoon in greeting at his…bed-partner…of the previous night. Lover? Was it too soon to call it that? ‘Boyfriend’ seemed right out. Airi was a hot commodity, after all.
He hadn’t even made it halfway through the bowl when he found Liesse pushing a shiny black bag into his hands. “I’m not done!” he protested. “The bus is leaving,” she announced, as immovable as a train’s timekeeper. “And you’re going to be on it, like it or not.”
Rynn didn’t like it. The bus was loud, and much too crowded, and there wasn’t enough room in the back row for everyone. Liesse had miraculously acquired a tattered paperback of Le Mort D’Arthur and was frantically speed-reading through it as though she could compensate for years of English classes in fifteen minutes. Rynn half-heartedly peered at the archaic drabble over her shoulders for a few minutes before unapologetically giving up. He’d only read her mind later if it was necessary to cheat.
At the school, comparing their various schedules held Rynn’s attention for a few minutes. Liesse seemed enthused by her compatriots in French class—“‘Calais’ is French, you know,” she noted absently to Rynn, who ignored her. “When is this English test, anyways?” she wondered aloud, completely unruffled. “I haven’t even made notes on half the book, how much time do I have to study?”
Rynn, meanwhile, gave Alistair the side-eye. “I’ll be fine.” he said shortly. As long as the teacher wasn’t a colossal waste of brain matter, anyways. “We don’t have any classes together, huh? Probably a good thing. I don’t need any distractions, with my academic record.” Rynn wrinkled his nose in a way that would have been considered cute, if one hadn’t known the sharp tongue that resided below it. “Or lack thereof.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

At the house, a while after the teenagers had left for school, Antha came to a second time, muttering with dire urgency, “---‘s a bad bear---”. Her older brother paused, cautiously, his fingers lightly touching her forehead until she registered that there was no threat and he could continue brushing her hair aside. “Where am I?”
“The stairs,” he answered sweetly, seated beside her with his chin in his hand, “Was the evil teddy bear chasing you again?”
She blinked, briefly not comprehending the question, until her dream came back to her and she glanced down at the teddy bear wrested in her arm and hastily shoved it into his hands, giving a little impetuous pout. “It wasn’t evil, just…very large, and overly intent on hugging me to death.” And then, noticing the amused look on his face, muttered, “Shut up.”
While he giggled very quietly to himself, she rose unsteadily to her feet, dragging herself automatically up to the busy nursery. “Bash,” she sighed, taking her son from Courtland and gently rocking him on her shoulder, one hand cupped around his tiny head, “Sweetheart, please, you didn’t sleep all night. You’re a baby, you have to get your sleep.”
“Evie, are you really trying to reason with an infant?” Courtland murmured, cocking his head in sympathy, “He doesn’t know any of this, even if you tell it to him.”
Michael cut in before the murderously sharp glare she cast her cousin could amount to anything. “What time did you finally get him to sleep?”
The girl gave a little sound, somewhere between a whine and a sigh. “I don’t know, the sun was up. I went to put the empty bottle in the sink and the next thing I knew, Airi was waking me up.”
“Ok,” Courtland said, with a resolute sort of sympathy, holding his arms out firmly for the baby, “Come on, hand him over to Uncle Court. You need to go get some sleep.” She didn’t hand him over willingly, but resisted very little when he actively took the child, a dull expression crossing her face as if she was waiting for something.
Sebastien had been in Courtland’s arms perhaps ten seconds when, very suddenly, his calm cooing took a sharp turn into piercing shrieks. “What’d I do?!” Courtland demanded in a panic, wide-eyed as he tried desperately to soothe the infant.
“Nothing,” Antha sighed, holding her arms back out for her son, “He just isn’t content if it’s not me or Cian. It’s the same with Vanessa, they’re starting to recognize very concretely who’s mommy and daddy and who isn’t.”
“You’re not doing them any favors by indulging them,” Michael noted, with a very careful lightness of tone. She glared at him all the same, holding Sebastien protectively to herself.
“All the same,” Courtland continued, turning to take up Lily, “You have to get some rest. Tori said so. And it’s not good---” He only paused when Michael put a hand on his shoulder, following his gaze to where Antha was slumped over and passed out in the rocking chair, Sebastien sleeping quietly cradled against her chest. Cocking his head, Courtland asked quietly, “I’m not going to be that tired when Adair gets here, am I?”
Michael laughed outright, though he diplomatically tried to hide it. “Court…none of us is sleeping for the next six years.” And then, shrugging, added, “It’s the price we pay for the next generation to flourish.”
Henry, dutifully helping with his little cousins, paused to glance around himself. “You know…” he began, brows furrowing, “…it’s always a lot more calm when Aunt Evie’s in here.”
The others paused, likewise observing the situation. Though not entirely calm, the infants were all considerably less anxious than they had been only moments ago. “Her power, probably,” Courtland mused, casting Antha a brief glance, “They recognize it as friendly power, similar to their own, so it makes them feel safe.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Alistair briefly cocked his head. “I didn’t hear a thing,” he answered earnestly, and then flashed one of his usual dazzling smiles, with just a hint of mischievous amusement playing around the edges. “But I know you, Rynn. I can guess what you’re thinking.” His gaze flickered towards the others, making certain none of them were paying attention, before laying a fleeting kiss on Rynn’s lips. “You’re really too cute sometimes.”
On the way back, he walked with Gretchen. Airi wouldn’t step between Rynn and Liesse just as no one would step between Antha and himself. But he caught his furtive gaze a few times, meeting it with the flash of that mischievous grin. Gretchen rolled her eyes at the whole affair---her friends were goddamn morons not to notice any of this---but said nothing. She was at least a loyal friend.
Well…mostly. “Really?” she purred to Liesse, seizing on the brief scrap of conversation she had overheard, “You can’t tell? Even when Rynn’s as transparent as glass?”
“Stained glass, maybe,” Alistair added helpfully.
“Tyler’s stained glass,” she argued, “And you’re a freakin’ brick wall, but Rynn’s just glass.”
“What’s this?” Tyler joined in, curious, “Why is Rynn glass?”
“Because we can see right through him,” Gretchen answered, scoffing, “Obviously.”
“I can’t,” he argued, pouting slightly.
“That’s not saying much.”
“Oi!”
Rynn was at least spared further embarrassment by their arrival at Mayfair Manor. Which usually might not be enough to divert their attention entirely, but today like so many others, the house was in an outright uproar, a commotion going on audibly from the house and an unfamiliar and remarkably rundown car parked on the street out front. While Alistair surveyed the situation, the movement of shadows in the windows and the echo of shouts in the house, Thorne sighed and cocked his head, calling out to Courtland who was draped languidly out on a chair on the porch, “What’s happening?”
Courtland stretched, lazily, giving a halfhearted twirl of his hand in the air as his head lulled over to squint at the teenagers. “The apocalypse.”
“And the jallopy?”
That much brought a slow but wickedly delighted grin to Courtland’s lips, his eyes closed against the sun as he fought not to fall into a nap. “Ah…a fool with a death wish, if I had to hazard a guess.”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, I know the who. But the why…well, I’ll wait until the peril is passed until I ask any questions.”
Katie frowned, looking decidedly concerned. “Should we go?”
“Non, ma chere, non,” Courtland purred sweetly, giving an easy gesture of his hand, “By all means. Just stay out of the line of fire.”
“Now this is very important,” Alistair interrupted seriously, eyes narrowing at Courtland, “Is there literally fire?” That was at least one indication of his sister’s level of involvement.
“Mm…not so much fire, but…” He glanced at the door as the clatter drew nearer, and several moments later it burst open with a bang to produce an unfamiliar figure bolting out of it. Antha was mere seconds behind, in her rose-printed sundress, swinging Jack’s katana hard enough that it stuck in the wooden column when she missed her prey by an inch.
Malakai ran out a split second later, seizing his sister frantically around the waist and trying to separate her from the weapon as she attempted to pull it free. “Evie, no---Antha, stop!” She screamed demands that he release her, but her brother had stalled her just long enough that Michael and Armand had caught up and aided in restraining her, the three men struggling to drag her back into the house. For such a slight girl, she was shockingly nearly able to throw the three grown men off of her without particularly straining herself.
Her prey meanwhile, the unknown visitor, had stopped at the gate and gave a heavy sigh of relief when Antha was subdued, sweeping a hand back through the sharp, unkempt waves of her dark bronze hair. Recovering, she glanced behind her at the teenagers with warm brown eyes, blinking curiously at them before giving an abrupt sound of delight, spinning on her feet to lean against the gate. “Good god, are you Thorne? You’re all big and grown and…lavender.” The boy’s brow furrowed, his head cocking as he studied the girl. She was familiar in a distant, maddening way, singularly pretty with the faintest spray on freckles on her tanned skin. She certainly didn’t look like anyone they would know, in cheap white shorts and a flowered camisole, sun-kissed and far too calm for someone who had been on the other end of a sword from Antha only moments ago.
He worked with what little he had on the spot: she was in probably her early or mid-twenties, of a ridiculously sunny disposition, from out of town---somewhere hot, sun-drenched---not rich, and not frightened of Antha when she wasn’t an immediate threat.
Thorne stilled, his face relaxing and eyes darkening. “…Melody.”
The girl grinned, amused at how long it had taken him, and leaned against the gate, making an indication with her hand to a spot at about waist-level. “You were like this tall last time I saw you.”
“You were fleeing on threat of death last time I saw you,” Thorne responded in a flat murmur, “Antha stood on the city walls and promised to kill you with her own hands if you ever came back.”
The girl nodded somewhat grimly, sighing and frowning. “It’s a threat she’s trying very hard to keep.”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed sharply. “What could be so important that you’d risk death by Antha to come back here?”
That brought the good-humored grin back, one finger pressing to her lips for silence. “It’s a secret,” she whispered melodically, and then shrugged, “At least for five minutes, until Courtland finds out and tells everyone.”
“I resent that,” the boy in question called from the porch, his voice thick with a hangover, “I am a grown-up now. I am married, and expecting a child, and studying family business…things, and I do all sorts of other responsible grown-up thi----gah!” There was a brief clatter, and then a moment of silence. “…I fell. Shut up. Just shut the ******** up.”
Melody fell into unrestrained and appropriately melodic laughter at that, leaning easily back against the fence. It wasn’t hard to see what had drawn Malakai to the girl when they were teenagers; if Liesse had a light that was sweet and dazzling and Antha had a light that was overpowering and blinding, Melody’s light was warm and comfortable, pure sunshine. “As many things that physically change around here,” she sighed with sweet nostalgia, “Nothing really changes, does it?”
Courtland grinned guiltily, shrugging that he couldn’t argue, but could say nothing before Malakai came back through the door. He stood at the top of the porch steps, his hair mussed and collar ripped from the fight with his sister, eyes bewildered, and floundered for words before finally throwing his hands up and demanding, “Why? For the love of all that is holy, Melody, why?”
The girl smiled, vaguely apologetic but equally amused. “I have a good reason, I promise.”
Inside, Antha shouted something unintelligible and one of Julien’s vases shattered on the floor. Malakai, groaning and raking a hand back through his hair, dropped down onto the top stair as if he just couldn’t anymore. He was at least spared the effort of anything more by his father following him out the door, glancing once at his son and then to Melody, shaking his head. “You must have a death wish.”
“Hello, Michael,” she greeted him sweetly, all amused smiles, “You look well.”
“And you look different,” Michael murmured, brows furrowed as he took in her appearance.
Melody just smiled, putting a hand to her chest and explaining as if it was an accomplishment to be proud of, “My parents cut me off. That was…oh, six years ago? It was literally right after we left here. But never mind that.”
“You mentioned having a good reason for returning from exile?” Michael prompted her suspiciously.
“Ah, right. That.” Briefly, she appeared to be nervous, her smile strained and eyes darkening as she searched for the words. “You see, I have something of Dorian’s that I have to give back to him.” Before the gathered party---the three Mayfairs on the porch and the teenagers lingering by the fence, too fascinated to move---could even begin to speculate what that meant, Melody slipped out of the gate and to the junked car parked on the street, opening the passenger’s side door. “Come on, Maggie. It’s all right now, come on.”
Courtland immediately perked up, like nothing so much as a dog that had heard a car in the driveway, eyes focusing on the child that climbed out of the car. For a moment his mouth just hung open, eyes wide, before he turned and scrambled into the house, screaming, “Evie! Dorian!”
“Melody, you---” Malakai momentarily didn’t know what to say, returning to his feet in shock. “…why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t want to,” she answered quietly, shaking her head, “When I found out…” Her hands, resting on the child’s shoulders, reflexively closed down over the little girl’s chest, drawing her protectively in against her. “I didn’t want to get your family involved. It seemed easier that way.” The Mayfairs present all read adeptly between the lines, that Melody had been afraid the family would take her child away from her. She was probably right, given the circumstances.
Courtland returned with a clatter, dragging Dorian and Antha out the door with him, with the rest of the family behind them. Antha, perfectly prepared to strike again, froze where she was, eyes narrowing at the little girl in the yard. “Is that…?”
Melody cleared her throat, somewhat nervously, her fingers fluttering on the girl’s shoulders. “This is my daughter,” she confirmed, nodding, “Magdalena.”
While the Mayfairs stood silently, processing that fact, Magdalena glanced first up at her mother and then curiously back at the strangers on the porch, idly fingering the plastic Cinderella locket strung around her slender neck. She was undeniably Mayfair, with her impossibly fair complexion and golden curls, her wide eyes that particular shade of Mayfair china-blue. Courtland caught her gaze as she looked them over, her head tilting ever so slightly---it would have been a calculated gesture with anyone else, an older girl, but it came to Magdalena so naturally, that very slight tilt that brought her corkscrew curls sliding over her shoulder like liquid gold, catching the sunlight, baring the pale expanse of her graceful neck---and the thick fringe of her dark lashes fluttering in a way that was innately and undeniably flirty.
Courtland clapped a hand over his mouth, astonished, and finally said, “If that’s not Dorian’s child, I’m a tree frog.”
“You’re not kidding,” Melody murmured, with all the weariness of a mother raising an impossibly precocious little girl, idly straightening the strap of Magdalena’s frilly dress, all cheap taupe tulle with a little flower on one side. Even if she couldn’t afford to dress as the Mayfairs did, Magdalena always insisted on being the little lady in her delicate dresses and patent leather shoes, a plastic pearl headband placed very meticulously in her lush and shining hair.
In Jack’s arms, Olivier squinted at the people in the yard and then glanced back at his uncle, exclaiming curiously, “Uh-oh?”
Jack gave a sharp grin, patting the toddler on the top of his head. “Uh-oh indeed. Uncle Dorian is just full of uh-oh’s lately.”
For a moment, Antha just stood staring at the child, studying her. It wasn’t just her manner, which was undeniably reminiscent of Dorian, she looked like him, too. She had his eyes, his nose, his chin, his perfect little golden curls. And she must have been about six, she thought, which would have matched up with Melody and Dorian’s singular affair.
Antha’s eyes narrowed, her voice dark and severe. “We need to talk.”
Melody nodded, sighing as if she expected it. “Maggie---”
The little girl immediately pouted, giving her mother a distinctly dramatic look. “Mama, you promised!”
Once again, Melody rolled her eyes, laying a heavy hand on the child’s head. “I am so very sorry, little Miss Lady Magdalena Elaine.” The girl settled, mollified despite the sarcasm. “Now you be a good girl and stay with your uncle---you remember mommy talking about your Uncle Michael, don’t you?” Magdalena nodded. “You stay with him while I have a chat with your father.”
Peculiarly, that word seemed to set the child off. She immediately seized her mother around the waist, her eyes narrowing intensely at Dorian as she clung to Melody. Quickly, Michael stepped in, coaxing her with his warm smile and the offer of his large hand. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take you to meet your cousin.” She momentarily pursed her lips, staring up at Michael, before the most charming little smile crossed her face and she daintily placed her hand in his, her eyelashes fluttering.
Dorian’s child indeed, Michael thought. So thoroughly his child that she was bound to drive him even crazier than he’d driven his aunts and uncles with his exploits.
When Michael had taken her inside, Melody gave a heavy exhale, shaking her head. “She’s not exactly fond of Dorian,” she murmured ruefully, “She…I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but she had all of these romantic ideas about where she came from. It’s all princes and fairies in her brain---it’s probably my fault, I let her watch those Disney movies until she knew every word by heart before she was four. When I brought up a concrete father figure, it just crushed her. She refused to come, I had to practically drag her.”
“Perhaps we should have a word inside,” Antha suggested sharply, her gaze flickering in the direction of the teenagers.
“Don’t mind us,” Alistair called, offering his hands up in innocence, “We were just going to my room to play very loud video games.”  

[Okimiyage]

Stepping out of the car, Rynn paused to take in the scene, his eyes widening for only a moment before they narrowed into slits. More of Dorian’s nonsense. He really couldn’t fathom what any of these women saw in that man.
Antha had only been out for a moment before feverish, siren-pitch wails followed. Cian trudged out of the house behind Antha, a child on either hip, and a somewhat wearied look on his face. He brightened somewhat when he saw the children approaching, but only for a moment.
“I’m afraid we’re setting horrible examples as parents,” he said, apologetically. If he’d had a hand to wave to the busload of white-faced schoolchildren as it pulled away, he would have. “Antha, put the sword down, we’re giving her Dorian. I think we all agreed on that, yes?” He nodded towards Melody, with a wry smile—“We’re only half-joking when we say we’d love for you to take him off our hands.”
“I agreed to nothing,” said a familiar, arch tone from the doorway.
Dorian was there, wearing a faintly sour expression. He uncrossed his arms from his chest—his attire today had a distinctly billowing quality to the white sleeves, and against his tapestried double-breasted vest. Stepping forward, the sunlight caught strands of white gold in his hair, and made it jangle against one's sight, splintering off into a halo. Overall, he had quite a painterly effect--one could not quite discern wither it was fae glamour or Mayfair magic.
“Melody,” he greeted her. “Lovely to see you again. I’d welcome you to my…temporary…lodgings, except that Antha has made it quite clear that she’ll—” he made a vague, twirling gesture with one hand, which ended with him sliding a finger across his throat. “Well, you know.” He crossed his arms again, and cocked his head to one side ruminatively for a moment—his gaze dropped to the toddler clinging to her leg, before traveling back up to her face again— and broke out into a sunny smile. “You haven’t aged a day. Must be all that healthy living you get out in the countryside. Where have you been hiding, anyways?”
Cian rolled his eyes. Vanessa stared wide-eyed at her mother, then reached out uncertainly, grasping for the katana, and blurbled something incomprehensible. “Really, Dorian, the theatrics aren’t necessary.” The other man’s response was instantaneous and waspish. “Antha gets to chase her guests around the house with a katana, I can’t get away with a little old-fashioned hospitality?”
Cian pointed out that one of his children had been sick over the shoulder of Dorian's billowy white blouse, and the two fell to pointed barbs and argument.
"Anyways, you're accountable. You've got to take her in," Cian finished with, calmly jiggling Sebastien on his hip.
"Like hell, I am." Dorian had gone stiff as a lightning-rod.
"I already have three little monsters to take care of, how are we going to accommodate a fourth? And--and anyways, where's the court? Where's the custody agreement?"
He had been trying very hard since he had stepped outside to avoid the gaze of his offspring. Finally, she succeeded in drawing his gaze. Bluebell met bluebell, unmistakably, and one hardened into a cold, princely sapphire.
"We haven't spoken once, in this whole time."
he said, in a low, hard tone, but his eyes took a long while to leave the child's. Finally, gaze stung like thorns, as it swept up to the child's mother.
"What were you thinking, Melody? Why hide her away for so many years? Why come back now?"

Rynn grimaced. It was weird seeing Cian so…domestic. And Dorian turning the charm on like a faucet—hell, even Rynn could see what Liesse saw in him, for half a moment.
Only half a moment, though, because that’s all Alistair allowed him. Catching his—lover? Friend? boyfriend? by the fingers, Rynn found himself being pulling up the steps of the Mayfair Manor porch, two at a time. He couldn’t tell whether Alistair had been prompted to run away out of sheer embarrassment, or out of eagerness for what was to come.
At the threshold, he paused, and caught Airi by the collar as he swung about. Glancing from side to side, with narrow, gold-tinged eyes—making sure that the hall was clear, and none of their classmates had yet to follow in their wake—presumably captivated by whatever was happening on the lawn—Rynn leaned up close, and laid a kiss across Alistair’s soft mouth.
To tell the truth, he’d been aching to do so since the soccer match. It was only the misfortune of their surroundings which had prevented him.
“Can’t we—“
He began, and then stopped himself.
He didn’t know what he’d been asking.
Can’t we go somewhere?
All away from it, this mess, this tangle of heartstrings that was occurring below, the throb of footsteps on the stairs, Liesse’s and others—all eager to escape the situation on the porch—
Rynn didn’t know how to verbalize any of it. For a second, his head ducked—he buried the crown of his skull against Alistair’s collarbone, and clenched his fists hard into Airi’s hands…

[The Airship]
A rusted door shook the hallways of the dirigible with a mighty CLANG
It had been so long since it was opened, no-one knew what it was for
The corridor had been boarded up long ago
Now, on the other side, came a scritch-scritch-scritch
of long claws digging into the dry wood

Rynn’s head jerked up, and he pulled away from Alistair so fast and hard that his spine thudded into the panelling. “Did you hear that?”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Briefly, Antha was completely distracted from Melody’s presence. She was looking instead at Dorian, eyes dark and dangerously sharp. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed of you than in this moment,” she announced flatly, and took a pointed step away from him. Courtland, leaning languidly against one of the columns with his arms folded, shot him a look and murmured, “Thus marks the day Dorian became our generation’s Julien. Careful little Maggie doesn’t take a lesson from Antha and shove you down the stairs.”
Melody, at least, was more straightforward than his cousins. She really hadn’t expected anything more than that from Dorian. “I didn’t bring her to you,” she responded directly, as if the idea was too ridiculous to even begin to consider, “I brought her to your family.” And then, disgruntled, she forced her attention back on Antha. She hadn’t counted on Antha---little, tiny Antha, twelve years old when she’d left, with the most murderous temper and obsessive relationship with her brother---to be married with children. It was a massive stroke of luck; they understood each other in that moment, as one mother to another, no matter how badly Antha wanted to kill Melody. “There’s no point in being coy about it,” she sighed, with that brittle smile and a shrug of her shoulders, “I’m dying. Every specialist in California has told me that with the best treatments and care, I’ll be lucky to survive another six months. My parents won’t have anything to do with Magdalena, I tried, but they’ve never even seen her. But I can’t just leave her to the state, to child services, growing up in foster homes. I really, really didn’t want to bring her back here, to this house, this…” Her gaze flickered towards the teenagers, most of them outsiders. “…this whole situation.” The magic, the blood, the awful preternatural politics. And the incest…no one had ever had to tell Melody that whatever existed between Antha and Nicolae was absolutely unholy, twisted, or why Mary Beth’s children took so strongly after her brother. “But I didn’t have a choice. You’ll be the only family she has left.”
“Poor little lamb…” Courtland whispered sympathetically.
“Melody, you---” Malakai had hardly heard the end of her explanation. He was still stuck on the one part, eyes wide, moving unsteadily down the last few stairs into the yard. “You’re dying? Why? What’s the matter? Surely there’s something that can be done?”
But the woman shook her head, trying to dismiss the unpleasant topic as nonchalantly as possible. “A rare brain tumor, they tell me. But what do you want to get into that for? I’ll explain later.”
As he usually did, Courtland obliged, changing the subject. “Well we’d hardly leave our own flesh and blood to the custody of the state.”
“Certainly not,” Antha agreed in a murmur, shooting Dorian a scornful glance.
The only person who openly opposed it, peculiarly, was Magdalena herself, who shot out of the house and directly back into her mother’s startled arms, screaming, “No! I won’t stay, I won’t! I hate him, I’d rather go to an orphanage! He doesn’t want me anyway, just take me back home!” Melody was instantly alarmed, trying desperately to calm the little girl. What this told Antha was that it was a recent change, and she took a moment to consider what might have brought it on as Magdalena fled to the car and shut herself in the backseat, screaming, “I hate him! You can’t make me live with him, I won’t!”
Jack and Antha glanced at each other. They’d figured it out at about the same time, Jack for intensely personal reasons. “‘I already have three little monsters,’” Jack quoted Dorian, pointedly.
“She heard him?” Antha asked, looking at Henry peeking through the door, and the boy nodded guiltily.
“Then I don’t blame her,” Courtland announced decisively, “She wouldn’t be the first of us to wish death on a father who wanted his other children and not her.”
“Oi,” Jack interrupted, lowly but bitterly sharp, flickering a poisonous glance in his direction.
Courtland flashed a bitter, apologetic smile. “Sorry, cher.” Pushing off from the column, he made his languid way down the stairs and after Melody, who was struggling to reassure her daughter that it was alright and she should please come out of the car now. “Ah, ma petite, qu’est que?” Hastily, Melody stepped out of the way, letting Courtland stand in the car door smiling at the child. Magdalena was weak to handsome men, her mother knew that, especially princely types. Courtland, elegantly dressed, with his white-gold curls and bright blue eyes, giving her that charming smile and gleaming in the sunlight like a knight in shining armor, was the most likely person to coax her out of the car.
“As I said,” Antha continued to Melody, “We need to talk.” She nodded, briefly looking at Magdalena, but the child was utterly taken with Courtland, it would take hours for her to even notice her mother had gone. “Don’t worry, Dorian,” Antha said icily as she turned on her heel and headed into the house, “Nothing to concern yourself with, Melody and I can work it out. It is only your firstborn child, after all.” Not for the first time, Antha found herself immensely appreciative of Cian. She would’ve sooner killed Dorian than entrust him with her child.
Not that Melody had a lot of choice in the matter.
“Don’t try to say it’s not your fault,” Antha added suddenly, stopping in the doorway and looking back at Dorian, “Don’t you dare pout and whine and excuse yourself with ‘well, how was I supposed to know’ this time.” She knew him too well, and Dorian was never terribly creative with the little excuses he made to get himself off the hook. “I’m sure this is overwhelming for you, but she’s your daughter, Dorian. She’s probably dreamt of this moment her entire life, finally meeting her father and you…you bitched that you didn’t want her. No, worse than that, you made the excuse that you already have three children, so you don’t want her.” Her eyes were briefly cold and hard again, scornful. “As if losing her mother so young wasn’t enough, she’s probably going to carry this trauma around with her for the rest of her life, just like the rest of us neurotic, technically orphaned bastards. No, this…this is by far the single worst thing you’ve ever done, Dorian.”
On the porch, the other ‘technical’ orphans kept sullenly silent. This whole ordeal struck a raw and deeply personal chord with them just as it did Antha, and as it should have with Dorian, to their minds. He’d been abandoned by his own father and lost his mother when he was young, it was the only reason the family put up with any of his s**t.
Having helpfully taken Vanessa from Cian, somewhat soothed by the presence of her infant daughter, Antha narrowed a more level gaze at Dorian, continuing evenly, “I don’t care what you meant or didn’t mean, what you think you should be held responsible for or not. You could be perfectly and overwhelmingly right on both accounts and it wouldn’t matter one bit. You’re her father, Dorian, you have the unique ability to absolutely destroy her for life with one careless word. And there’s nothing you can do about it, no way to absolve yourself, you can only take responsibility.”

Inside, alone in the atrium, Alistair gave a little laugh beneath his breath, meeting the furtive but eager press of Rynn’s lips. “Do you want to get caught?” he whispered teasingly, his fingers sneaking up beneath his blazer, “With all the family just outside, our friends coming in any second now…” But he kissed him back regardless, shamelessly. Alistair didn’t particularly mind getting caught…assuming there was anyone in the house who hadn’t figured it out yet.
The sound of Magdalena and Henry’s footsteps began heading for the front door and Alistair quickly seized Rynn, darting behind the staircase where they were out of sight. Jacob, heading to the kitchen to put on tea for their guests, tactfully pretended to be oblivious to their presence. He’d been working in the Mayfair household a long time, ignoring clandestine meetings in the public spaces of the house was just second nature to him.
Distracted, Alistair glanced at the ceiling, murmuring in response to Rynn, “Nothing…just the airship, and something assumedly terrible within it. Don’t worry, there are locks upon locks upon a dozen magical barriers on the door, it can’t be connected to the house unless one of us opens it.” And, though he didn’t say it aloud, they’d already begun the process of severing the portal outright. It would never be a complete break, the Mayfair familial spirit had left that rift in its wake after its long imprisonment, but it would take just the right conditions and a very specific sort of witch to get through it.
Outside, Antha was lecturing Dorian and Alistair judged that the whole lot of them were about to flood back inside in a moment. Drawing Rynn very intimately close, he pressed another kiss to his lips, soft and lingering, before whispering in his ear, “Meet me in the gardening shed tonight, at midnight.” And then he released him, in precise time before Antha came stalking irritably by towards the kitchen. By the time the next cousin came scampering after her, Alistair was already standing beside his bedroom door, very innocently, waiting for his friends.
“Is your family always this dramatic?” Gretchen demanded in exasperation.
Airi grinned, guiltily but without a shred of remorse. “More so. Much more so.”  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian had just about had enough.
His eyes focused on something distant, although they stared at nothingness, and he took a deep breath as though preparing himself for something important.
“She didn’t tell me,” he said, in a low voice, at first for Antha’s ears only.
“Six years, and not so much as a word, you know that.”
His eyes lifted, unseeingly focused across the yard. His voice was disturbingly level, curiously void of any emotion, but each breath that he took seemed labored, and his right hand closed itself into a fist in a vain attempt to keep from trembling.
“And now, now she comes back, in her time of need, and I’m just supposed to—“
Inside the house, three of the old brass oil lamps in the foyer shattered at once. Dorian barked laughter, and Cian swore. “For ******** sake, Dor, those were antiques—look, now there’s glass all over the rug, you thoughtless a*****e—“
“I didn’t want this, Antha. I never asked for this. I was never prepared to be a parent—like Cian, like you—Instead, I have been saddled with the responsibility for three lives overnight and now, now, I am supposed to take on a fourth!!”
He whipped around, possessed of sudden energy, and threw his fist into the frame of the door, which thudded in a way that echoed through the house, although he could not possibly have possessed so much strength, and Cian could feel the wards of the home tremble, and hear the voices of Dorian’s children rise in a chorus of hollow wails above that seemed to warp at the ear into a kind of keening, banshee song. He felt his gaze drawn to Antha, without cause, and was struck by the thought—if the children’s mothers were banshees, foretellers of death, it was almost certain that their natural instinct must have been to sing for her…
“I am not ready for this. I’m not whining. I’m not making excuses. I am telling you, in plain terms, what I know myself to be capable of, and this is not it.” Dorian shook his head, blonde curls sloughing over his eyes, mercifully dispensing with their curiously void stare. “I don’t know how to be a dad to one kid, let alone four, and the only fathers I knew growing up were the ones I saw on television. I don’t even have a home of my own, much less any sort of disposable income that isn’t backed by this family—and you know exactly what I mean when I say that, and don’t pretend it isn’t the same reason that Melody hasn’t spoken to us in six years, and the same reason that you’ve been bucking and kicking against the Legacy for as long as you’ve been Designee, and the same reason nobody looked for me when I disappeared for goddamn months—and yet, despite all that, I’m not allowed to be anything less than completely enthusiastic about taking in another child in this situation?” Dorian’s whisper had become a kind of snarl, and although he had made an attempt to keep it hushed, the other conversation had died away until there was nothing left but the savage venom in his voice, cutting through the air between them like a hostile gust of wind.
He wanted to grip his skull in his hands, wanted to howl out some obscene indictment of the whole situation, to pull on his coat and rush out of this damn house, out to some filthy dive bar where he could buy and swallow two small pills that would make the world soft and fogged-over and a little less cruel, for a few hours. Dorian remember to take a deep breath, but it was a strained effort.
“You can’t make me play house, Antha. You may have your perfect nuclear family unit now, but it’s not so simple for the rest of us. And you, of all people, ought to understand why I’m terrified—I’ll admit to it, freely—why I consider myself no fit subject to become a father. I mean…” and he gave a hollow little laugh, a faint echo of his normally legendary charm, and gestured around at the rest of them. “Look at how we all turned out. Do you really think that any of us have a snowball’s chance in hell at giving these children a normal family life? Or a safe one? It’d be kinder to name a legal guardian at this point, or give them to some kind of institution. But that wouldn’t suit you, would it? Antha Mayfair is so sure she know what’s best for everyone in her whole damn bloodline—”
Something above them thudded in the nursery, and the children’s wails rose sharply in pitch.
Dorian threw his gaze at the stairs, and swore, softly, under his breath. The hard, empty look in his eyes softened a bit, filled back up halfway with that which was recognizably Dorian, the romantic, princely fellow that had charmed the socks (and pants) off Melody in the first place. The glance he gave to Antha was slightly disgruntled, but it was a lot more human than the vicious-nervous-breakdown-robot that had previously inhabited his body. “And, look, if you’re going to get onto anybody about traumatizing kids, maybe put the katana back where it goes in the study and stop threatening to decapitate people’s mothers in front of them.” With that, he marched past Antha—even stricken by blind rage, Dorian knew better than to push past her, particularly when Antha was holding her infant daughter—and took the stairs two at a time, wishing it felt less more like a triumphant march away from the battlefield than running away from a little girl on the front lawn.
Truth be told, Antha had hit him where it hurt. Dorian, mule-headed and beautifully ego-centric as he was, just didn’t want to admit it. Guilt and shame warred against the fear of inadequacy, the anger borne of abandonment, the indignity of being asked to play papa after six years of being cut out of this little girl’s life, never once so much as invited to a birthday or even told she existed. What was he supposed to do? Pretend that anything about this was fine?
Closing the door of the nursery behind him, the piping whimpers of his children began their barrage against his aching temples. And above, faintly and persistently, through the walls of the house and, in a way, beyond--little rat claws scritched at the corridors of the airship--

Downstairs, Cian picked his way through the broken glass and glanced towards the staircase. “So that’s how Dorian deals with pressure, huh? He’s right about one thing, you know—he really doesn’t seem ready to be a parent.”
Liesse looked uncertainly after her brother, then towards the stairs, and finally back to the car, where Magdalena was clinging to Courtland’s leg. She had only the vaguest memories of their own father, but they were not…happy ones. Was it better to have a living father who was as cold and distant as a star, or a father immortalized and idealized by absence?
Liesse didn’t have the slightest interest in video games, but she welcomed the chance to escape, after Alistair announced their exit cue. They hurried down the hallway—Rynn and Alistair had disappeared with almost supernatural speed—and came up behind her brother, who was rather flushed.
“I don’t see how you can be so distant. Did you not see the row out there? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Antha so pissed at Dorian, and that precious little girl…”
“She’s too cute for her own good, and acts like she already knows it. If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be a total brat,” said Rynn flatly. “And Dorian, idiot that he is, has a point. We don’t have the room for another kid, unless we want to start doubling up in the beds—“ Although Rynn could think of someone who potentially wouldn’t mind all that much if they did, “—and besides, Dorian is…well, for starters, he’s even less responsible than Cian used to be, and he acts like he’s only here because he’s been blackmailed into it, and I wouldn’t wish him on any child as a father. The man looks good in family portraits, and that’s about it.”
Liesse looked startled.
“Well, I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings on the matter—“
“I’m allowed to hold an opinion that someone’s an idiot if they consistently behave like one—“
“How’s he been an idiot? He’s probably just scared—“
“Well, showing fear in front of Antha, for one, although I’m pretty sure she can smell it on people—“
“—and he probably feels so isolated, it’s not like he has anyone to share the burden with, and none of us have exactly been sympathetic—“
“As it should be! He got himself into this mess. Maybe if he spent less time partying and running off to sulk at the drop of a hat, there’d be nothing to worry about in the first place!”
Above them, a door slammed. Rynn jumped, remembering the noise from before, and shut up.
“…anyways, do you know anything about ‘Super Mario Kart?’ Alistair said he would teach me how to play racing games.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Of all the Mayfairs, it was Jack who was most clearly upset by Dorian’s outburst. Antha had narrowed her eyes, Armand had sighed and rolled his, and Michael had pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, but Jack was clearly and overwhelmingly pissed. It took all of Malakai’s strength to restrain him when his hand had come up, instinctively itching to punch his stupid goddamn face. “You son of a b***h,” he had hissed, nearly hysterical with outrage, shaking with it, “Have you not learned one goddamn thing growing up in this family? Are you so ******** spiteful that you’re this determined to see it all happen the same way all over again?”
“Jack,” Antha began lowly in warning.
“No! Don’t ******** try to hush me, he’s doing the same thing to her that my mother did to me, that Julien did to you, that Julianne did to Courtland---”
“Jack!” The rest of the family went quiet at this outburst, less for the frighteningly sharp tone of her voice than the abrupt and suffocating flare of her power that nearly paralyzed the whole lot of them. It rose out of her like a snake, in the blink of an eye, winding around the witches and threatening to suffocate them. At the foot of the stairs, she seized Dorian roughly by his wrist, refusing to let him escape. “Cian, take the children upstairs,” she began lowly, her tone leaving no room for anyone to argue, “Malakai, Uncle Michael, go help with them. Liesse, go to Alistair’s room and help him keep your friends occupied. You---” She pointed sharply at Rynn. “You stay, because you need to be set straight as much as he does.” In the moment of silence that followed, everyone remained where they were, petrified in fear---even this slight unleashing of her power had set off every primal survival instinct they had in every nerve, made them terrified to move first because then she would notice them and that was too dangerous---until she hissed”Go!” and those who had been ordered away ran to do as she’d bid them, even Michael.
When the rest were left behind, she quieted somewhat, her power slightly uncoiling from around them (but always looming, always threatening to come down on them like an ax) and her muscles just barely untensing. She released Dorian’s wrist, putting the fingers to her temple as she turned and paced an irritated half-circle around the atrium. “This is not ******** ideal,” she said at last, no less sharply but quiet, undisturbing to the rest of the house, “This will never be ideal, none of this---this family, this house, any of it---but what ******** choice do any of you seem to imagine in your wild dreams that we have? This is our blood, our power, our goddamned clan, we don’t have choices about how things are. We can’t change being Mayfairs, or witches, or our own selfish, violent, cynical ******** natures. It is what it is, and until the day that each of us dies, we will never be able to change any of it in the slightest. And you---” Her eyes cut sharply at Dorian. “---you will never be able to change that you are that girl’s father, or the other three, your blood runs in their veins, you ******** made them with your own flesh. And you'll never be able to change that you missed the first six years of her life, there's no point even mentioning it, because there's nothing that can be done, we simply have to look forward. It’s not ideal. It’s not even okay, no one wants things to be this way, but not a damned soul can change it. We can only deal with things as they are, the best we can. And this family---” Briefly, Antha seemed unable to continue. She pressed her hands up over her eyes, her breath hitching as if she would choke, and then she returned to normal with a deep breath. “We can never change our parents---god knows every one of us would have if we could. We were abandoned, all of us except the two of you.” She gestured at Rynn and Armand. “And we all, every one of us here, have lost at least one parent too young. Dorian, you---for the love of god, I remember the day your father left you. I remember Stefan bringing you here after your mother’s funeral because your father had just gone. I remember you refusing to believe it, and I remember when you finally did, and how you wouldn’t eat or sleep or talk for months afterwards, and then the desperate, rebellious explosion afterwards. Do you really not remember what that felt like? Are you so numb you can’t even empathize with the exact same situation you went through anymore? He wasn't even your biological father and look how badly it ******** you up.” She shook her head, bitterly, and then continued in the lowest murmur. “What if he had taken Vittorio with him? What if he had stood in front of you and told you that he was going to take your brother but he just couldn’t handle both of you, so you had to be an orphan now? What if he hadn’t even left? What if he was still here, if he had chosen to raise Vittorio, but abandoned you to this house, right in front of him, but refused to be your father? How would that have felt, Dorian? Try to picture it, because that is exactly what you’ve just done to your daughter. No, you never knew about her and that’s not your fault, but neither is it hers. And it still doesn’t change the fact that you are her father. And no, you’re not equipped to be a father to anyone, let alone four, and that’s not your fault either, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are one. And none of it is fair, to you or any of your children, but that changes absolutely nothing.”
She stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath, and motioned to the hall. “Everyone else out.” They complied all too willingly, and in a moment Dorian and Antha were alone. Her voice was not quite as sharp then, not as dark, but it carried the same gravity. “I can’t make you do anything, Dorian,” she agreed quietly, her gaze locked unguardedly with his, “I never could. If I could’ve, we wouldn’t be here---you would’ve used protection, you wouldn’t have run off to a fairy orgy, you wouldn’t have ******** your cousin’s girlfriend in the first place. But I can’t, and you did, and here we are. There’s no changing any of this, what happened has happened and it will continue being the way it is. And if you want to turn around and walk out the door and never come back, I can’t stop you, no one can. If you want to go upstairs and only be a father to your three infant children, or just one of them, or two, I still can’t stop you. But can you live with yourself then, Dorian?” Antha had never looked at Dorian quite this earnestly before, she thought. She had always been chiding him, or yelling at him, or just altogether giving up on him. This was the only time she could remember that she was simply asking him to think. “Magdalena is family, her mother is dying, she’s absolutely coming to live with us, you can’t change that either. You can make this a lot easier on yourself and simply deny responsibility, no one can force you take it, but can you live with that? In ten years, can you face yourself or any one of your children that you didn’t take responsibility for? Can you live with yourself when they’re grown and you’ve become Julien, or Mary Beth, or Barclay, or Claire Marie, or Julianne, or your own worthless ******** father? Can you live with the hatred Magdalena will have for you her entire life, the same that we have for our parents? Can you live with the psychological damage you’ll have inflicted on her, the knowledge that you’ll be responsible when she can never trust anyone, when she’s always bitter and angry, when she bursts into tears at night for no apparent reason, knowing that it’s too late to do anything about it---that the only single moment in which it could have been prevented was this one, right now, and you chose not to because it wasn’t fair to you? That you didn’t even try? Will you be able to stand it when you finally realize that you love her, that you can’t help loving her as her father, and she really, truly, genuinely wishes that you were dead? That she loathes you and rejects you just as surely as I always have Julien, for the same reasons, no matter how hard he’s tried to make amends?”
Antha shook her head, apparently rendered incapable of continuing, and stepped towards the hall before stopping again, holding up one finger for him to wait, and continued very quietly, “I will say this about my supposed ‘nuclear family’, because you weren’t here to see it---I was only lucky, Dorian. I got knocked up, like a goddamned fool, and I didn’t know what to do. I never had a mother, I never saw a good one in person, and I was about to die, I didn’t think there was any way for it to turn out well. And Cian…I didn’t love him. I didn’t even like him—I didn’t know him, and I certainly didn’t ******** trust this stranger who had just joined his family in trying to kill me. But he was the father of my children, there was nothing in that situation I could control, so I dealt with it the best I could with what I had. It wasn’t easy---it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, and it still is, every single day. I was extremely lucky that I fell in love with Cian and he ended up being a good father. And it’s still not easy, being a mother, being married, but I am and I can’t change it. I do the best I can with what I have because I love my children and I want what’s best for them. Because even if I screw up, I could never face myself again knowing that I hadn’t even tried. Because I can’t stand the thought that they would ever think that I didn’t love them or want them, that I hadn’t done everything I could for them as their mother. And you…you will screw up, and you’ll drive yourself crazy, and run yourself ragged, but it’s either that or abandon your child forever, because none of them will ever forgive you refusing to take responsibility, even if you change your mind later. And Magdalena, being old enough to know what’s happening…” Her gaze flickered towards the window, beyond which Magdalena was sitting on Courtland’s knee, milking the situation certainly, but visibly and genuinely hurt. Deep in her eyes, Antha almost thought she could see her becoming disillusioned on the spot. “You don’t have the luxury of hesitating, with Magdalena. Even I agree that it would be best for you to have a moment to think about it calmly, but you don’t have that. You can either go out there right now and take responsibility for her, or you can hesitate for even a moment and lose her forever. There are no other options, because in about two minutes she’s going to hate you so deeply that you’ll never be able to change it. In two minutes, you will always be the enemy, nothing you do will be right, and it won’t matter for a moment that you tried. And I can’t tell you what to do, I can only either support you or take care of your daughter after the dust has settled. That’s all.”
And then, quietly, Antha did something unusual. "I was worse than you, Dorian," she whispered, very earnestly, "Do you not remember that? I was worse than your very worst on my best days. I burned down buildings, I broke Jack on a whim, I threw Pierce to the police to save myself, I tortured Thorne, I pushed Julien down the stairs and off of balconies, and I actively tried to drive Nicolae to suicide and wouldn't let him actually do it. You by yourself saved me from at least a dozen overdoses in shady hotels, you bribed the police to release me at least twice, and god knows I was involved with at least half of the seriously depraved sexual activity you've ever gotten yourself into." Her gaze met his, emerald to crystal, unusually clear and unguarded as she repeated seriously, "I was always worse than you, Dorian. If you're a demon, I was Satan incarnate. And I certainly haven't gotten this parenting thing perfect, but I have managed it. I adapted. And as little confidence as you have in yourself...you could be a good father, Dorian. Not right away, and not without incident, but I know you can be a good father. And that...it has to be better than being abandoned. I've had the most abusive father possible and I've had another abandon me outright and I promise you Dorian, anything is better than being abandoned."
Shrugging, Antha turned back to the hallway, and without looking at him murmured, “Just do what you think you can live with.”

Outside, sitting in the door of the car, Magdalena was intensely grateful for a sympathetic ear that didn’t fall to pieces, as her mother did. “I didn’t even want a father,” she was insisting, with all the stubbornness of a small child, “Mama never even asked me. She just said she couldn’t leave me an orphan and brought me here, I never wanted it.”
Courtland, more well-versed in soothing girls than anyone else in the family---and Magdalena certainly had a girl’s temperament over a child’s---was nodding rhythmically in tacit agreement, occasionally answering, “Of course, ma petite,” and “No, certainly not.”
“And it doesn’t matter,” she repeated for the third time, so insistent that she had to be lying through her teeth, “I didn’t ask him to be my father. I didn’t ask to be born. It doesn’t matter to me at all, I don’t want him either. He’s the devil anyway.” Courtland was briefly alarmed, hearing words that Antha had so often said about Julien pouring out of Magdalena’s mouth the very same way, but the child was to preoccupied to notice. “I’ll be an orphan. It’s alright, I’ve been getting ready ever since mama told me she was sick and was going to die. I don’t need him, or my grandparents, I’ll take care of myself.”
“Ah,” Courtland murmured, a thin smile on his lips, “But dearest, you’re so small. It’s better to have someone look after you, don’t you think?”
“Not him,” she hissed, a little too rapidly, “I’d rather take care of myself. He can have his---his stupid other children, I don’t care. I won’t even care if they drive him crazy and he kills them.”
“Ma petite,” he interrupted, a little unsettled, “Come now, they’re your little brother and sisters.”
“They are not,” she protested, and the first flicker of true and unmistakably dark hatred began to glimmer deep in her eyes, “He doesn’t want to be my father, so he’s not, and they’re not my siblings. I don’t care what happens to them. If I’m going to be an orphan, all I have to care about is myself.” She paused, briefly thinking it over. “And a pet. Anastasia had a dog, and Cinderella had mice and birds.”
Another thin smile, masking how deeply disturbed Courtland was at the child’s difficult position, and how terribly it resembled his own as a child, tucking her head under his chin and pulling his arms around her. “It’ll never be that bad, darling. I promise, I’ll never let it be that bad for you. You’re family, we’ll never let you be alone.”
“You promise?” Her eyes had suddenly gone so bright, so eager, as she looked up at him, a little girl clearly desperate to be loved, and Courtland realized all at once how hard it must have been on her, how long she must have spent pretending she didn’t care that she didn’t have a father to love and protect her.
And he also realized by that desperate gleam of her eyes just how deeply Dorian’s rejection had really wounded her, and for a moment he thought he was legitimately capable of murdering his cousin with his bare hands. “I promise,” he murmured, and laid a sincere kiss on the golden crown of her head, “I promise, darling, it’ll never get that bad.” He wasn’t sure at this point if he’d even allow Dorian to take responsibility for her. She was such a little thing, so fragile and rapidly turning cynical and bitter before his very eyes. He saw too much of his own tortured childhood laid out before her and he had to protect her from it, this dazzling and terribly precious little thing with their blood. If he had to kill Dorian or adopt her himself, he would do it, just to protect her from such an unhappy fate.  

[Okimiyage]

Liesse spared Rynn a sort of terrified, helpless grimace, but went obediently after Alistair and the others at Antha’s bidding. Rynn raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head a little, but crossed his arms and took up a position by the stairs while Antha gave out their orders. The weight of her power was not to be discredited, but Rynn had to wonder—if only in a quiet, secret way, in the back of his head, where he’d have to start keeping all sorts of unpleasant private thoughts locked away, he expected—ooh, and that was a nasty one, wasn’t it? the thought that she’d been probably reading his mind all along. If Alistair could do it, Antha most certainly could, and most certainly would not have told him—whether it was not, in a sense, rather backwards to attempt to bully someone into accepting responsibility as a parent. At best, you’d get a begrudging kind of resignation to one’s duties, and at worst—well, with witches, ‘worst’ was sometimes difficult to calculate, but Rynn could think of several very bad possible outcomes.
Cian whisked away the children, who were making small mewls of sympathy for their nursery-mates, and Jack was dragged off—presumably to put him in a straitjacket until he’d calmed down enough to resist the temptation to murder his kin—
And Dorian, who hadn’t moved since Antha had grabbed his wrist, but remained gazing at the spot where Jack had stood, before he’d lunged forward like a trembling maniac—Dorian lifted his head, so slowly and with such a wooden expression that one could almost hear the creak of puppetry, and fixed his face towards the porch swing outside. He could hear the little girl’s petulant protests indistinctly through the glass: the familiar pitch of indignation as she declared her hatred for him. The little girl—Magdalena. He couldn’t think of her as his daughter yet—a half-hour ago, he hadn’t even known she existed—although his influence was plain as day to everyone else, in the shade of their hair and the coquetry she’d already displayed in charming Courtland.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” he said, his voice queerly colorless. One would have thought Dorian, who loved dramatics, would have reveled in this situation. “I haven’t forgotten. Not about what it felt like. Not about him.”
He wrenched his wrist free of Antha’s grasp with an impatient twist, and let his hand drift towards the balustrade. Suddenly, he felt he needed something stable to help keep his balance. “You know what the worst part about it was? The absolute worst part. All the time—“ he took a breath, and there it was, that spark of rage in him, dammed up and muffled behind the steadiness of his voice, “—you know, all those months, every day, how I thought he’d come back. How I…” Despite his tone, his laugh was slightly on the edge of hysterical. “…how I trusted him. For years, I thought it must have been my fault. It seemed impossible to imagine that he’d left for no good reason.” The hand on the balustrade folded into itself, knuckles pink and white. “I didn’t have a childhood because of that man. I don’t know how to give anyone else one, either. I—“
Dorian bit his lip, and didn’t finish his sentence.

I used to wish that he’d died, too. Because then he would have had a reason. And maybe, if I hadn’t known him, there would have been less to miss.

His breath felt like it was stuck in his chest, and his throat had gone tight. The tapestried waistcoat suddenly seemed as constricting as a damn corset.
“Antha—“ He stopped himself, because he could feel the break in his voice coming.
She had turned away, thank god, because Dorian could feel the sting of tears, and christ they were already to the point of dripping off his lashes when he blinked, and it was only by dint of effort and goddamn natural acting ability that he was able to pull himself together.
“Antha, I’m ******** terrified.” he said, quietly.
“I thought I had time to—to figure things out, before they got old enough to start resenting me. I don’t know. I thought—I’d have time to settle back into the family, and maybe everyone would forget about how this all started, or at least forgive me, and even Jack would stop treating me as though—“
As though you're some kind of shallow, irresponsible, drug-addled wastrel who can’t keep his d**k in his pants? But isn’t that what you are?
Even Dorian could already hear the mocking sneer. He shook his head, like a man trying to clear cobwebs out of his ears.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, and nobody will help me, they all just get angry when I don’t know the right thing to say or how I’m supposed to behave, and I can’t—I can’t—“ He wiped his face angrily against his sleeve. “I’m going to ******** it up,” he said, fiercely. “I know it, I can practically smell it in the air, and the way she looked at me—“
He couldn’t begin to describe it, but it was something like—the mingling of their fear, and her hope, and the responsibility, like a dollhouse made of glass had suddenly weighted down his shoulders—he could hear it smashing all around him now—
No, that was the remainder of the glass in the antique lamp sconces exploding. Dorian put his head into his hand, and his shoulders shook as he leaned into the bannister. His voice was strangled—and whether by laughter or tears was unclear—when he said,
“I think I’m going crazy, Antha. I really do.”

“Dorian?” Cian sounded concerned.
Dorian’s head jerked up, and his body straightened, all the ’strings’ on the puppet going taut again.
“The triplets won’t sleep. They’re not…crying, exactly, but they all seem pretty disturbed by something, and it’s making the twins restless. Could you—?”
Dorian’s face was white and drawn, but he shook his head. “Not now. I’ll be up soon. I…”
He glanced over his shoulder at Antha’s back, at the window outside, light filtering in through cut-crystal panes to cut swathes of illumination through the now-dim foyer.
“…I need to do something first.”
Do what you think you can live with.

Antha had told him not to hesitate, but his fingers paused on the door handle despite himself, and he could not help but overhear.
I won’t even care if they drive him crazy and he kills them…If I’m going to be an orphan, all I have to care about is myself.
The trace of a smile flickered at the edge of Dorian’s mouth.
Tragic little spitfire, wasn’t she? No doubt Melody had encouraged that. Or maybe it just ran in the genes—and thinking of how much of a hell Dorian’s generation had made other people’s lives, wasn’t that a nerve-wracking thought—
He took a deep breath. Antha was right, though. He had to do this.
Dorian still hadn’t decided what to say. He felt altogether embarrassed as he sidled out onto the porch and approached the swing. Magdalena had immediately noticed him; he caught her glare head-on.
“Alright, I deserve that.” Dorian admitted, holding up his open hands to show that this was a white-flag operation.
“Just a moment of your time, your highness. I came to apologize.” He glanced over at Courtland, his brow knitting briefly. “I know that you probably don’t like me very much right now, either of you, but even prisoners on the verge of execution get a chance to say their last words, you can grant me at least this much.”
Looking again at Magdalena, he knelt down and put a hand on the edge of the swing to stop it. He had to wait for a moment before she would meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” he said, firmly.
“I don’t expect you to understand, or even to forgive me, but you ought to know the truth. You’ve every right to hate me. I can almost guarantee that I will be a disappointment as a father. We don’t know anything about one another, and my experience in the field of parenting is extremely limited, to say the least. But I didn’t mean what I said.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I…that is, Melody…your mother and I haven’t spoken in a long, long time. Since before you were born. I was…surprised, but that’s no excuse. I was angry at her, so—I suppose I decided I had to be angry at you, by association. I didn’t mean it, I just…I didn’t know why she’d come back.”
He’d been trying to ignore the way Courtland was looking at him, but now he met the other’s gaze, ruefully.
“Thought it might be about wrangling with the Trust, actually. But your Oncle is right. We’ll find space for you. The family takes care of...our...own.”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

For a moment, Magdalena simply…watched Dorian, like a little mouse watching a rabbit or something equally big and strange and non-threatening. Her face physically contorted as he spoke---sometimes dubious, but mostly with confusion at his big words that she didn’t perfectly know---and then, quietly, settled into a pretty little blank mask as she continued watching him.
But her eyes were still expressive. They showed a faint and very peculiar glimmer that Courtland couldn’t place at first, until the thought reel played through her unguarded little mind like a projector. All of her pretty dreams about the mythical ‘father’ figure, the thing everyone else had and she didn’t, the snippets her mother had told her---how lovely and dramatic he was, golden and full of laughter, how he loved poetry, how Magdalena was ‘oh god, infuriatingly just like him’---the way she’d always longed to meet him. How he’d been a prince in her mind and, contrary to her earlier assertions, she’d been sitting by the front door of their apartment with her little suitcase, all made up and meticulously dressed, for two hours before her mother woke up on the day they’d left to come to Osiris City. She’d spent three days picking out her dress. And, despite everything else, Dorian…he hadn’t disappointed, in that first moment she’d seen him. It hadn’t mattered that he’d missed her entire childhood, that they didn’t know each other, because he was beautiful and elegant and he was hers, her father. He’d been as impressive as Magdalena had ever hoped, until a few sentences had left his mouth and…
…everything had come crashing down around her and she had been filled with such a terrible white-hot rage, the likes of which she’d never felt before, and the only thought in her mind had been a desperate urge to turn on him, to hate him before she could realize that he hated her first. Before all of her pretty dreams collapsed on themselves and effectively ended her childhood innocence.
The inside of her head calmed, somewhat, her thoughts narrowing to something thin and brittle, a sheet of glass. Breaking her gaze from Dorian’s---she certainly had his dramatic flair, his utter arrogance of every movement---she reached for the little purse at her side, a white fake leather heart, pulling out a paperback book and then peering inside until she pulled out something small. Without saying anything, she reached out and took Dorian’s hand, her little fingers straightening out his big ones and daintily placing a gold button in his palm, heavy and stamped with an ornate crown across the face of it. “Mama stole it from you,” she announced, with all the airs of a little queen. (In fact, the button had popped off of his jacket the last time Melody had seen him and fallen into her pocket. By the time she’d found it, she was firmly in exile for that same activity. But that was hardly a story to tell her young and precocious daughter.) “I made her give it to me.” And then, still not meeting his eye---she wasn’t too sure about him yet---her fingers fluttered on the little paperback in her lap and she gave a small start, as if it had just come to her attention. “I don’t get Shakespeare,” she said then, abruptly and uncertainly, holding the book out to show that it was a collection of poems. She’d begged her mother for it the moment she told her that Dorian liked poetry, but the child didn’t admit that. “I don’t understand his words. But I like Shelley. He makes pretty images.”
With a hint of amusement, Courtland realized that she was nervous. “Changeable little thing,” he whispered sweetly, quietly enough that Magdalena couldn’t make out the words and so blinked at him curiously. Laying a kiss on her forehead, he said gently, “I’m going to be right inside, okay?” She was briefly panicked, though she played it off well for such a young girl, and nodded that she understood. Clapping a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, he leaned in and whispered, “I’ll calm Jack down and go help Cian with the little ones. You---” His eyes flickered at Magdalena. “Just try your best, Dorian. No one is going to blame you if you try your best, that’s all you can do.”
When he was gone, Magdalena was briefly sullen, but that was at least partly from nerves. “Mama lied for a while,” she murmured after a few moments, secretively, brushing her fingers across the spine of her book. Her nails were as pink as bubblegum, glossy and perfectly manicured. “She just said you were somewhere far away and we couldn’t go there. And then she told me it was her choice, because if I went where you were, she couldn’t see me anymore, so she kept me a secret. So I stopped pitching fits about it. Besides…I liked San Francisco. We had a pretty apartment on a hill, and I had lots of friends. It was better than Boulder---I was always sunburned there, I hated it.” An issue her mother had never understood, not having her fair skin. But the one thing Magdalena could always count on was there would be a new city soon.

Inside, Antha and Melody hadn’t talked for long. They’d shut the kitchen door, talked over a cup of tea, and before it was even finished they’d emerged again. Melody made a beeline for the front door to check on her daughter, and was admittedly surprised to find her with Dorian. She listened for a moment---just one, just to make sure nothing was wrong---before stepping away, turning and catching sight of a figure at the top of the stairs. Leaning against the wall, her eyes narrowing, she called curiously, “You’re Antha’s husband, aren’t you?” The words sounded utterly bizarre to her, even as she was scraping to come up with his name. “Cian, right?”
She openly scrutinized him from head to toe, visibly as mystified as she was curious. “You’re…not what I would have imagined,” she said after a moment, innocently, and then quickly added, “But then, I don’t think I could have imagined anything other than Nicolae.” It was here that her light tone broke, for at least a fraction of a second, on Nicolae’s name. It didn’t take any acute sense of perception to tell that Melody had disliked him, and only a slight one to detect that the feeling had probably been mutual. “Still, you’re cute. Not that that’s surprising---Antha was always very discerning, even as a child. Magdalena reminds me of her, sometimes.” Mayfairs all tended to have similar tastes, where these things were concerned.
“Melody.” Clearing his throat, Lawrence stepped into the hall, pointedly brandishing his phone. “Let’s get you set up.” The woman smiled apologetically, nodding at Cian before following Lawrence into the parlor.
Antha came down the hall after Lawrence a few moments later, fingertips at her temple and exhaling the weight of the world. She glanced once through the stained glass panes on the door and, honestly, very nearly cried with relief to see Dorian outside with Magdalena, talking. Like Courtland, Antha had been another child in what could have been Magdalena’s dilemma, and her heart bled for the little girl.
Turning towards the stairs, her hand on the railing, she came face to face with her husband and stopped. Her gaze caught on his, dark and swirling, a whole world of things she couldn’t put into words. But she went up the stairs and made the attempt anyway, with rapid footsteps before she threw herself at him, clutching his collar and burying her face in his chest. “I love you,” she murmured, so intently that it meant a dozen different things all at once. “Whoever it was ‘supposed’ to be, however illicitly this started…I’m glad it was you. It was only chance, it could have been anyone…god, it could have been Dorian. But I’m glad it was you.” Glad that she never had to worry about her children being abandoned when she was gone, but she didn’t say that aloud.  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian’s reaction was curious—he appeared to pale a bit, and swallowed hard—like an actor who had failed to prepare his lines, he thought, a little bitterly.
There it was again, that look. Shyly, this time, out from under lashes golden as fronds of wheat, but that terrible—Dorian could only describe it as expectation. And normally, from anyone else, it would have been a challenge that he would have been thrilled to rise to. But…this girl, Melody’s daughter, his child… It was like—flirting, for instance. It was easy to do when you didn’t give a s**t about the other party involved, or if you didn’t know them. It was a different matter entirely when you thought the world of them. There was something in the way that Magdalena had looked at him, the first time, that had terrified Dorian.
And it was all the worse because it was Melody. The anger of being abandoned and rejected by—well, Dorian hadn’t loved her, had he? Surely not. No, he’d just been very vulnerable at the time, and she had seemed so—so necessary, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be upset that she ran away, only she left him. For six years, not so much as a goddamn letter, and here she came back with—with this little girl, who loved poetry, and had brought one of his buttons back to him—now she had finally come back, only to announce that she was dying.
“Shelley, you said? I...applaud your taste. I’d recommend my favorite, but ‘Music, When Soft Voices Die’, probably isn’t in that collection. Bit of a downer, I think the general agreement is…” Dorian trailed off; he blinked to restore focus to his eyes. His mind had been years away. At least six.
“I don’t know that I still have the coat, but I remember these.” he said, quietly.
Taking it from her, he lifted it up so light glinted on the metal, then concealed it within his closed fist.
The whiff of magic was brief but strong, the copper tang of blood and something sweet like sun-ripened oranges. When he opened his hand again, the button had transformed. The round top had flattened out, though its crown emblem was still crisp, and a gold braid now ran around its circumference. Two exquisitely sculpted hands grasped either sides of the button, and their wrists joined to complete the band of the dainty ring. He looked at Magdalena’s small fingers, then, said ‘Hmm’, and held it up to her nail. The ring shrank to fit, obediently. Dorian looked up, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. With these princess-y types, there was nothing else to do but treat them like royalty. “While I appreciate the recovery of my stolen property, but no longer possess the garment which to return it to, this button may serve us better as another form of ornament. If I may?”
“Osiris is charming,” Dorian told her, while he stood and stepped around to replace Courtland on the swing. “A little too foggy and rainy, at times, but it does have a certain…mm, personality. I found it rather inspiring, in my time—a city of temperamental muses, one might call it—“
Magdalena was giving him another one of those polite-yet-puzzled expressions, and he tried to reconsider his vocabulary choices. “Let’s just say that it’s a pretty but strange sort of place. But then, maybe so’s San Francisco. Was that your favorite place that you’ve lived yet?”

Inside, Cian smiled when he saw Melody, only a little stiff from being caught off-guard. “I see you managed to escape without being disemboweled by my wife.” The comparison to Nicolae only got to him a little; no matter how many times he heard about it, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of Nicolae as anyone’s husband. Then again, he’d never imagined himself as husband material, either. “I’ll have you know I used to be devastatingly handsome, not just cute.” Cian informed her, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “These Mayfair lasses and their high standards…I have no idea how I had the good luck to nab one of ‘em.”
It was a joke, but it was true, too. When Cian thought about his own good qualities, he struggled to come up with more than a handful. But Antha had seen something, some potential, in him when he couldn’t see it in himself. It was weird how that sort of thing affected a man.
When Antha came in, he could tell by the cadence of her steps that she was weary. Not merely tired, but worn. But all the energy that was missing from her steps seemed to return when she turned, slowly, and caught sight of Cian. All they needed was the non-diagetic orchestra soundtrack.
She might have knocked the wind out of him at an earlier time, but he’d been around Antha enough to know to brace himself when she had that look in her eye, and now he stood fast as a tide wall while she clung to him, his head bowed only a little, protectively, over hers.
“I’m glad, too.” he said, quietly, turning the thought over in his head. “In a way, we’ve both been terribly lucky, haven’t we?” It hadn’t felt like luck at the time, mind. “You know, sometimes—“ he sighed, unlocking his hands from around the small of her back and interlacing his fingers together again. “—I really start to think that maybe there was a point to all of it. Everything we had to go through to get here. Maybe we both needed the trials to change us, but they were worth it.” He leaned in and bumped foreheads with her. “Love you, too. What brought all that on, by the way?”  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

Magdalena pursed her lips at the question---beautifully of course, as if she’d practiced it, but it came to her naturally---thinking about the question, blue eyes flashing. “San Francisco was busy. Lots of trolleys and bikes and cars, and everything was on hills. New York was worse---it was crowded and dirty, and the people were mean. Orlando was humid, Phoenix was hot and didn’t have any color, I couldn’t breathe in Los Angeles, the wind in Chicago always messed up my hair, and it never stopped raining in Seattle. Baltimore wasn’t so bad, and Portland was kind of nice. Mama really wanted to stay in Portland, she said there were always jobs there and the apartments were cheap, but we had to go to California because that’s where the tumor doctors were.
Her eyes flashed once, darkly, before she forced the thought out of her mind, turning and climbing up on to Dorian’s knee with absolutely no regard for his comfort. “Mama says you’re like a deer, that I have to be very careful or I’ll spook you.” The little girl gave a graceful shrug of her pale shoulders. “I’m not good with deer, I want to pet them and they always run away. But I like that, too---the babies especially, they bounce when they run.” And she laughed at that, beautifully, before blinking her big blue eyes at Dorian again. “You can’t call me Maggie or Magda. I hate that. You can call me Lena, if you must---the boys in my class used to---and you can’t use my middle name when you’re mad at me. It’s too pretty, it’ll ruin it. Eventually I’m going to call you daddy, but I’ll wait a while if it freaks you out.” The last she said with an odd sort of…almost sympathy, but as an unchangeable matter of fact. And then, her eyes suddenly going intent, added fervently, “And when I get a boyfriend, you have to threaten him with a shotgun or a hitman or something terrifying.” She had seen such things in old movies and been absolutely enthralled. Her mother insisted it was a disturbing dream, but that never stopped Magdalena.

Upstairs, Antha buried herself a little more securely against Cian---it was nearly a threat of sleep, really---and murmured very quietly, “She was just crazed with worry. Melody, I mean. I wouldn’t think twice about throwing her in the river, but…it was disturbing, seeing how afraid she was that she would leave her daughter orphaned. How afraid she still is, that one day Dorian’s just going to take off. And I realized…” She drifted off, gently untangling herself from Cian until she could look him in the eye, her fingers still clutching the hem of his shirt. “Do you know, I never worried about that. It didn’t cross my mind that you might run off on our children. Not you, not as much as you love them. I…don’t know what I would have done, if it had. It’s the most terrifying idea. And it could have happened, if it had been Dorian, or Claire, or any other stranger. So I’m just…particularly grateful for you, right now.” She sighed once, softly, her fingertips gently brushing his cheek. “And anyways, I probably don’t tell you enough that I love you. It’s a terribly important thing, I should really be saying it until you’re sick of hearing it.”
Her expression shifted then, sweetly teasing, a slow smile touching her lips before they pressed to his. “And you’re still devastatingly handsome,” she assured him in a purr, lovingly straightening his collar, “Trust me, I am the expert. No one can hold a candle to you, darling.”

Back downstairs, the teenagers had made themselves almost indecently comfortable in Alistair’s room, lounging on his bed or perusing his things while he, Tyler, and Gretchen sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, mashing wildly on controller buttons.
“So that was Melody Lacroix,” Holt was muttering meanwhile, laying on his back on the bed and idly tossing a ball to himself in the air.
“Yep,” Alistair answered, utterly distracted.
“And she had your cousin Dorian’s baby?”
“Apparently.”
“But she dated your brother Malakai for three years?”
“That’s right.”
“And she cheated on him with Dorian?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that’s when your sister chased her out of town?” This time Alistair only nodded, his attention narrowing on the screen as Tyler irritably threw down his controller, all of his lives X’d out. “…you realize your family is totally ******** up, right?”
“It’s the first thing I can ever concretely remember knowing,” Thorne muttered, flipping idly through a comic book.
“You don’t think it’s going to be awkward?” Holt asked suddenly, brows knitted, “I mean…this chick broke your brother’s heart, right? But he wasn’t even the one who sent her away---I mean, would he have, if Antha hadn’t done it first?”
“Never,” Thorne answered very surely, without much thinking about it, “He was more broken up about her leaving than cheating on him. But Antha was in a blind rage about protecting him---I think that was about the same time she locked me in the basement so I would get over my fear of the dark.”
“Brutal,” Sid commented shortly, with a half-smirk of amusement.
“That’s Antha in a word.”
“You don’t think this whole thing is just going to tear him apart?”
“Malakai?” Alistair finally glanced over his shoulder at Holt while Gretchen cackled wildly beside him, gleeful with victory. “Hardly. He’s the very soul of forgiveness. But Melody dying…that’s going to hit him hard.” Sighing, he leaned back and rested his head against the trunk behind him, a narrowed glance flickering at Rynn so quickly that no one else had any hope of noticing it. “There’s just something so intense about your first love, you know?”
“Oi,” Tyler called, rolling his eyes, “Mr. Mysterious. You’re killing me with curiosity over here.”
“You know what they say about cats and curiosity, Ty.” Alistair gave a languid grin, the black prince flashing in his eyes. “And I know you know what they say about Mayfairs.”
Tyler shivered dramatically with mock anticipation, dropping his head on Alistair’s shoulder. “I love it when you threaten me.”
Airi just smiled, oh-so sweetly. “You’re not my type, Ty.”
“Not brooding enough,” Gretchen muttered under her breath, grinning. It took a great deal of her willpower not to leer at Rynn. Out loud she said, “You’re easy, Tyler. Airi’s the type that likes a chase.”
“Not so much a chase,” he answered lowly, searching for the right word, “I like…hmm.” Not quite finding them, he shrugged and grinned, utterly carefree. “I like what I like. And it’s twisted and dramatic and absolutely none of your business.”
“Spoilsport,” Tyler sulked.
“You have to be wary of first loves, though,” Thorne murmured thoughtfully, “They’re dangerous…twisted and scarring, and they never work out.”
Alistair glanced at him, his eyes narrowing in that rare, cutting way. “Most people are weak. Me, not so much.”
“Who was your first love, Thorne?” Katie asked, suddenly curious.
He simply looked at her, as if it was a stupid question. “Antha, obviously. When someone that beautiful scars you that deeply, it always ends up being love.” The boy shrugged, as if it was nothing. “She only tricked me the first few times. By the time she opened the basement door and told me to go down the stairs, I did it because she wanted me to. I probably still would, if she asked.”
“You are a twisted little creature,” Alistair sighed, shaking his head.
“I am. And you’re not much better.” Though he didn't say anything aloud, his hand shifted and rested quietly on one of the locked books from Llyr's Court partially hidden beside the bed.
Well...Alistair couldn't really argue with him there.  

[Okimiyage]

Dorian raised his eyebrows and whistled appreciatively, a low sound like the call of a bird. “Well, you and your mama certainly have been on the move, haven’t you?” He could think of a few reasons why, but none that he wanted to upset this little girl with. “It’s important to travel, they say—broadens the mind, certainly—uff—“
The swing creaked a little as she moved onto his lap, and his arms automatically wrapped around the little girl’s waist to keep her from tumbling off his admittedly narrow lap. “Melody called me a deer, hmm?” Well, that was sort of funny. He’d never seen himself as prey, before, but she must have.
“She’s right, I suppose, or at least she was when she knew me.” His eyes took on that foggy far-away look, like clouds on the reflective surface of a crystalline lake.
Then, shaking his head, he resurfaced from his thoughts. “Lena’s much better than ‘Maggie’. I can see why you’d prefer it.” He’d known a Maggie, once. She’d been one of the maids in an apartment complex where he’d stayed for a while with a rather older (married) paramour. Now the name made him think of lace aprons and illicit liaisons in the broom closet. ‘Lena’, however, was…lyrical.
Well, that was just so. She already understood the power of a name, of presentation, and the effect it could have on one’s audience. She’d be a prima donna by age eleven, he was betting.
The thought jolted him. He’d only met her this afternoon, and already he could see years into the future. “‘Daddy’…” he said thoughtfully. “It’s rather informal, isn’t it?” The last time he’d been addressed as such, it had been in bed, by a rather needy nineteen-year-old. “I think ‘Papa’ might be preferable. “As for shotguns and hitmen and such, trust met, you’ll have a surplus of all that. The Mayfair men are a rather protective lot. With our reputation, luring boyfriends back to ‘meet the folks’ was a downright challenge. We used to dare Antha to see how long she could keep unwary dates in the house until they barged out in hysterics.” He laughed a little at this. “Her record was an hour and thirty-one minutes, but I’m sure you’ll be able to break that.”

In a way, Cian understood all too well how Dorian felt. If he hadn’t had Antha by his side, maybe the twins would have felt like a burden, too. He didn’t know how he would have handled the same situation. He was glad he didn’t have to find out. And these…these faery women, how they could just abandon their offspring to the care of a stranger, he didn’t understand—but maybe they were just as desperate as Melody…
“Being a parent changes someone,” he said, reflectively. “Maybe it changed Melody. It has been six years, after all. And…isn’t it natural for—for someone want to protect their child?”
He’d almost said, for every mother. But that would have been a mistake, in this family, with their wretched track record.
“Hey.” He laid a kiss upon Antha’s brow, tenderly. “I’ll never get sick of hearing it, you know? You could wake me up at 3.a.m. to holler it in my ear if you wanted. Although—with the twin’s sleep cycle right now, I might be awake at that time anyways.” He wrinkled his nose, then broke out into a smile, unable to restrain the lightness in his heart that came whenever Antha was in his arms. “Tell the truth, I wonder how I would’ve managed without you, too. I think—I’m certain, actually—that I wouldn’t have coped as well on my own. Christ—“ he shook his head. It was chilling to imagine. Rynn off on god-knows-what errand of revenge, Liesse holding fast to his mind like a schizophrenic parasite, himself—who was he kidding? He knew what he would have ended up like, without Antha, and he didn’t want to acknowledge it. Cian’s arms tensed around her, then squeezed slightly and relaxed: “—some days, I wake up in this house and I don’t recognize myself, how happy I am, how contented. I never thought my life would be like this. And it’s—” He raised his eyes above them, towards the nursery, where even now he thought he could hear faint mewling. “—it’s terrifying, in a way, because I know it can’t last, and I want so badly to cherish every second of it, but there’s so much—“ he laughed faintly, and didn’t finish the thought, letting the open-ending speak for everything that had been going on lately. “And there always will be. That’s the challenge of it, I suppose.” Letting his hold around her waist slacken, he closed his hands around hers.

In Alistair’s bedroom, Liesse lay on the bed next to Rynn, captivated by Alistair’s spartan description of events even as most of the boys seem captivated by the flashing, pixelated characters on-screen.
“Wait, so she—“ Liesse seemed to struggle for a moment with the thought. “she cheated on Malakai?” Her tone seemed to suggest that this was impossible. Firstly, she just could’t imagine them together, and secondly—who would cheat on such a, a…
…a prince? her mind supplied. But no, that was Dorian’s title, although it fit Malakai much better. Dorian was a prince only in the Cinderella sense, one evening of whirlwind romance (or two, if he liked you) and then the coach turns back into a pumpkin. Malakai was different. If Melody was sun, he was the moon, luminescent and serene. Liesse couldn’t fathom the type of person who would throw that away. She wanted to like Melody, but this—it seemed like gross betrayal.
Rynn rolled a joystick around underneath his thumb, contemplating the selection of his avatar for battle. The glowing box settled on a light, speedy character wielding twin sais.
“Come on, don’t say it with such surprise. You know how Dorian is—he’s a skirt-chaser.”
“I always thought they seemed…stiff around one another.” Liesse murmured, contemplatively drawing her knees up to her chin.
Rynn could feel her worrying. He reached over and patted her bare foot reassuringly. “You’ve got no reason to fret, sweetheart. I mean, what are you afraid of?”
“Oh—I don’t know.” Liesse said, with feeling. “Just—three years. It must have been serious. And now she’s back, in tragic circumstances, and—Malakai’s so kind, he would forgive her for cheating, wouldn’t he?” He’d take her back, if she asked.
Rynn nearly laughed out loud, hearing that thought.
“Is that what you’re scared of? Well—you’ve only just encountered your own first love, I suppose it’s natural to be…protective.” His gaze flickered to meet Alistair’s, then slid away in embarrassment when he realized that he was the subject of the other’s attention, as well.
“…and they never work out.” Thorne’s voice caught his ear.
“Well, obviously…Antha…” He leaned back against the side of the bed. “Sorry, Thorne, but you were setting yourself up for disappointment, there. I’ve heard stories—she was wild. And you can’t tame someone into loving you, not really—they have to want it, too. Someone as self-destructive as she was then, too, how would she even have known how to love you back?” He shook his head. “She’s come a long way since then. It’s funny—if you’d asked me, a year ago, what would have happened if you put Cian and Antha in a room together, I would have predicted a vortex of mayhem and hedonism. Instead, they sort of balance one another, don’t they?”
He glanced up at Liesse again and sighed. “Love isn’t the same thing as romance, but they get confused a lot. If you were dating Dorian, I’d be worried, but Malakai isn’t the sort to drop you like a stone and run back into the arms of an old flame.”
He sounded absolutely certain of this, until he glanced over at Airi and shrugged. “At least, I don’t think he is?” Rynn was trying to keep his tone light, but he couldn’t conceal how his shoulders had tensed up. Out of his peripheral vision, the sight of Thorne’s hand on one of Aedan’s book, and his nerves twanged. He bit his lip to keep from shouting, don’t touch that, and looked away so Thorne wouldn’t catch the glare in his eyes. It was dumb how special those books seemed, not just because they’d been Aedan’s—and hidden away for god knew how long, and Rynn could only try to guess why—but because it had been Alistair who’d gone with him to get them back.  

[XCandy and LunacyX]

The little girl’s eyes narrowed briefly, the faintest twinge of panic at the rebuff. But she calmed quickly enough, sighing. “’Daddy’ is less formal, but it’s more…” The word she was looking for was ‘intimate’, but she couldn’t quite conjure it and so shook her head, dismissing the line of thought. “Okay then, if you insist. Papa it is.”
“Good gods in heaven,” Melody interrupted in mock astonishment, leaning in the doorway, “Little Miss Magdalena Elaine, doing what someone else says? It’s a miracle.”
Magdalena pouted at that, making expressive eyes at her mother and clenching her little fingers in the hem of Dorian’s shirt. “’Papa’ has a more lovely sound to it,” she insisted haughtily, as if it had all been her idea.
Melody merely rolled her eyes with a little ironic smile, not pressing the issue. Magdalena was always right, in her own mind, there was no arguing with her. “Go get in the car, we need to check in at the hotel.” The child stiffened, possessively seizing Dorian’s arm. “We’ll come back for dinner,” Melody assured her gently, sighing.
She calmed at that, climbing out of Dorian’s lap and going up on her knees beside him to press a kiss to his cheek. “Bye bye, papa, I’ll be back for dinner.” Turning to her mother, she demanded as she climbed down from the swing, “Mama, you packed my blue dress, right? You didn’t let it get wrinkled?”
“Heavens, no,” Melody swore fervently, suppressing a laugh as the girl disappeared into the car. Sighing, she turned a reluctant gaze on Dorian. “I won’t apologize for hiding her,” she said after a moment, quietly, “Julien would have taken her from me, you know he would’ve. If she could only have one of her parents, it was damn well going to be me. Pretending for a moment that he would have given her to you, with the way you were at eighteen. And maybe it wasn’t as glamorous as being a Mayfair, but I did my best for her.” Abruptly, she calmed, realizing that she was defending herself. “I will apologize for the circumstances, though. I…I thought about calling first, when I realized I’d have to bring her back here, but I didn’t think it would have been any less shocking. It just would’ve left you more time to be anxious.” Again she paused, gently touching her forehead---she had strayed dangerously close to insulting him, and she didn’t want to do that---and glanced towards the car. “She’s smitten with you, you know. In her own way. She was always enthralled with the idea of a ‘father’ like it was some mysterious, mythical god. She has this fantasy of you shooting the first boy she brings home---she’s a little twisted actually, in a…strangely endearing way. Like someone else I know.” She gave a half-laugh, shooting Dorian a pointed glance, and tapped the column she was leaning against, turning and heading down the stairs. “Lawrence has us set up for right now. It’ll give you time to get to know her, before she has to come live with you.” Waving, she called from the gate, “We’ll be back in a few hours. Please don’t be drunk.”

“Being drunk plays strange tricks on you,” Alistair told Liesse, quietly, “It takes little insecurities you didn’t even know you had and blows them wildly out of proportion.” He sighed, leaning his head back. “Melody thought there must be something wrong with her because Malakai wouldn’t sleep with her. Drunk, she thought it meant he didn’t love her. But Dorian was easy. ******** Dorian meant there wasn’t something completely wrong with her.” His gaze shifted, narrowing meaningfully at Liesse. “Malakai understood that. There wasn’t even anything to forgive because he blamed himself more than her---because his own insecurities made him afraid of doing anything so typical of Nicolae, because he was terrified of drawing the comparison between them when he was certain he would fall miserably short.”
The boy sighed, handing his controller over to Holt and nonchalantly going over to push Aedan’s books beneath his bed, out of sight. “Melody wouldn’t try anything. Not now, not when there’s no future to any of it. And god knows Malakai would never abandon anyone…which is precisely why this entire situation is going to utterly rip him apart before Melody is even gone.” He had feelings for Liesse, he was attached to her, everyone knew that. But he had loved Melody for three years and, without the bitterness of blaming her, his heart would bleed for her.
“You guys are bumming me out,” Holt muttered, rolling his eyes, only to have a book strike him very precisely in the back of the head.
“An accident,” Alistair assured him sweetly.
“We should probably get going,” Gretchen interrupted meanwhile, resting her chin on her knees, “With the drama and everything. It’s easier to scream at each other when there’s not strangers in the house.”
Reluctantly, the teenagers bid their goodbyes and left, with the exception of Thorne. They were hardly out the door when Thorne narrowed his eyes at Alistair, adding flatly, “It’s only icing on the cake---Melody won’t die for months after Antha does. This situation ripping him apart assumes that there’s anything left to be ripped when his terribly precious little sister is dead, and I’d wager my life there won’t be.”
Standing, Alistair gave a deep, sighing breath, eyes flashing darkly. “No…no, probably not.” Malakai would fall apart but he…
Alistair couldn’t even begin to imagine how he would react. He couldn’t even think about it, because he feared he would prematurely break at the very thought. “I’m going to go check on Jack,” he said instead, and caught Rynn’s eye so subtly that even Thorne didn’t notice, mouthing ‘attic’.
“Well I’m not going home,” Thorne muttered stubbornly, “This house is a bomb, and Julien coming home is the trigger. I can’t miss that.” But he did wait for Alistair to leave before turning his gaze on Rynn and speaking plainly about Alistair’s sister. “I didn’t want Antha to love me back,” he said, quietly, “I didn’t want to tame her. That wasn’t what my love was.” His gaze briefly sharpened, eyes unusually dark and flashing. Thorne, who was usually so blank, so hollow, such a flat existence, briefly came alive with something…dark, and twisted. Something tangibly masochistic pouring out of his eyes. “The faintest fondness would have ruined it, because I only loved her when she was torturing me. I was only happy when hurting me made her happy.”
And then, abruptly, he was his usual, utterly stoic self, as simple as the wind, shrugging as if all of it was nothing. “There’s no such thing as real love without something ugly at its core. Something dangerous and possessive---the feeling of wanting to rip someone apart and crawl into them, because that’s the only way they’ll really be yours, and you’ll just die if they aren’t yours. But that’s what makes it strong…that vicious little darkness deep down, because whatever else changes, as long as that piece still survives, that love will survive. If Antha ever abused me again, I would probably love her as if I’d never stopped.” Another languid little shrug, the movement of his placid eyes, as he made to exit the room. “Not that it matters. Indeed…you would be shocked how little anything really matters.”
It was a variation of something Antha had said once, as he recalled. He had been a small child then, and startled and frightened to stumble into the hallway in the middle of the night to find it bloody, with a corpse at the center and his bloodied cousins standing around it. Go back to bed, she’d told him, with frightening, psychotic sweetness, her hands resting so gently on his shoulders, his heart trilling at that sharp smile. Go back to bed and it’ll be like it never happened. It had felt like a secret then, the way she’d leaned in, whispering oh-so-gently in his ear. You will be shocked how much this never happened.
And he had been. The blood was gone in the morning, the corpse disappeared forever, and he had sat at the table eating his cereal and staring into the hall, his cousins chattering around him, and been completely shocked at how much the previous night had never happened. He wondered, vaguely, if Antha had any idea how drastically she’d altered Thorne’s entire existence with that one sentence.
Nothing mattered, because ultimately, anything could be erased as thoroughly as that night had been. Anything that happened could completely unhappen.