“Actually, there is something I’ve been thinking about. When Hiram looked at my file”—Veda grimaces—“he was hyperfixated on how the Botanist got into my apartment. I want to see the file to focus on what he’s talking about. Maybe it’ll jog my memory.”

  Gabriel doesn’t hesitate, pulling one file from the stack on his desk. When he places it in front of her, Veda reads her statement line by line, the details, spells cast, and unredacted information. She hunts for familiarity . . . and finds none. Finally, Veda looks through the pictures, stopping at the photo Hiram must’ve looked at. The door was blown off, but it’s strange seeing it in the light when that night was nothing but darkness. The scorched walls remind her of Lucinda’s house. She shudders at the memory, trying to distract herself from thinking about it by grabbing the next folder.

  It’s too late to stop.

  She’s back at the hospital. Finding Healer Lawson on the ground, bleeding profusely. Veda flips to her statement and pauses, recoiling. “This isn’t my statement—I mean, it is, but it’s wrong. Large man. Hispanic features. Deep voice. None of this is . . . I didn’t say that. It’s not even true. They were . . .” Veda squeezes her eyes shut. “They weren’t large. Their face was a kaleidoscope of changing features that never settled on one. Their voice was altered in a way I can’t describe, and Healer Lawson actually spoke to me. He said they didn’t know what was coming.”

  “Who spoke? And who are they?”

  Veda flinches at the memory, rubbing her hands. She can see the blood. “It took too long for anyone to get there, just me and—and a body for almost an hour, and the first thing the investigator said to me was . . .” You did what you could. Curses are unnatural for a reason. You can’t save them all. Veda opens her eyes, scrubbing a hand over her face. “None of that is in my statement. Who changed it?”

  Gabriel stares at the file before his jaw sets, hand moving to hover over the page. He shuts his eyes and murmurs, “Ostendo.”

  The paper glows, hissing and screaming. Veda sits back hard, heart pounding, hands gripping the chair as the file tries to rip itself apart. “What in the hell are you—”

  “Doing?” he shouts over the high-pitched scream as the file burns red hot, rising off the table. The edges smoke black, then white. “Oh, just something that will not only alert my superiors but might verge on illegal. Hypothetically speaking, do you think Hiram will represent me if I get arrested?”

  Gabriel flashes a nervous smile as the file lands back on the table. Then he sobers, on alert. “The Imprints of the person who wrote up this file, submitted it, and reviewed it are concealed by law. The only people allowed to reveal their names are those with the rank of superior or higher. I’m just an investigator, so yeah, illegal.”

  “Why would you—”

  “Because whoever altered your file worked for the FCD at the time this happened, and the only reason they would change your statement is—”

  “To conceal the truth,” Veda interrupts. “I thought if I looked, I could jog my memory, but all I remember is the power. I’m not Sensitive, but I swore I felt it. Wild. Out of control.”

  “Mages and the Unseen don’t have access to that kind of magic, and Seers are taught control from the moment we present,” Khadijah says. “I don’t know—”

  “It’s working,” Gabriel says.

  They wait for one minute. Then two. Veda’s vision blurs from staring so hard until Khadijah’s hand grips her shoulder, grounding her. Finally, a golden signature appears on the corner of the page.

  They all lean forward to read the name, but it’s all too familiar.

  “Blocked.”

  Gabriel is smiling.

  Veda swears. “Why are you so happy? We still don’t have a name.”

  “No, but we’ve been blocked too many times.” Gabriel nearly vaults the table to get back into his seat. “They’re all connected.”

  “What are you going to do?” Khadijah asks.

  “Force my commander’s hand for resources and stay out of jail.”

  “How exactly . . .”

  Gabriel looks at Veda. “I think the Botanist and the person who wrote this are one and the same.”

  Sixteen

  Antaris spends most of Saturday listless, barely eating or making eye contact with Hiram, yet keeping the nameless kitten and the lantern Veda gave him close. He is a shell of the boy whose trust Hiram almost had.

  Sunday’s tension is nearly nauseating. Hiram looks on while Antaris wanders during the day, a break in habit. Every attempt to talk ends with either avoidance or his son retreating, distrust radiating from him. By the evening, Antaris is looking at Grace’s photo album and crying. Hiram is sick with worry by bedtime, when he looks in on Antaris, only to find him staring at the lantern. He’s losing him.

  Another day can’t pass without action. So he plans. Talks to John. Spends most of the night writing note after note, but none feel right. By midnight, his attempts at excuses are balled up and scattered around the trash can. Hiram doesn’t remember nodding off at the kitchen table, but wakes with a painful crick in his neck and . . .

  Antaris is staring at him, eyes wide and searching, with one of his failed attempts at groveling in hand. Hiram ignores his pounding head and focuses on his son. There are things more enduring than promises, more important than pride, and for the first time in his life, Hiram stops agonizing over details that don’t matter. The only thing that does is standing in front of him.

  Hiram blurts out the first words that come to mind. “I’m sorry.”

  Antaris doesn’t leave.

  A lump forms in his throat as he conveys a remorse he struggles to express out loud. “Please forgive me.”

  Antaris’s expression is more serious than it should be.

  “I told you once that I would always come back, but Friday, I wasn’t there and it hurt you.” Hiram feels horrible all over again. It’s obvious being late didn’t hurt his son. It terrified him. “You didn’t think I was coming back.”

  Antaris’s eyes fill with tears as he nods, covering his face with his small hands.

  “The last thing I want to do is leave you or hurt your feelings. I meant what I said, that I’ll come back for you. I’ll do my best to not break that promise again.” Remembering how Antaris listened the last time he talked about a case, Hiram asks, “Can I tell you what happened that day?”

  At his son’s slow agreement, he wades through the murky topic as delicately as possible, telling a kid-friendly version of his day leading up to realizing how late it was. Hiram makes peppermint tea for Antaris while telling him about the library, his son’s fascination waking up as he talks about the dusty books. He makes breakfast while describing Clinton’s unscrambling magic. They eat while he chooses his words carefully when discussing Ruth and the trip to the FCD and how panicked he was after he realized he was late and how he rushed to the school. The longer he talks, the more enrapt Antaris becomes, angles to him, follows him, understands him. His tear streaks dry, and the tension he carries relaxes. As does Hiram.

  They move to the dock. It’s cool and muggy from last night’s rain, the peaceful quiet makes the decision easy. He’ll keep Antaris home from school in favor of watching the sun rise over the trees.

  “When I was your age . . .” Hiram trails off when Antaris’s head whips to him.

  Veda’s words haunt him: He wants to know you.

  “I liked to create as a child. Still do. I start with an idea and a bunch of parts, build it, test it, refine it. That’s probably why I cook and read as much as I do. I didn’t get this from my father. He didn’t teach me to read, to swim, or to ride a bike. I learned from tutors, boarding school, and my parents’ staff—everyone except them. It’s tradition; generations of Ellises were raised the same way, but I never wanted that for myself, and I don’t want it for you. I want better.”

  Antaris shifts closer.

  “I’d promise not to make another mistake, but that’s not possible. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not perfect. No one is, but I’ll keep trying to do my best to be the father I always wanted.”

  He makes a small fist and rubs it in a circular motion over his chest. Sorry.

  “I am sorry.”

  Antaris signs the word again with more intent. He means it . . . or perhaps, he’s trying to communicate something he hasn’t learned how to sign. Hiram raises his finger. “Do you forgive me?”

  There is no hesitation in his response.

  He taps twice.

  Yes.

  Tuesday is a new day.

  Hiram walks Antaris to the school door, hand on his book bag, guiding him. For the first time, before they part, he kneels in front of his son. It’s easier to talk to him like this. He points at the clock. “When the small hand gets to four, I will be here.”

  Antaris nods.

  Hiram then offers his son the second thermos he’s been holding. “This is for Miss Thorne. Can you give it to her?”

  Antaris accepts the thermos, but is slow to leave, looking back twice and nearly bumping into another student. Hiram waits until he’s inside, then waits a little longer. Finally, he allows relief to wash over him.

  One down. One to go.

  Hiram is debating whether now is the time to approach Veda when he hears his name, then sees Peter beckoning him into his office. Boxes of shirts litter every surface. Peter pulls out a small, checks the collar, then hands it to him. “It’s for the end-of-term party Friday. The students are allowed to wear whatever they want, so long as it follows the dress code. The school day is basically a block party.”

  “Think I can make the bow tie work with this?”

  “Good luck.”

  Hiram tosses the shirt over his shoulder and walks down the hall to the balcony. Students mill about, playing and talking and having breakfast before the first bell. He spots Antaris standing in front of the thriving herb garden, shyly offering the second thermos to Veda.

  His son shines in her presence, and her smile breaks like dawn, transforming into something unforgivably alive. Critical but shortsighted, Veda took one look at Hiram and drilled straight to the heart of his painful truths. She’s as right about him as she’s wrong, and his urge to pick her apart in all the same ways remains. Not to critique but to understand.

  “The bell is in five minutes,” Peter says next to him. Hiram didn’t know he was there. “You can go down there. Talk to her.”

  “I’ll bet my entire trust fund that she doesn’t want to talk to me. Double or nothing, she hates me.”

  “You’d lose.” Peter laughs in the face of his disbelief. “Trust me, Veda is selective with her emotions and good at protecting herself from what she doesn’t want to feel. Antaris is a blind spot for her, but so are you. She’s decided how she sees you, and you’re challenging her reality.”

  “I doubt that. You weren’t there when she was cursing me out.”

  “No, but I heard it.” Peter waves back at a group of students who yell their greetings. He leans on the safety railing. “My mom always says emotions masquerade as each other and blur the line between reality and belief. What you believe is anger may be fear or frustration. What looks like fear can be sadness or regret. The purpose of arguing with someone is to convince them to change their actions or beliefs. If Veda truly hated you, she’d be apathetic. She wouldn’t believe you were capable of change and wouldn’t waste her energy confronting you, no matter how much she cares for Antaris.”

  Frowning, Hiram watches her taste the tea, approval given in her smile. “She said she was disappointed.”

  “Exactly my point.” Peter nudges him in the shoulder. “Why that seems to bother you more than anything is a conversation for another day. For now, try talking to her again.”

  “This won’t end badly at all,” he mutters sarcastically.

  Peter claps a hand on his shoulder. “How about you take the night off, clear your head, and get out of the house. I’ll watch Antaris and the nameless cat. I need to set up the cat tower anyway. You haven’t given yourself a break since you learned of his existence. You need a night to yourself.”

  “Is this negotiable?”

  “No.”

  Hiram cards a hand through his hair, sighing. “Then I suppose it’s a yes.”

  Later that day, Hiram finds liberation in declining seven of his mother’s calls.

  With his reinforced spine in place, he answers the eighth to prevent a ninth. “When I said I was done, it didn’t mean I was done until you wanted something.”

  Hanging up before Simran can get a word in puts a pep in Hiram’s step. When he wanders into the living room, Peter has put on music, and instead of easels, a small cauldron sits on the table, surrounded by goggles and gloves. Peter is in the kitchen with Antaris, who is standing on his step stool, eyeing the spaghetti with growing suspicion. Hiram glances at it and adds more onion powder, salt, pepper, and basil. Antaris approves enough to stop supervising and sit at the table. Hiram picks up a napkin and sets it next to his son, who neatly tucks it into his shirt.

  “What are you planning to brew?”

  “I figured I would walk him through a year-two giggle potion. I can’t brew, but I do like watching.”

  Before he leaves, Hiram kneels next to Antaris’s chair. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  His son nods.

  Peter recommended a lounge called Blossoms, apparently known for good drinks and live music on Tuesdays. The place is uptown, perched in the foothills beside the river that runs through the city. Picturesque on clear days, the view is stunning in the evening, draped in golden hues at this hour. He can see the nearby towns, forests, and the shapes of distant mountains. The place is crowded with a mix of professionals, tourists, and groups celebrating birthdays. It’s an hour wait for a table because Hiram doesn’t have a reservation and doesn’t feel the need to throw his name around, so he settles in at the outdoor bar, listening to the band play as sunset transforms the skyline.

  When the band takes a break, the trajectory of his evening changes. Veda is at the top of the stairs in a floral minidress and tights being led to a table by the hostess. To get to her destination, she has to pass him, which makes Hiram feel like he’s justifying her paranoia.

  He’s surprised when, instead of a stalking accusation, he’s met with a single raised brow as their eyes lock. Hiram approaches when she sits. The hostess shoots him a puzzled look and asks her, “I thought you were a party of one.”

  “I am,” Veda replies coolly. “I’ll let you know if I decide to change the reservation back.”

  With that, the hostess leaves.

  Veda’s glare is sharp when she reaches for the menu, opening it and covering her face. “You should be pissed off at me for not letting you speak before yelling at you the way I did.”

  She’s too calm, like she’s talking about the weather.

  “Maybe, but I’m here for a quiet night, not an argument.” Even as he sits, he’s cautious, observant, but his focus scatters when he realizes the faint scent of jasmine is coming from her.

  She tilts the menu down, giving him a long look. “As am I. Peter suggested this place and made my reservation. The fact that I need to apologize to you is secondary, and I can only do that with a stiff drink.”

  Peter. The puppet master. Hiram quietly cuts the strings they hadn’t realized they were dangling from, but keeps his best friend’s machinations to himself. A waiter arrives, pleasantly delivering the same greeting he’s likely repeated a hundred times tonight. Veda asks a few questions before ordering the strongest cocktail on the menu. Hiram refreshes the drink he left the bar with.

  She doesn’t speak again until she’s had her first wincing sip. “Perfect. Exactly what I needed.”

  “To apologize?”

  “Yeah, Khadijah told me why you were late. Thanks for what you did for Ruth.” Veda sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak, and that I took my personal issues and emotions out on you. I still meant some of what I said, but not the vast majority of it.”

  Hiram fights the urge to crack a smile. “You couldn’t leave it at being sorry?”

  “Of course not.” She shields herself behind the menu again.

  “In the spirit of reconciliation, I’ll apologize for the part where I implied you were a danger to Antaris. I never meant that.”

  “How is he?” Veda asks carefully. “He seemed okay today, but it’s not always easy to gauge what’s on his mind.”

  Hiram tells her about the weekend, the corner of her mouth twitching when he recounts the successful apology and the day spent together. “What did you teach him today?”

  “We practiced sign language,” she replies. “He’s picking up the basics so quickly. The days of the week, names of food.”

  “I read that book you gave him cover to cover, and have been practicing with him at home.”

  “That explains how he knew the sign for cheese before I did.”

  Hiram smiles, but can’t help but notice the way she bites hers back. He polishes off his drink. “So, what else do you teach him during tutoring sessions?”

  “Nothing much. We gardened and ate tangerines under the olive tree. It’s popping leaves.”

  “I didn’t know they grew that fast.”

  “They don’t, but . . .” She shrugs. “Nature doesn’t always follow the rules.”

  Their eyes meet. Veda looks away. Hiram doesn’t.

  “I won’t intrude on your night any longer. I know we haven’t been able to schedule that time to meet yet, but perhaps later this week?”

  The easiest response comes quietly. “Okay.”

  Hiram pulls out his wallet and offers her a sleek card.

  Veda accepts it. “Self-updating business cards? Fancy.”

  “Practical.” Hiram stands up. “How about Friday?”

  Veda studies him for a moment, then nods.

  Hiram walks away, feeling oddly unsettled. He looks back once to see Veda staring at the card before pocketing it. She drains the rest of her drink. On his way out, he finds the waiter and stops him, pointing at Veda’s back. “I want to pay for my drink and her entire bill.”