Hiram isn’t sure, either, but he pockets it. “I’ll decide later.”

  “Fair enough.” She glances over her shoulder. “And where does Veda fit in all this?”

  “Wherever she wants to.”

  “She’s been through a lot, and with that comes pride.”

  “So I’ve seen.” His own pride has been battered by Veda a time or two. “I’m more concerned with keeping her alive than figuring out where she fits. Until then, I’m patient.”

  Khadijah looks as if she’s seeing him for the first time. They return to the table, where Peter and Gabriel are now seated, and Veda calls over the boys. Hiram is placing the plates when Veda says, “Antaris?”

  Hiram looks up. Antaris is rigid and terror-stricken, struggling to breathe as he tightly holds a bewildered August’s wrist. It’s hard to say who moves first, but Veda reaches him steps before Hiram. August warily calls for his dad, and he’s there in an instant. The moment Veda touches Antaris’s arm, he breaks into inconsolable sobs. He lets go of August and begins signing frantically, incoherently, before giving up and dragging both August and Veda toward the water.

  Without hesitation, Hiram follows. He’s never seen Antaris like this—cold to the touch yet sweating. For a second, he wonders if it’s over, but his son races past them toward Peter and Khadijah, who are still at the table, exchanging looks before glancing up.

  Dark clouds roll over the trees. It looks like rain, but it’s the trees that are crying. The lake water begins to crystallize as azaleas bloom along the banks.

  Hiram instantly recognizes the scent of ozone.

  Magic thickens in the air. It’s Antaris’s nightmares come to life. Peter sweeps Antaris into his arms and bolts toward them, with Khadijah hot on his heels.

  There’s a sharp crack, followed by a moan like thunder. Everyone jolts when the top half of a tree crashes onto the table they all were standing beside moments earlier.

  It’s silent in the aftermath until a mystified Gabriel breaks it. “Well, shit.”

  “That’s a bad word, Dad!”

  August lies on his stomach, racing toy cars across the floor, making chaotic crashing noises when they collide. Each time he asks Antaris to watch, it earns him a fleeting moment of attention. Antaris is too interested in the conversation happening in the kitchen. He’s the subject, and he knows.

  “Sight?” Hiram deadpans. “You think he has Sight.”

  “It’s why I wanted Khadijah to test him,” Peter admits. “I suspected there was a chance he’d develop Sight as a teenager because of his mother. It’s easy to tell when Sight is manifesting at that age. Their hormones are out of control. However, with children, it’s quiet. Subtle. Woven into his personality. Even then, the signs can be attributed to the fact that wild magic is normal for children as there is no cost. I considered it when I found out about his nightmares, but kids sometimes display wild magic because they don’t pay for it. My suspicions deepened when he couldn’t brew.”

  “He’s six. He’s far too young.”

  “The youngest recorded Sight manifestation was a four-year-old girl in Paris. My uncle was five,” Khadijah says. “It’s not impossible.”

  “Then we should talk to him instead of about him.” Veda calls Antaris over, and he doesn’t hesitate until they’re all sitting in a circle. He’s between Hiram and Veda, leaning against her while peering at him. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

  He signs yes.

  “Do you remember when you found the cat?” At his nod, she continues. “Did you know it was out in the rain?”

  Antaris looks at Hiram, hesitant.

  “You can tell the truth,” Hiram says.

  Slowly, he nods.

  “Did you know about its mom?” Veda keeps her voice even, gentle.

  Antaris nods again.

  She looks at Peter. “He brings me umbrellas before I even know it’s going to rain. I assumed it was attentiveness. He doesn’t like strangers but quickly warmed up to August. To me.” Then her expression softens with understanding. “You’d Seen me before you met me in Peter’s office.”

  Antaris nods slowly, lip quivering.

  “Did you See the furniture in the house?” Hiram keeps his voice as calm as possible despite his heart racing. “The paint? The drawings?” When the lights flicker, Antaris’s breathing quickens, tears threaten. “It’s okay.”

  “Thank you for sharing.” Khadijah shifts so she’s sitting in front of Antaris.

  “So much for that zero percent,” Peter mutters. “Can’t have potential for something you already have.”

  “May I?” Khadijah glances at Hiram before adding, “It’s not painful, but as a Sensitive, it might make you uncomfortable.”

  Hiram has heard stories about Seers struggling during Sight manifestation. Anxiety. Nightmares. Heightened emotions and sensitivity. Every clue was staring him in the face. Guilt whispers that he’s a bad parent, but Antaris reaching for him makes his inner turmoil fade into the background.

  “I can handle it.” Hiram takes his son’s hand.

  Khadijah nods, focusing on Antaris as she offers her hand. He takes it, eyes fluttering shut. “My uncle told me that he remembers the quiet space he went to when everything was overwhelming. Sometimes he still goes. I know you peek out to talk to August but retreat back inside. Are you scared to lose your safe space?”

  Antaris nods shyly.

  “It’s okay. It’s yours. We just need to open the door and give you a key.”

  From here, her mouth moves, forming words Hiram can’t hear but can feel. The air in the room explodes with colors and fragrances. It’s too much, too intense. He can’t focus on anything except Antaris, whose eyes are squeezed shut, hands clutching both him and Veda. Khadijah’s expression shifts. A wave of pure ozone hits Hiram, but he doesn’t buckle. A second wave sparks nausea that’ll only end one way. Antaris’s eyes fly open, irises glowing gold, and he gasps for air.

  “I See his beginning. It was her end.” Khadijah’s eyes open, silver and fading, but her expression is troubled. Tears roll down her cheeks. “The hole in you is healing. Slowly but surely. It’s okay to never be whole.”

  Antaris lets out a rough breath and grits his teeth, his head tilted back as if he’s fighting something trying to hold him down. He releases Hiram’s hand as if burned, then grabs him again as if he’s the balm to soothe the flames.

  “I See.” Khadijah’s voice is melodic. “Every step is too much, too hard, too intense. Even touch.”

  Hiram remembers all the flinches. The hesitation. The way Antaris curled into himself, shielding his body as if bracing for impact. He blamed grief. The fear of the unknown. Now he sees it was more; his son was at war with himself. A whimper breaks free from deep inside Antaris. His cheeks flush red, eyes blazing like the setting sun, but the unspoken anguish rips Hiram apart.

  “You’re too young to know the weight of grief, but you’ve been carrying it in your heart. It’s too heavy. Too much.” Khadijah cups his cheek, her own eyes flashing briefly. “It’s okay to let it go. Just for now.”

  When the dam cracks, it sounds like a cough. Then it crashes. Grief rushes in as tears flow out. No one is ready for the onslaught. A torrent of magic erupts, and Hiram clenches his jaw. The lights flicker. The hands of clocks spin out of control. August’s toy cars rise off the floor. It’s potent, visceral, and burns as hot as the sun. Droplets rain from the ceiling. They taste like tears and evaporate the instant they touch skin. The floorboards creak and bend. Hiram can barely see through the shimmering, searing heat rolling from Antaris, heat that threatens to burn everything.

  It fades like the glow in his eyes.

  Timing has been Hiram’s struggle, but it doesn’t fail him now. He catches his son as he crumples, pulling him close, letting him sob against his chest and fist his shirt. Hiram has spent hours, days, agonizing over what to do, what not to do, what might help, what might hurt. But in the end, it’s instinct, the need to provide refuge, that guides him. He picks Antaris up and carries him outside.

  Hiram closes his eyes and lets his son feel it all. Every emotion that’s been trapped beneath weeks, months, of silence. Hiram can’t bring Grace back, but he can endure the fallout. Allow nature to run its course, all while reassuring Antaris that he won’t be swept away.

  I won’t let go.

  A mantra. A truth.

  Only when the deluge has passed, only when his son’s sobs turn into sighs, does Hiram open his eyes. The world is so different from even this morning.

  Antaris is asleep in his arms, face tucked into the crook of his neck, grip still tight. His breathing is deep and even. Hiram collects his broken, waterlogged thoughts until Veda drops to her knees before him. She says nothing, only swiping a thumb beneath one eye. Then the other. They’re wet. He never noticed.

  “I need a few minutes,” he murmurs, trying to recenter himself in a world that’s shifted beneath his feet. “I know there’s a lot to discuss . . .”

  “Take your time.”

  He’ll never be able to explain the relief he feels when Veda doesn’t leave.

  Knowledge is a painful, double-edged sword.

  August keeps throwing worried looks at the still sleeping Antaris, who is stretched out on the couch wrapped in one of his blankets. August sits close, keeping watch over his friend while sneaking peeks at the cartoons playing quietly. Veda seems to be on guard as well, though some of her vigilance is directed at Hiram, if the cursory glances and the grounding weight of her leg pressed against his are anything to go by.

  “All I did was open the door to that safe space,” Khadijah tells him, calm and steady. “He has to choose to come out. So now we wait.”

  “How long?” Hiram wonders.

  “Until he’s ready, continue as you are. Be his father. Steady. Patient. Present. Nothing different from now,” she replies, expression turning serious. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s easy to mistake the manifestation of Sight in children for a trauma response. Don’t blame yourself.”

  He does anyway.

  “I think . . .” Veda hesitates, glancing at the couch. “I think he’s the reason the herbs at school and Hiram’s house have been growing like crazy. The olive tree . . . I think it’s been him, too, however unconscious.” She looks stricken. “I taught him a little protection symbol he does over everything. I didn’t know . . .”

  “Neither did he,” Peter says. “He’s an untrained child. He’ll be taught to control his magic and the laws of Sight. What he’s done so far is minor. Granted, what happened today was not, but he’ll learn that he can’t react so viscerally to every vision he has.”

  “Thanks.” Hiram takes it all in until his best friend claps a hand on his shoulder in support.

  “I’ll take it from here. Talk to his teachers when the term starts. Get him enrolled in Clinton’s classes for new Seers. Introduce him to other child Seers his age at the community center. We’ll bring August in, too, to help him understand. I’ll work with him on control, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “You need to make a decision about the Tree of Knowledge.”

  Hiram recoils at Khadijah’s statement.

  “I know, but it’s a choice you have to make as his parent. You can elect for him to eat fruit from the Tree and become Unseen or not. The Ellises have used that option in the past when a child manifested Sight at a young age . . . or even as a teenager. Sometimes, even without the child’s consent.”

  Hiram isn’t surprised. They will do anything to maintain the illusion of purity.

  “As far as the Registration is concerned, children are redacted until they turn sixteen,” Peter tells him. “If you’re worried about the rest of your family coming after him—”

  “I’m not worried,” Hiram replies, resolute. “I’m not taking away his Sight, and if anyone finds out and comes here to endanger him, they’ll need protection. From me.”

  The floating lantern hovers at the foot of Antaris’s bed. Hiram sits on the edge.

  Antaris has been like Velcro since everyone left, which is typically an indicator that Hiram will be spending the night on the floor in his room.

  Sorry, Antaris signs.

  “You think you’ve done something wrong?” Hiram asks.

  He looks at his hands, meekly nodding.

  “Look at me.” Hiram gently shifts closer as Antaris meets his eyes. “I’m upset, yes, but at myself. It hurts to see you hurting. I should have figured it out, but I won’t blame myself if you don’t.”

  Hiram offers his hand. Antaris takes it. They shake on it.

  “Never apologize for who you are.” At this, Antaris’s mouth forms a little O of surprise. “Your mom was a Seer, which means you have a little more of her in you.” Hiram stops as Antaris looks at him once, his eyes searching. Resting a hand on the boy’s damp curls, he adds quietly, “I’m not ashamed. I’m proud to be your dad.”

  Antaris surges up to hug him. Because he can, Hiram holds him a little tighter, a little longer, until Antaris lies back down and signs good night.

  Good night, Hiram signs back.

  He waits until Antaris is sound asleep before slipping out and heading to bed himself. Climbing under the sheets, he knows he won’t sleep for hours—until Veda emerges from the bathroom, smelling like his soap. The bed dips as she joins him under the covers.

  “You okay?” she asks. “Today was a lot.”

  “Better now that we talked.”

  “Good.” Veda’s voice is barely a whisper as she shifts closer, eyes finding his even in the near darkness. Hiram doesn’t expect her to move, but then her lips brush his, slow and deep, soothing away the long day. Hiram leans into it, his hand trailing up her side. He knows Veda won’t admit she likes his touch; she’ll make excuses even as she shivers, because while her lips might lie, her body never does. When she pulls away, Hiram can admit it’s not enough. Not even close.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs.

  Veda rolls her eyes. “Must you do that? Soon we’ll be fully civil with each other, and that sounds terrible.”

  He laughs because their fight at the school feels like a lifetime ago. “It does. Just awful.”

  “I’m glad we agree on something.” Her gaze drops to his arm, not for the first time, lingering on his tattoos, fingers tracing her amulet’s eye. When she catches him watching, Hiram draws her closer, dipping his head to kiss her covered shoulder, his hand tracing her shape.

  “I’m not having sex with you.”

  “Not tonight,” Hiram murmurs. “We’ll get there.” He grins at her sharp inhale. “You brought it up, which means you’re already thinking about it.” Brown eyes widen, lips part in protest, but he gently brings a finger against them before she can speak. “I thought I liked sleeping alone, but maybe I don’t. See? I can admit that. Unlike you, who won’t even admit that you like these . . . nightcaps. Or that you sleep better in my bed.”

  “Only thing I’ll admit is I hate being cuddled.”

  She rolls onto her side, her back to him, but doesn’t protest when he tangles their legs and wraps an arm around her.

  “You lie,” he murmurs near her ear. “Terribly.”

  “You’re warm,” she mumbles between yawns.

  “And your feet are ice.”

  Veda doesn’t respond. She’s already asleep, breathing deeply. Hiram chuckles softly, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. Before he knows it, he’s asleep, too.

  Twenty-Seven

  Dawn brings overcast skies and gray light breaking through the clouds. The lake is calm, the air warm and humid, and a gentle fog lazily rolls in. Hiram is already on the dock, looking on at Peter and Antaris, who sit with their legs crossed, eyes closed. Peter’s palms glow white while Antaris’s slide through an array of colors.

  “It’s a lesson in control.” Khadijah joins Veda at the window. “Something we do with the little ones. He has to match Peter’s color, over and over, until it becomes a smooth transition. They’ve been at it for about ten minutes. The first match usually takes fifteen and—”

  Antaris’s light flickers a bit before turning white.

  Khadijah makes a pleased noise. “Excellent.”

  Veda smiles. “Hey, while they’re outside, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  She squints. “Is it about the fact that you haven’t been home in days?”

  “A week and three days,” Veda deadpans. “But no, something else.”

  She excuses herself to Hiram’s room and returns with her rucksack, pulling out what she found in the forest.

  “Foxgloves.” Thanks to magic, despite being picked days ago, they’re perfectly preserved. “The island’s forest was bursting with undisturbed magic. These are likely more potent. I know you and Peter have been looking for a safe alternative that’ll slow my heart to the point of stopping.”

  “And you want to try foxgloves?” Khadijah asks, aghast. “I found a few options that are better on your system. A dream elixir, a pulse-pause potion, or Heartbeat Hollow’s essence can work and won’t poison you at the same time.”

  “None of these will stop my heart completely.”

  “Yeah, that’s the point. They’re not intended to kill you.”

  “The research said death will lead it out. The healer at the hospital when Ariadne-as-Everett attacked me said something similar. We have to mimic death, and if this curse was easily fooled, it would have left me after I was attacked.”

  Khadijah considers what she’s saying before sighing heavily. “Prepare it, but I think we should be careful and use a potion we know how to control with magic from the outside that has minimal side effects. We can’t manipulate foxgloves. Nature will take its course, and we’ll be forced to use other methods to heal you. We only take the foxglove route if it’s the last option.”

  “Okay. Want to help?”

  Khadijah does. They find everything they need and put on gloves. Veda carefully places the foxgloves on parchment paper. The desiccation charm works instantly, drying the leaves and flowers before her eyes. Veda picks up the paper and deposits the foxgloves into the mortar and pestle, grinding them by hand until they’re powder. Khadijah keeps the particles from flying away with a stasis charm.