Unsurprisingly, Simran isn’t moved. “I have completed the documentation to correct the error. All it requires is your signature.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  His mother’s frown deepens. “He is your son.”

  “Does his last name change that?” Hiram doesn’t wait for an answer. “Antaris has been taken away from everything he knows. The last thing he needs is to be suffocated by the new identity you’re rushing to force on him.”

  “Not force. He needs structure. All children do. You may not understand why I am so insistent, but I want the best for him. We must set expectations.”

  Hiram’s chuckle lacks humor. “Shame I never met yours.”

  Simran looks close to cracking, but returns to being the vision of poised composure. “I do not wish to argue with you when we are meant to reconcile.”

  “That will require compromise from everyone, not just me.”

  A quiet part of him still longs for a normal relationship with his parents, one that doesn’t come with strings attached. But doubt clouds every interaction.

  “We will finish discussing that later. For now, let us eat.”

  Hiram isn’t hungry but forces a few bites. The silence has barely reached tolerable when his mother tsks at a page near the back. “Disaster after disaster. Nothing good. Apparently, Seers are in danger. They are the danger to society, but who am I to censor the press? For once, I wish to open the newspaper to a palatable story.”

  “Forgive the news for not tailoring itself to your specifications.”

  She raises a brow as she sips her tea. “You are snippy today.”

  “I’m not. If you want, I’ll pre-read the news and highlight only the good parts.” More than anything, Hiram wants to read the article himself to see if it mentions the Botanist.

  A skeptical brow rises. “You are not sleeping because Antaris is still not sleeping through the night, is he? I told you that creating boundaries with the talisman I gave you would—”

  “I’m not trapping him in his room like an animal.”

  “When did I say that? My endless mantra is that you must give Antaris rules.”

  “What would you have me do? Ignore him when he’s having nightmares?”

  “I would rather you did not reward his behavior.” She laces her fingers together. “Raising a child is difficult, and it is okay to admit it. I would rather spend my time helping you than arguing. You and I have missed so much, and we have lost years with him due to his mother’s alienation. We should not lose more.”

  “You know why she kept him away,” Hiram replies.

  When Hiram confessed to Grace that he was that kind of Ellis, she cut contact and disappeared. According to her stepfather, not long after Grace arrived back in London, she found out she was pregnant and kept it a secret. John never approved, always urged her to reach out and give Hiram a chance, but Hiram understood. He hadn’t been free. The Ellis name and reputation had already smothered him long before he’d left. The last decade was a delusion of his own creation.

  “We are not the monsters she believed us to be,” Simran argues.

  “Seers have centuries of proof to the contrary. We invented ways to subjugate them, poisons to sever their connection to magic, and imbued their weaknesses into things they needed. Yet we had the nerve to smile in their faces while presenting their oppression as gifts.”

  “The Great Vanishing—”

  “Stop using that as an excuse to treat them as lesser.”

  “You were across the ocean at college. If you had been here, the experience would have changed you like it did me. That is the nature of consequence. You never return to the state of naivety, nor can you undo what you have seen. I will never trust anyone with the power to change the world and erase people from existence.”

  “I knew people who Vanished, but I’m not blaming an entire group for the actions of a single person. You can’t rewrite history. Anti-Seer laws were already in place long before the Great Vanishing.”

  “This is futile.” Simran checks her watch and stands. “I must go.”

  After she leaves, Hiram meticulously cleans every trace of their conversation, but it’s not enough. It never is.

  Too restless to stay home, Hiram goes for a walk. Not around the lake, but into the forest. It’s midmorning, the sun is breaking through the trees, and the trail is congested. The farther he goes, the thinner the crowd becomes, until he sees only one or two people now and then.

  Hiram hasn’t been here in years, but the forest is not beholden to time. When the trees start to bow over the path, little more than fallen leaves and moss, he knows he’s close. The first sounds of water trickle in, and a familiar western hemlock off the path is his cue to leave the comfort of the trail.

  In daylight, directions are easier. Small carvings on trees guide his way as he walks for what feels like hours, sweating under the humid midday sun until he ducks beneath a low branch and comes face-to-face with the mouth of Nénuphar Cave.

  It’s not a secret, but it is sacred.

  More than old, Nénuphar Cave is ancient. The tunnels and streams of a deep labyrinth branch far and wide. If there is an end, it remains a mystery. Hiram found the cave when he was ten, lost while hiking. He used to be a sickly kid, but that slowly changed after his first visit. The water, he realized, was not a cure but a boost to help him along the way.

  The air inside is rich with raw, damp earth and something heady. Water drips rhythmically—the cave’s pulse. Hiram’s eyes are drawn to the stalactites above and stalagmites jutting from the earthen floor. Shadows from hanging lantern orbs dance across the deep cavern, swaying and looming, turning the cave into a mesmerizing display of light and dark.

  At the edge of the water, Hiram strips down to his black swim shorts and steps in. The warm, waist-deep, luminescent waters are so clear, he can see the bottom. When he submerges, magic tingles his skin like electricity, and his first inhale after resurfacing soothes the tension in his shoulders. Careful of the darkness deeper in the cave, Hiram swims lazy laps. As he gently cuts through the water, thoughts cease. All the aches, anxieties, and worries that threaten to consume him . . . he lets them go. Releases them to the universe’s embrace.

  Floating on his back, he gazes at the amethyst walls and the limestone cavern ceiling. Eyes closed, he slips into a memory, another effect of the water. The visions are never the same.

  With Peter surrounded like a shepherd among his flock, Hiram is bored, and the graduation party’s saving grace is the liquor. He’s on his second shot when he sees her. It’s not the slit in her orange dress that makes her legs look longer or the voluminous hair under her graduation cap that catches his attention—it’s the eye-shaped sapphire amulet around her neck.

  The same one a Seer tattoo artist inked onto his skin last month. A vision made real.

  Now, it watches. Torn between approaching and retreating, full of questions, Hiram lingers, observing the woman leaning against a table, drinking amber liquor straight from a bottle. She’s talking animatedly to three men. Whatever the topic, she looks certain of victory. Without realizing, he drifts closer, now caught in her web.

  “As Mages, you and I are more of a danger than any Seer,” she says firmly. “Just like, as a man, you are more of a danger to me than—”

  “That’s not true,” one argues.

  “I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.” She takes another swig from the bottle. “As long as men and Mages establish the standard for society, they bear responsibility for upholding a higher one. Mages don’t, and men certainly don’t. You’re so blinded by your own privilege that you can’t see the shackles ignorance has placed on you. Society would be much further along if Seers were allowed to be inventive and creative with magic. I—”

  “Here you go, with all your dreamer shit,” the second man mutters, rolling his eyes.

  Hiram is transfixed.

  “That dreamer shit is responsible for the amulet you wear around your neck,” she argues firmly, touching her own with a sad fondness. “If a Seer hadn’t figured out how to divert magical consequence from the human body to the stone, and learned to tie Imprints to an amulet, Mages would still be dying from physical damage due to long-term spell work.”

  They shift, uncomfortable. “We didn’t mean—”

  She hops off the table, excuses herself, and disappears into the crowd.

  Awareness returns as the memory fades. Hiram floats until he hears footsteps on sand.

  He rights himself in the water. Opens his eyes. Pauses. Blinks.

  It’s been a long time since Hiram last thought of that night, so when he sees her at the water’s edge, he scrubs a hand over his face, wondering whether he’s hallucinating. His foot scrapes against a rock under the water, and pain jolts through him. She’s real.

  Memory made flesh.

  Same petite frame, brown skin, and deep-set brown eyes. Thinner than he remembers, cautious rather than carefree. There’s a poise that’s distinctively her, an awareness that’s intriguing and screams perseverance, not preservation. She’s wearing jeans, a gray Crestwood University shirt, hiking boots, and the same amulet that drew him to her in the first place. Her hair, full and free as it was the first time Hiram saw her, is now longer, copper-brown instead of black, and halfway down her back, threatened by the cave’s humidity. Hiram has never known her last name, but her first has been etched into his memory for a decade. Veda.

  “Why is my amulet tattooed on you?” she asks, studying him with narrowed eyes.

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  He takes one sloshy step toward her, and she retreats in equal measure. She’s gone before Hiram has a chance to follow.

  Three

  Clouds cloak the sky in gray gloom.

  Veda is restless, nauseous with anxiety and questions after her visit to Nénuphar was altered by a wet, half-naked stranger bearing an exact replica of her amulet tattooed on his arm. She runs back to Weston, where Clinton Desai waits alone on a bench with a small radio on the table. It’s turned down, but not off. There are two steaming cups of tea.

  “You’re late,” Clinton’s voice rumbles quietly.

  “Am I?” Veda quips. “I was looking for Peter.”

  “I Saw.”

  A blind man with Sight. The irony isn’t lost on Veda. Clinton is strong, not overly tall, and doesn’t look a day over fifty, though he turned sixty late last year. Deep-brown skin. Black hair. Strands of white in his beard. The wrinkles at his eyes age him more than the scars he wears with pride like the decorated soldier he is. Dressed in a plum blazer, cream linen shirt, and gray slacks, he looks ready to teach one final lesson for the day.

  “Peter left for his meeting with the school board just as I returned from speaking on Khadijah’s behalf to the Oracle Council about what happened at the apothecary.”

  Seers answer to their state’s Oracle Council, the governing body that addresses their community’s problems and intervenes when they break the Mage Protection Laws. These laws forbid Seers from using magic on others, even accidentally or in self-defense. Those who intentionally break Seer Laws or defy the Code—which prohibits using visions to alter the future, meddle with time, or interfere with life and death—are punished. The Oracle Council strips them of Sight, leaving them as Unseen. To a Seer, that fate is worse than death.

  “Will they punish her?” Veda asks.

  “I do not understand their paranoia, their caginess.” Clinton frowns. “There were no charges filed, yet I had to argue for leniency. It makes no sense.”

  “Did you argue as her uncle, head of the Oracle Council, or former congressman?”

  “All of the above.”

  As the first Seer elected to Congress, Clinton is well known for standing firm in the face of outright hatred. Once retired from politics, he moved to Washington state, arguably one of the worst states for Seers’ rights, returned to teaching, and has made headway fighting for Seers in his four years as head of the state’s Oracle Council. There are still miles to go before progress takes hold.

  “They believe missteps are a sign of trouble, but I disagree.” Clinton angles his face to the breeze. “Drink your tea, Veda. You’re rattled, more than usual. Tell me about Nénuphar.”

  Hiding the truth from a Seer is fruitless. “There was a man there. I don’t—”

  “Anyone in need of healing can find Nénuphar.”

  “I know, but his arm was covered in tattoos, and one looked exactly like my amulet, right down to the imperfections.” She covers it with her hand. “It’s one of a kind, my dad made it by hand. No one should have a replica.”

  “Unless you’re linked through the Cosmos.”

  “I hope not.”

  Clinton chuckles. “Describe him.”

  “Well, he didn’t look like he needed healing.”

  Tanned olive skin, a swimmer’s build. Taller than Peter. Undeniably attractive. Dark hair, striking blue eyes, and a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. Veda can’t detail his tattoo sleeve, but she remembers his soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Funny how memories work.

  “Some wounds live beneath the surface.” Clinton brings his teacup to his lips and blows on the steam. “I can’t read your mind, but I know you. I await the day your judgmental heuristics fail you.”

  “I’ll be dead by then.” Veda’s dark humor neutralizes Clinton’s amusement.

  “Peter told me about the spider lilies. Not every omen means you harm. Sometimes they can be helpful warnings.” Clinton turns off the radio and folds his mobility cane. “This fear you feel will change, in stages, and only when you reach beyond what you know.”

  Veda tenses. “Is that something you’ve Seen?”

  “Yes and no.”

  It’s dangerous and illegal to speak a clear truth, but Seers and their doublespeak grate her unlike anything else.

  “You are worried about the Sanguis Curse awakening before you learn whose blood is in that cyst. I know there have been attempts to drain and extract the curse, but cursed blood does not spill like normal blood.” He tilts his head, and a thoughtful hmm escapes. “I do wonder if anyone has considered that blood curses are man-made and parasitic in nature. They flee once the host stops benefiting them.”

  “You know Khadijah and Peter. They haven’t left a stone unturned. I’ve been on every anticurse cocktail and potion known to man. They’ve attacked it with spells, cleansed my blood and energy, and used every connection to get a consult with the leading curse breaker only for them to tell me that all the research on my curse is privately owned and they don’t share. Nothing works.”

  “Failure does not mean defeat.” Clinton turns up the radio. More incoherent rage-baiting about protecting the masses from Seers. Veda cringes at the hate language.

  “Why do you listen to this?” she asks.

  “We are no longer cut off from magic, displaced and ripped from our families, but bigotry still thrives.”

  “Trust me, I know. Peter enrolled a bigot’s grandson in school. The things she said, the way she dismissed Seers is—”

  “Not uncommon.”

  “Doesn’t it make you angry?”

  “I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of becoming the danger they think we are.”

  Fear brings out the worst in humanity.

  “Your tea is cold,” Clinton tells her.

  “I prefer it cold and—”

  “Bitter,” he finishes, shaking his head slightly. “Not for taste but self-preservation.”

  “It’s the best detection for poison.”

  “An outdated evolutionary warning.” Clinton reaches for his cup and brings it to his lips. “The perfect poison is not strong or messy, it is quick and clean.”

  Veda listens to the low hum of bees in the nearby apiary and accepts the mint candy he offers.

  “It’s quiet,” he says after a moment.

  “You know as well as I do saying the q-word invites chaos.”

  He turns to her, his voice sharp as the wind. “I cannot say much, but fissures bloom bloodred, and a trickster wears the face of a friend. Roots hold truths and lies. Take hold. There is one way out. What lies in the dark will come to light.”

  Veda’s blood turns to ice. Clinton’s visions are usually hints of feelings, vague until they draw closer to fruition. Although perplexing, this is the clearest riddle he’s given so far. He relaxes in his seat, and they sit together, watching the ever-changing world in flux.

  “There was another victim a couple of months ago,” Veda says softly. “A woman in London. Gabriel said her body was found near her house, splayed open, blood everywhere, surrounded by spider lilies. Like the other victims.”

  “You still remember the first. You carry him when you should not.”

  But she must. His blood stains her hands, never to be washed clean. Even the healing waters can’t drown the memories that torment her sleep. She remembers finding Healer Lawson, his body carved, arms spread, glowing spider lilies blooming from blood-soaked hospital floors, turning to ash at her touch. His attacker’s rapidly shifting face, the moment they noticed her frozen in place. The surge of raw magic that fractured her memory. They don’t know what’s coming, Healer Lawson had gasped as the light left his eyes. Two days later, when his killer came for her at home, Veda understood. Healer Lawson’s warning had been for her, too.

  “Do you know why we meet like this, when you are most anxious?” Clinton asks.

  “Typically, it’s against my will.”

  He doesn’t hide his amusement, but his expression softens. “I’ve never been able to ignore someone who is struggling to catch their breath.”

  Veda looks down at her hands, emotions forming an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

  “I was a child when I lost my vision in a car accident. My Sight manifested as a result. It was a constant sensory overload that only eased when I had help learning to shut the world out and restore my strength. I learned that my answer wasn’t solitude, it was family and community. That is what I hope I’ve taught you.”