Champagne & Stars - Chapter 10 - ChloeIsNobody, laurlovescookies (2024)

Chapter Text

~o*oOo*o~

The more that you say

The less I know.

Wherever you stray–

I follow.

I'm begging for you, to take my hand,

Wreck my plans.

Life was a willow, and it bent right to your wind–

~o*oOo*o~

“Sorry, kid,” Eda sighs, and means it. She might’ve swallowed a pill dry with no chaser for the grimace tugging taut at her crimson mouth just now. Admittedly, this is perhaps attributable to the fact they are all huddling in the damp, ashen underbelly of a nearby cigar factory’s back alley. Even Eda, whom smokes like a chimney, is holding a handkerchief to her face, subdued yet steely.

Unblinking as a screech owl swelling itself over its nest, Eda warily stands lookout against the speckled-grime brick where smoke unsettled. Clad again in a violet dress and shawl, hair now-powdered with soot from the explosion, Luz timidly emerges from the cover of several old shipping crates, like a rabbit kit uneasily nosing the air for danger. Eda meets Luz’s gaze. The sweetness of only this morning cannot warm them in the memory now.

“...but this is our safest route of action to take. Thank f*ck ya brought yer knapsack and a change of clothes with ya, kid. I’d make a point of it. We don’t exactly have time to windowshop today.” Eda’s expression is genuinely penitent as she pivots to King and Gus, flattened against the crook of the filthy walls, attempting to catch their breath in the blur of adrenaline. All of them are shivering with dust. “Helluva bum deal, but until we figure out just what the hell is going on, Dante’s being benched.”

“What’s there to figure out?” Luz shrinks against the corner, face shorn of itself. “I’m the one they’re hunting, Eda. We all know it.” A scald of panic breaches Luz as Eda’s eyes flicker shut. “You all,” Luz begs, the air unpiecing from itself. “...you should run for cover, right now.” Her hair ravels upon her unraveling hands. “If the Ten find you harboring me–” King’s age would surely not exempt him from his own little shoes dangling lifelessly in the air, a good foot above everyone else's, where they would doubtlessly all be strung up in a hangman's fracture. Luz’s chest heaves with the effort not to split down its middle. “–you’re all going to be torn to pieces–”

Briefly immobile with pain, heart threatening an urgent, violent retreat within her ribs, Eda’s countenance shrouds with foreboding. “Ain’t no one,” Eda rasps, clutching Luz by the shoulders. “Leaving nobody–” A tremulous, fleeting internal spasm as Luz looks so helplessly up at her. For all Luz’s slight frame, her Self normally spills over in liquid light, scattering aglow beyond the mere bones of her. Not so now; Luz’s pale as a cataract. Her shadow is retreating into her, like the apocryphal Grecian empusa swallowing the moon during a lunar eclipse. Eda has the sudden, crazy urge to clang pots and pans together like a desperate Grecian of yesteryear, struck senseless with terror in a moonless maw. Come back to me.

Eda’s teeth are decided. “ – behind to die out here. I ain’t my mother, ya know. You’re the one whom decided ya couldn’t not befriend the anger management trash panda caugh t in Wra th’s trap . Ya made yer bed, so lie in it, kid.”

“Here’s hoping it’s a big bed, ‘cause I think we’re all gonna die in it shortly.” Gus flatly retorts, eyes softening as King wordlessly twines his little arms around Luz’s leg, not dignifying her plea with a response. As always, Gus’s hand wanders to hers. “Even so, we ain’t abandoning you.”

“They’re r-right , s-sweetheart. We c-can still reason o-our way through t-t-this.” Raine breaks their silence at last from where they’ve scaled one of the alley walls, eyes raking the opposite street corner. Eda doesn’t fail to notice Raine still clutches their violin case in tow from where they perch, precarious like an Icarian acrobat. “I believe w-we r-remain undetected , f-for the time b-being. I-I w-would not confuse this w-with being s - safe.” Raine makes a face as they watch one, two, three–four police cars speeding along the road, quirking in the direction of the marketplace, where droves are still fleeing. Raine drops to the ground, rising out of a half-crouch. Eda peers through a nearby hollow in the wall. “ Ugh . Wanna know the difference between a cop and a bulle t? When a bullet kills someone, at least ya know the latter’s been fired. This just got ten times better. Place is crawling wi th feds. We’ll have to avoid ‘em at all costs. I especially mean that today.”

“But we didn’t make that car go boom. That terrorist attack wasn’t our fault!” Gus protests, narrowing again on Raine. “Speakin’ of which, care explainin’ just how ya knew Darius’s car had been tampered with?”

Somberly, in the pulse of seconds, Raine deliberates, mouth a desert, hands glacial with sweat. All eyes are upon them. “....vehicles are a f-favored target, for lorry b-bombs during an a-assassination a-attempt. There are signs, t-to watch out for, when a v-vehicle has b-been laden with e-explosives. It is not u-uncommon k-knowledge.”

A darkening sky sets its chill upon Luz as she shivers. The words of their near-collective slaughter are uttered so detachedly , glassine, even, from a voice that echoes down the forever of a childhood. Gus’s brow draws in upon i tself, like his voice: “....s till s eems kinda uncommon , for a grocer to know about such a thing. Were ya in the army during the Great War, or something?” Gus simply has no other explanation at hand–certainly none that he likes.

“Look, Sherlock.” At his wits’ end, King rounds on Gus as irritation slips him. “I for ain’t choosy about the particulars of how my noggin stays attached, so long as it does. Now, unless we are actively discussin’ how not to be impaled on telegraph poles, in which case, I care very, very deeply, I for one suggest we move on, to anywhere else, already.”

“King. Be nice. ” Luz murmurs, hurriedly stepping in-between as Gus opens his mouth to retort. “Gus: Raine saved our lives jus t now. That’s what’s important. And maybe Eda wasn’t responsible for the blast , but once the fuzz find the Owl Lady anywhere near the scene of a crime, they’ll automatically frame her for the bomb, and for attempted murder.”

“The very idea.” Eda quills with indignation. “I mean, granted, fair, if there’s an explosion within a twenty mile radius of me, odds are 3 to 1 I was at least involved–”

“I would i-invite you all to s-shelter in my garret until the s-situation c-cools, but t-there’s no telling when that w-will be.” Raine attempts to keep countless, damning little envelopes, wrapped in string, hidden away in musical tomes like lost pieces of a musical score, from putting themselves into a walking ensemble upon their mouth. “Better t-to flee t-the area a-at once. Eda, if I m-might i-impose upon y-your h-hospitality, do y-you mind, if I-I accompany you b-back to your h-house?”

“Of course not.” Eda’s voice is something terribly raw and unsavory, like a mesh of exposed root. “Ya can stay, as long as ya need to.”

Raine smiles, before their expression takes itself to pieces. “Children–” Raine gravely turns to Luz and Gus. “You a-are entirely c-certain, you only u-used t-the alias Dante when the District S-Seven huntress a-ambushed you? P-Please, think very carefully, h-here.”

Luz’s breath grates in her throat. “Y-Yeah.” She grips back Gus’s hand. “I only went by Dante. And that was what Gus called me.”

Raine exhales a long sound that might ostensibly be drawn from the depths of a well. “That was w-wise; Dante Fortunato doesn’t possess a b-birth c-certificate, nor a f-forwarding a-address.” A sly wink. “We must h-hope that the C-Covens don’t know a-anything y-yet o-of Luz Noceda .” Raine’s burst of a smile begins to fade, ashes catching along their face. “S till, h-hope is not a p-plan. It never is…”

As if remembering themselves, Raine’s eyes wander to coagulating crimson upon Eda’s knee; her torn stocking. “...hold, for just a m-moment, please.” Raine tears off a stretch of melody from their omnipresent musical scarf that conceals their clavicle. Quietly, Raine stoops before Eda’s side, eying her wounded leg. “May I…?”

Palms clammy with a danger of a decisively-different kind, Eda bites her lips down hard; seconds later, they’re chapped from too much tenderness. “Ya don’t have to worry. It’s just a scrape. Ya didn’t have to maim your fancy scarf or nothing.”

“Don’t tell me,” Raine murmurs, looking up a t her like a courtier addressing a queen, and Eda freezes as the children look on, wide-eyed. “Not to w-worry. May I?” A swee t nothing, that feels like an everything , quick to unravel you. Eda pseudo-swallows with a pseudo throat as she jerks a nod.

With tender deliberation, Raine takes to winding the makeshift bandage around the shape of an open wound, dark fingertips cautious as they attempt to stem the bleeding. Eda’s breath tucks itself to a fevered pitch before she hurriedly swallows the sound. It’s surprisingly sweet, even for the inevitable sting of it. Briefly, her leg tremors, and Eda hopes Raine attributes that to her sliced kneecap.

Faces flaming, King and Gus hurriedly look away–while certainly not risque , it’s still intimate enough a scene that they fluster away from it. Luz for her part, briefly forgets her anguish, fluttering upon her bouncing heels, eyes twin fireflies.

Stepping back to inspect their handiwork with a critical eye, Raine hums and rises again, cool as you please, as if they didn’t nearly unfasten a still-wildly blinking Eda mere seconds ago.

“It will have to do, until we can get it d-dressed. Now, h-here is m-my strategic recommendation: Le t’s head b-back to Eda’s p-posthaste. Not all of us at once, mind you, but in groups of t-two. E-Eda, you c-can take King and G-Gus–”

“Are ya insane? ” King demands, flinging his arms around Luz again. “We ain’t splitting up! I ain’t leavin’ her side, so long as they want to gut her like a trout !” Briefly King shies off as Luz beams at him, touched. “ Proper minions of the living dead are so hard to replace.”

“S-Seeing Luz and Eda’s faces side-by-side is g-going to m-make it that much easier for passerby, police, or potential c-coven scouts lying in wait to put t-two-and-two together. Even if Luz isn’t dressed like D-Dante. Plus, we all simply s-stand o-out too much, as a g-group,” Raine points out gently. Defeated, King’s little foot draws down in a truncated stomp. Raine turns. “Ah, speaking of which, Eda–”

“On it,” Eda promises thickly, fumbling for the clasps upon her purse. Plucking out a headscarf, a thick pair of sunglasses, and her powder puff, Eda gets to work reassembling her appearance with practiced familiarity. “Christ, but I’m glad I didn’t leave my pocketbook in the car.”

“We’re g-going to d-double around, b-backpedal through what l-little free t-territory New York has left.” Raine advises, a stitch of caution in their face. “It w-won’t render us i-immune from a-attack, but it’s f-far less d-dangerous than playing into e-enemy hands.”

Eda pens a frown, lowering her power puff with a snap . “Wouldn’t it be faster to short-cut through Lower Manha ttan …?” She quie tly muses, before answering her own ques tion: “...wai t, that puts us in District Eight. Hard pass.” Something flickers between her and Raine as they hold each other’s gaze. “Alright. Your plan checks out. No short-cuts, or we’ll be cut-short. Got it.”

“My other r-recommendation w-would also be to a-avoid public t-transport just now.” Raine muses. Everyone hurriedly shrinks behind the mounds of tobacco crates as a Radio Motor Patrol car steals past, the boxes half-ajar like sprung jack-in-the-boxes. Raine winces an apology as King and Gus steal dispirited looks. “It’ll t-take us m-much l-longer on f-foot, but s-so long a-as we avoid d-drawing attention to o-ourselves at all costs, I-I think we can j-just manage to give b-both the C-Covens and the a-authorities the s-slip.”

Eda performs a singular nod upon the arch of her swanling neck. Faintly, Raine finds themselves softly ruminating over it, and the shape of her. “Luz and I w-will go f-first.”

“I’m coming, too,” King demands hurriedly, flinching at the wince of desperation that scrapes his voice with the mechanics of a broken cog. Luz stoops slightly so that King can clamor upon her shoulders, but to her surprise, King shakes his head, flushing slightly. “I can walk , too, ya know.”

“We’ll follow along in a few.” Eda promises quietly, teeth tugging into her lip. The more she wants to say something else , the deeper her snaggletooth finds flesh. Gus flings his arms around Luz silently; everything unsaid makes itself told in their clutching at each other. Wiping her eyes, drawing back, Luz ties a headscarf around her own hair, looping her arm around Raine’s. The first group emerges from the alley. King scampers out a few inches ahead of them, hungry to prove his little legs could walk as fast as anybody else’s, hand plunged around something deep in his overall pocket.

Donning a particularly-bored expression, like their own version of emergency cosmetics, Raine’s eyes nonetheless are in near-constant motion as they cross the street past the post office, body coiled with tension as if preparing at any second to strike. Luz isn’t entirely sure why , not when Raine isn’t armed. Luz keeps a careful hand over her own slingshot. Her features wring with rue. Slingshot . Once again, Luz’s makeshift weapon feels so laughably puny , less even than the sum of its parts.

“....w-well?” Raine chokes at last, as if awaiting a sentence. For all the refined stride of them, Luz briefly glimpses Raine’s hand tremble around their violin case. A stigmata rests, eye-deep. “You aren’t,” Raine muses, without pretext, without needing to. “Going t-to a-ask, s-sweetheart?”

Silently, Luz turns. Raine’s eyes keep prowling back and forth like a wary fox’s. “Your friend, is very o-observant,” Raine observes, mouth almost unmoving, not without a flicker of humor. Some people in this life simply had an answer for everything. Luz in fact, had a question for everything, and a hundred more to take its stead. A pair of little hands gently turning over a little starfruit. Where does this come from? What is its name?

As a matter of fact, approximately a million questions are buzzing in a bumblebee throng over Luz’s head just now. She inhales, exhales, briefly sending them scattering to the back of her head upon a single breath. Not silenced, but momentarily hushed. “Like I said: Ya saved all our lives earlier. Now you’re saving us, all over again.” Certainty rises in her breath. “Thank you. I can’t pretend I know how you know all this, but I don’t need to pretend I know a good person when I see ‘em.”

Again, that involuntary shiver on Raine’s part. Luz’s eager eyes dim more than just a little. “‘Besides, I probably should save my questions for later.” Her face pulls itself like a child tugging carelessly upon the edge of a tablecloth, about to capsize all the good china. “‘ specially since I almost caused all of ya to push up daisies–”

“You are no murderer.” Raine murmurs back with unexpected firmness. “Le t that be understood. ” Briefly, Raine’s eyes lid, as they speak, this time, from the depths of an aphotic darkness. “ S-s-suppose t- then. Y-You a-are m-mistaken. A-About m-m-me.”

King preoccupies himself with carefully-hopping over every crack in the sidewalk. He stoops, plucking a dandelion from the pavement and proffering it to Luz, as a pretext to take her other hand. Heartsome, Luz smiles once again where the light still holds her. Her expression comes forward like the little doors of an Advent calendar. “Suppose then, that I'm not.”

Bowing their head, Raine has nothing to say to that. A weak sun briefly washes overhead before cloudfall closes over like a duvet. The breeze soon graduates a thunderstorm’s tempo, becoming crisp and cutting as clotheslines, powerlines, whip around them. Stumbling, Luz clutches the tied knot of her flaring shawl, grateful when Raine clasps King and Luz to shelter them from the wind.

For now, the disappearing daylight holds onto itself. They for their part, hold to one another.

~o*oOo*o~

Thunderous echoes of applause tremor ceilinged bucolic frescoes of the cavernous marble of the theater. Strains of cheers carry to gilded plasterwork, renderings of operetta scenes like Tosca , painted ballerinas from La Esmeralda , heavy with gold leaf. Even Amity bela tedly claps. While her expression is that of wary composure in her chiffon opera gown, she always had enjoyed the ballet, growing up. Alador wonders if the fact that —- would sooner carve out and re-consume —- own insides before stepping foot in the likes of a theater, has anything to do with Amity’s artistic sensibilities.

The muffled red velvet of the theater swims hypnotically with cigar smoke, with countless musks and perfumes. A spotlight lurches like a searchlight upon the stage, briefly bathing mosaic panels, minutiae painstakingly and intricately-etched. A torrent of song, from the orchestral pit.

Emira for her part, is lowering her opera glasses, fishing out a silk handkerchief in the Blights’ private box. Her ermine-trimmed teal dress, which understands both the carrying power of colour and line, nonetheless looks like a widow’s gown for how much Emira’s wept this act alone. Her eyes are glistening, swollen pink buds as she hurriedly rises once more to fervently applaud. Emira gives a standing ovation every time Odette appears on stage. Odalia would be livid if she only knew how much Emira’s painstakingly-applied cosmetics are smeared just now in such a display lacking in self-control. Alador thinks to tell Emira, so she can quietly collect and reassemble herself in the privacy of the ladies’ room. But Odalia is not here; she has that magazine interview with Reader’s Digest regarding her ambitions as Future First Lady of the State of New York . Alador supposes it could really do no harm, to be moved by something so. I̶t̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶h̶a̶r̶m̶,̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶v̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶i̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶.̶ ̶

From beside her, clad in a pinstripe suit, Edric settles a hand upon her back as Emira attempts to regain her composure, sniffling. The performer playing Odette–Viney-Something, Alador has already forgotten the starlette’s surname after a cursory glance at his program–swims away from the audience and back again en pointe in white feathery raiments. She’s elaborately eye-shadowed, glazed with sweat and white light, swathed in a crown of white feathers. She sweeps in a glissade en arrière, arms low in a graceful hoop, hands crooking to her heart, projecting it out for the audience to catch.

Viney’s lilting dance takes her soaring upon the darkling stage of midnight blue prop trees, an ivory full moon stage prop bearing down like a pearl. Emira’s trembling palms fall upon the polished brass railing that separates the Blights from the rabble at Odalia’s behest. Alador for his part stifles a yawn, and withdraws his pocket watch for inspection. How many acts does this thing have again?

Swan Lake is a virtuosic violence rendered in acrylics, haunted by a gracile maiden–Odette–all in white and her counterpart steeped in darkness, Odille. It’s a tour de force, those dire warning strains of the overture, the impending crash and crescendo of it all up to its last, fervent coda. A dark fairytale told with shadowed nostalgia. The cursed Swan Queen and her beautiful court of swan maidens are a veritable snowfall of white-upon-white, doily dresses, before the hard dots of wonder of the audience’s eyes.

Emira’s Her eyes, sick with longing, do not deviate from Odette, all satin and tulle, dancing a pas de deux wi th her cavalier, Prince Siegfried. Wishing for a cigar, Alador observes how the Prince, with his mop of hazel eyes and hair, curiously bears a strong resemblance to his Odette. Edric takes an appreciative draft of his pomegranate mocktail. “This season’s Siegfried is something else. Jerbo’s got exquisite form, here.”

Morbidly, Alador recollects Amity, back when she was in the habit of caring about things, once telling him that some of the antiquarian ballerinas used to dance in dark theaters lit by gas lanterns. An unfortunate French ballerina by the stage name of Emma Livry had once burned to death when the edges of her costume caught one of those lanterns in a performance of La Sylphide . The young maiden had swiftly gone up in flames like a dancing firebird pirouetting around the audience in a swirl of burning plumage. Alador shudders.

You want to know, the saddest thing, father? That poor girl isn’t remembered nowadays for being one of the last of the Romantic ballerinas, or having what the papers called an ethereal technique. She’s not immortalized for how she lived, but how she died. Did you know, my book says bits of her cindered costume were eventually put on display in the Musée de l'Opéra? Like a saint’s relic.

The fluttering host of swan maidens encircle the lovers. It’s lovely. It also hurts Alador’s eyes, all this white. It’ll be a relief when Odille, whom all but attacks the stage, eventually appears to strike terror in the collective heart of this enraptured audience. Everyone adores and reviles Odille, whom arrives in t he last of the light, borne upon a chariot of dark wings. Incidentally, she’s clad all in black– could they be, a little less obvious ? Everyone loathes Odille, for dancing with the deceived Prince Siegfried, for stealing Odette’s hopes of both true love and of breaking her curse.

Alador briefly finds himself musing over the engagement ball, where Siegfried will eventually clasp Odille to his breast and break his vow. Still, no one ever casts blame at Siegfried’s feet–poor, simple, besotted Prince Siegfried–for his fault. Nobody, incidentally, seems to blame Siegfried for anything. How authentic then, were his feelings for Odette? Odille did approach the Prince, and he consequently lost his breath to her. He also, incidentally, chose to dance with her. Perhaps Siegfried was never fooled, but only ever a callous coward whom needed an excuse for his betrayal. Perhaps prolonged exposure to Odette and her court ensemble eventually did a violence to his own eyes.

Or, perhaps it’s entirely possible he simply needs a prolonged puff upon his cigar in the gentlemen’s parlor. After all, the mechanics of ballet have always escaped him. If he’d tried relaying any of this nonsense to Odalia, she’d tweak his cheek until it coloured and bid a servant pour him a drink, regardless of whether or not he wanted one. And Alador would watch the ambered, carrying paths of bubbles, in a champagne flute.

He creeps out to use the water closet, footsteps hushed upon the thick of velvet carpeting. Odalia in truth did not care for something so insipid as opera or ballet, but too many of New York’s socialites haunted this theater for it to be ignored as a potential publicity chess piece in the Blight’s campaign. Reporters near-constantly prowl the steps of the auditorium in-between performances, looking for celebrities and socialites to catch unawares. Unsatisfied with their family being a mere headline, Odalia’s latest ambition is to have them photographed leaving a ballet performance, their image published in Art & Culture columns. Alador passes the Whites-Only boxes that circled the front, the Colored-Only section in the nosebleeds. He shades his eyes against the brilliant lights of the foyer, passing a crystal-and-bronze chandelier looming overhead.

Gaze snagging upon a solitary shadow in the main foyer, Alador’s freshly-shined shoes come to a halt, beneath marble doorways that arch like a back, corinthian columns that might belong to an ornate wedding cake. “ –know it’s early , but I’d just as soon as leave now. Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark. Or Long Island–whichever.” The rich timbers of a tenor, glossy as the ribbon of a new bookmark, echo beneath a bust of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, an oiled recreation of Girl With the Pearl Earring . “I can feel it in my gut…”

Slender, the figure deliberates. His glossy-dark hair is elegantly-braided into dreads, mahogany-dark skin holding the streaming radiance of the chandelier overhead. His burgundy vest is embroidered with gold over a charcoaled collared shirt, mother-of-pearl pants, with white heeled boots (?) and a cloak of black feathers, clasped at the sternum with a broach. (?!!!) Alador performs a double take, wondering perhaps if it’s one of the actors– actresses ?–simply making a quick call before their curtain call. He dismisses the notion; Alador would’ve surely recollected the lurching sensation of the theater becoming a stomach, intent on swallowing him whole.

“I called the shop already to remind her to pick me up. Her clerk said that they’ve not arrived back home yet.” A gloved hand coils languidly in the telephone wire at the desk. The air attempts to separate itself, from itself, in Alador’s lungs. “Knowing her , I really ought to have a back-up plan, in the entirely-plausible event things go awry.” A brief pause as the stranger’s lashes briefly flicker. “...mm-hmm, thanks, I’ll be ready.” Just about to lower the lobby receiver, the young man blanches. “Did I enjoy myself? Well….”

He hums as he muses it over. “Certainly I enjoy seeing the costumes the department comes up with each year. The pageantry of storytelling, in any case. I suppose that’s why people enjoy it so much. A repository of tradition, and all that. Still, there are really only so many times a prince can simply prince. So many times a princess can princess, I suppose. Eventually, something has to give.” He rolls his beautiful eyes. “Look–o ne can't simply explain away passion; you can only do .” He scoffs seconds la ter in response to a reply, and offers one of his own: “Philistine.”

Seconds later, the stranger’s slender, painstakingly-arched brows nearly zigzag. “...what do you mean , a car bombing ? Eber. Surely, you don’t know anything about–”

Suddenly sensing eyes upon him, the beautiful man whirs around; the echoing shush of their shoes carries. “Do you mind?” His affronted voice all but spits out kindling shards. Instead of averting his eyes, he fiercely lifts his head. A searing green gaze . Alador startles away like Charlie Chaplin, gaze wobbling again to the stranger’s with something like apology. He feels the likes of a loathsome runt of a boy, caught ogling the prettiest girl in form school.

The stranger sighs gustily into the rotary phone. “No, no, not you. Some hovering, slack-jawed spatherdab * is gawping abou t . See you soon. Ta.” He hangs up the lobby phone, and rounds on Alador. “Well, I never .”

“My apologies.” Alador bleats, knobby and tentative like a fawn. Whatever a spatherdab is, it surely does not sound good. Even coming from the likes of a pretty mouth. Alador is not in the habit of noticing pretty mouths, nor pretty men, for that measure. “I, ah, saw your cloak in passing, and it–” He hurriedly looks this way and that for any reporters potentially lurking beneath the balustrades. “Well, it’s very fetching.”

Cooling slightly, the stranger gives a flick of his head. “I should say so; I made it.” He gives his cape an affectionate swipe. Alador is startled when a smile presses its insistence upon him.

“Remarkably well done. Do.” Alador had been chilled only seconds ago. Now, his collarbone pulses. “Do you work,” He attempts to rearrange his words into the likes of polite, banal, co*cktail conversation. “For the ballet theater’s costume department, perhaps…? I’ve always been partial to the special effects, myself.”

Incredulous, the man’s eyes briefly falter on Alador’s tuxedo. Normally never one to particularly-care what Odalia picked for him to wear, Alador’s skin writhes at wearing something so wholly unimaginative in comparison. The stranger is a portrait. Alador in comparison is something that might as well as be made of rust . Something that was, and is, and damnably so–himself, or the lack of one.

“No.” The lovely stranger says at last. “My hobby involves a very different sort of stage.” He hums, on the bars of a private joke, before leaning in, as if Alador has a speck of dust upon his suit. The man in a feathered cape’s features are a crossfire–something bemused, something amused , something pitying, something else, almost feather-light and molten.

“Well, I’ll be,” Is all the lovely man murmurs, pulling back. “If you’ll excuse me, my ride’s almost here.”

“Wait.” Alador implores from the puddled remnants of him. What else can you say, when you’ve been properly broken into? “Ah–sir–it’s,” It’s unbearably hot in here, is what it is. Alador’s pale hands briefly agitate themselves against his collar. The stranger’s face is aloof and watchful. Alador collects himself by looking at the stone traceries of Gothic windows, where rain is already streaming down. He fumbles for his umbrella at his belt, relieved he kept it on his person.

“Here.” Shaking, he thrusts the umbrella at the stranger like a scepter. “Your cloak–it’ll–” Alador attempts to English. He attempts, in fact, to do anything bearing the semblance of coherent speech, of sheer human function. “Sir, it’ll get ruined , if,” Why is he fumbling so, as if attempting to fling down his coat upon flooding storm drain, so a lady would need not dirty her fine shoes? “....if you step out, in the likes of this weather.”

If this stranger’s a ghost, he’s the likeness of a beautiful haunting. The man in a feathered cape cuts his eyes to the side. Then, slowly, with great ceremony, he accepts, with the indulgent air of having just done Alador a favor. And perhaps he has, perhaps he has. Alador’s face is rendered an ardent mask.

“I suppose I can accept. I detest getting wet.” He opens the umbrella; Alador vaguely remembers faintly that’s bad luck, can’t bring himself to care. “Should you need to come fetch your umbrella,” He plucks out an ivory calling card from his pocket, pro-offers it to Alador. “You can drop by my office sometime.

“By the way,” Darius smiles faux-demurely, but with an unmistakable flash of teeth. Inexplicably, Alador remembers Odille in her glittering majesty, the sequins upon her ensemble that held the light, like shimmering black ice. “Hasn’t your mama ever taught you,” Darius t winkles mischievously . “That it’s rude to stare?” Darius's voice alone causes the chandelier overhead to shiver upon its chain. He turns to go, chuckling beneath his breath. "Déclassé …”

While Alador’s no dancer, his own dancing insides appear to have caught fire, just like that dancer Amity spoke of. His What was her name. Alador can’t remember now. He can scarcely remember his own. With trembling, sweat-glistening hands, he looks at the ivory card he now clutches. Darius. Darius is his name. Alador’s soul lifts its head from the parquet floors of a parlor.

Graceless as a duck-footed prepubescent, Alador’s ears prick pink. He waits for Darius to leave through the magnificent golden arches of the entrance, only to realize with a crestfallen heart that Darius is heading to the back . Helplessly, hopelessly, Alador stumbles along a few seconds behind, wishing to say something, do something, but he is only ever himself, over and over again.

Head held high, Darius glides out in the swirl of rain, huddling beneath the umbrella upon the marbled staircase. His cape flutters wildly all about him. Watching from the doorway, Alador silently gapes as a red car pulls out to the backlot.

Strains of Swan Lake swell to a fine keen behind in the echoing maw of the theater, like a reminder. Let it never be said that ballet scores have no instruments for the likes of a cataclysm. Inside, an impressive coterie of footmen, a phalanx of doormen, waiters with trays of morsels speared upon toothpicks, champagne flutes that no longer hold champagne–-all on hand to offer everything you surely wanted, and everything you surely did not.

Outside, in the swirl of the storm, the battering of the rain, Darius hurries to the nearby red automobile. Now atop the front steps, Alador shivers, wishing he’d thought to open Darius’s car door for him–of a great many things besides. The driver, a youth considerably shorter than Darius, briefly contemplates Alador beneath his cap in a way Alador’s not entirely certain he likes. Darius clamors in, a couple of feathers worried away by the wind. The car drives away. Alador watches it depart. Briefly, he stoops to collect one of the stray dark feathers fluttering upon the stairs, pocketing it with Darius’s card.

Already getting soaked–it’ll be his own head upon a platter if someone photographs him looking like a wet dog–he heads back inside, a man best understood in his goings then his comings, a soul in retreat. It was Odalia on his lips for the speeches he read aloud, her they all applauded for. And Alador couldn’t inspire paint to dry; whom speaks of the weather as an event of grace importance.

It is a quarter past twelve in the afternoon, and storming heavily. From far away, body prodding a reminder as if in afterthought, Alador vaguely recalls he had meant to use the powder room. He floats to the Men’s room. His feet must be walking, but he can’t think of bidding them to move. Vacantly, he turns on the gold faucets.

The marbled sinks fill, and fill and fill. Did you know, a mirror absorbs by merging presence with absence? He does not turn the water off, even as it eventually burns his hands, stinging him back with something like reproach. Hurriedly, he switches the faucets off. His breathing is a strange song in his own ears. Acoustics. The water brims. Catches the yellow light. Drains again. Alador has found something inside of himself, or something inside of Alador found him.

Intermission. The swim-swarming of bodies; crowds of insensible people will soon swarm the lobby. Couples chattering and pawing at one another, so made up, so desperate to be looked at that they consequently didn't really look like anything at all to Alastor. Hopefully no one will ask his stance upon political issues. Odalia is not here, after all, to have an opinion for him. Feathers. Black feathers, shed from a costume. Bright nipping air of the piazza. Alador’s eyes are as bewildered as a child’s in the vaults of glass upon the walls.

Soon, a frill of society girls, at first prodding and probing at a safe remove, will eventually approach the Blights. Mouths full of congratulations. Their eyes gleaming like death wishes.

When at last Edric and Amity approach Alador in the foyer, Amity’s eyes lever an accusation at her father. Alador’s ​​eyes are soon cast low and inaccessible. Amity probably thinks he left the ballet to take another work call from Odalia in the lobby. Let her think that. It’s a kindness to them both. Alador clears his dry throat, stirring from reveries of a cologne of someone on the threshold of a party. “Where’s Emira?”

“Off,” Edric says far too-brightly, too-sweetly, green eyes tarnished with trouble. “Re-doing her makeup, I imagine.” Amity casts him a dubious once-over; Edric studiously ignores his youngest sister’s questing look.

And Alador nods; he seems to have slipped back into his own skin. Of all the things, his mind is cycling over a nursery rhyme his old nanny was fond of reciting when Alador’s parents vanished for the evening:

“ Three little ducks went swimming one day.

Over the hills and far away.

Papa Duck said, Quack, quack, quack–

But only two little ducks came back.”

~o*oOo*o~

Raine’s route back is a serpentine, looping zigzag in the shape of question mark, spanning through four different neighborhoods of New York proper. An improvised solo, unexpectedly swelling out of an orchestral ensemble, or the synthetic geometry of a flower unraveling itself. It is calculated and it is wild all at once. There is a science to Raine’s movements–albeit that of a mad one.

It isn’t long before the sky splits, and plummeting streaks of cold rain lash drenched skin. Raine is forced to conceal their violin case within their coat to protect it. Their trudging feet radiate ache like embers within soaked boots in the urban half-light. King’s features crease with crestfallen exhaustion as he stumbles forward, Luz glassy-eyed and shivering, heels of their hands slippery in one another’s. Too early yet for the streetlamps to glow, New York is a fresh scatter of bruises upon the old. A tuning fork of lightning streaks across the sky before the resonant bellow of thunder.

Over two hours later, they stumble at last to the gabled stoops of Eda’s neighborhood, the verdant flail of the trees pulling at their own kerchiefs as young leaves go sailing. Drenched, Luz presses a trembling hand against the trunk of a hornbeam tree, something of a primal triumph sparking. King is so worn out and benumbed that he might be sleepwalking, seemingly content to fall asleep there upon the sway of his heels. Luz stoops to place him upon his back. This time, King’s too tired to protest.

“Almost t-there.” Raine encourages, attempting, in vain, to dry their drenched spectacles upon a soggy vest. “The cover of t-treefall m-makes it harder for us t-to be s-seen. Let’s s-stop to catch our b-breath a moment. I t-think it s-safe, to catch up w-with the others n-now.”

Shivering, sniffling, Gus stumbles up, blowing upon his chafing hands. Eda attempts futilely to wring out her hair even a little. “Remind me never to let ya pick the scenic route ever again, Rainestorm.” Her snap-rattle softens a mite with grudging appreciation. “Can’t say it wasn’t hella- effective . Hell, I wouldn’t exactly want to tail me, either.”

“We’re n-not o-officially out o-of this yet,” Raine warns, modesty twisting them on reflex. “Let’s keep going.”

Luz could weep with joy when at last they come upon the missing railings in the iron fence. She could kiss it, those enormous, scale-like shingles of that lovely, decrepit house, bearded with shoots of ivy. Someone has lit every single lantern, taper, glass oil lamp, and lightbulb from within every window, so that the house is a spilling avalanche of falling stars, washing upon the wounded landscape. Pressing her hand against her heart, Eda ghosts a sharp frown at Raine. “Not gonna lie. I half-expected this place to be a bonfire in another capacity entirely.” Her stomach twists into a sore braid with the admission. “Ain’t like they don’t know my address…”

Raine’s voice dips, so that the children will not overhear. “I w-wouldn’t be s-surprised , if the Covens, in f-fact, w-wish to make a p-public e-example of us, e-especially j-judging by the stunt, they p-pulled with the b-bomb,” Raine mutters back, eyes grave behind their spectacles. Eda purses her lips in a half-smile, languid and sardonic at the usage of the word us.

A familiar pair of eyes warily pale from the window at their approach. Soon, Hooty is hurriedly at work, throwing back an assortment of heavy bolts and chains, flinging open the door before they even reach the threshold proper. “Thank goodness you’re finally back.” His moonlike face has been drained of all blood. “Camila’s been in a bad way ever since she heard–”

King drops from Luz’s shoulders in the spike of alarm that thickens the air to perspiration. All fatigue forgotten, Luz barrels inside, dashing past Hooty, bag tumbling to the ground. Reclining upon the worn chaise in the sitting room, where dry lavender and basil have been strung up in clusters overhead, Camila stirs, a wet washcloth propped upon her brow. She immediately lurches upon uneven feet, that simply will not bear her, as Luz zips to her side.

Panting with exertion, Camila grips Luz in her arms with tender ferocity, never minding that Luz looks drowned. Eda rushes in, hobbling mid-step to peel off her muddy soles with a grimace. Raine soberly looks on as they hurry in upon Eda’s blistered heels, hair plastered to their head. “ Camila . Y-You r-really s-shouldn’t b-b-be walking just–”

Face knotted with worry, Camila flings her arms around Raine, and then Eda next, shuddering them both to life, even fleetingly. Hesitantly, Raine’s hands linger at Camila’s back, the fabric of her dress alive with the warmth of her . Face aflame, Eda finds herself fumbling for the next stair in the dark, finding herself in wordless thanksgiving for both the sinew and the soft of them.

Camila’s pea-shoot body shakes with coughs as she wrings red eyes. “Dios mio , thank God, you’re all safe .” Convulsing around each breath, she’s eased into her waiting wheelchair.

“....how’d ya find out?” Croak of her voice speeding up, Luz soon finds herself talking on a tone. “ What did ya find out, Mami?”

Drooping as he timidly pads in, Hooty gestures to the nearby bell of the crackling radio sitting upon the mantle, absently playing a pudding jingle. “...I went and checked in on Camila this afternoon, after her nap. She was all by herself, all up there in that room.” Hooty leans against the window of his memory and recoils, petrified of falling through it. After all, he is a flightless bird. “So, I carried her downstairs, so she could listen to my favorite story program with me. It got interrupted by a news bulletin about a car bombing in Little India where ya went to shop–

Recovering somewhat from her coughing fit, murmuring thanks as Gus presses a tin cup of water in her hands, Camila mops her brow. “So, I dressed, and left to find a streetcar, to take me at once to downtown, so I could find you all.”

“Mami!” Luz all bu t wails , roiling inwardly. “You heard the doctor! Why would you try crawling to a warzone ?!” Not in the least surprised for his part, Gus placatingly squeezes Luz’s shoulder. “Well, the idiom, like mother, like child, comes to mind, I s’pose….”

“Ah, I didn’t get very far,” Camila confesses, face falling. “Hooty followed along, kep t begging me go back, go back . He wound up carrying me back, when I had a little dizzy spell.” Camila laughs i t off in a chuckle, even as the breath falls out of poor Luz. “He is very fast. We even got back, before the cloudburst. It looks like you all, were not so lucky…”

“Weren’t ya supposed to be looking after Camila while we were away?” King incredulously demands from where he now leans across a sofa. “Way to go, birdbrain.”

Radio static ripples upon Hooty’s ears like a hissing wound of sound. “I kept telling her and telling her.” Hooty sounds on the verge of tears as he hugs himself. “ Honest, I–”

“No, no, do not scold him, for choices I made,” Camila reproves gently as Luz wraps an afghan around her mother’s shoulders. Gus snorts. “King. C’mon. I’m sure Hooty tried his best, here. But ya ever try talking Aunt Cammie out of something, when she sets her mind all made up? Whose Mami do ya think she is, anyway?” King has the grace to look slightly contrite as Luz side-eyes Gus.

“I couldn’t lock her up, even if I didn’t want her to go. I couldn’t ,” Hooty bleats helplessly as Eda silently crosses the room in two strides. Eda places the pale of her hand upon his drooping head, which was already better than anything she could’ve said. Then– “Of course ya couldn’t. Ya held down the fort, and did good today, kid.”

Flustering dark pink with pride, Hooty dares lift his head. Then, everyone’s heads turn to a transatlantic accent, emerging from what sounds like a staticky echo chamber: “Breaking bulletin: Reported sightings of the notorious Owl Lady around the premises of Jackson Heights, better known to its residents as Little India, shortly before the detonation of deadly incendiary devices today at noon. No fatalities have as of yet been reported, but the Chief of Police will be preparing a statement emphasizing that the renegade bootlegger is armed and extremely dangerous–”

Teeth setting, Raine seethes, insides a relentless battery pulse of strings. Eda’s eyes simply close, her features composed, albeit in a pale mask. Gus’s face has been whitted with trouble, his brow twinkling with sweat. King actually jumps up and down in a frenzy of sheer rage. “Oh, c’mon, already! This is complete bull, and they know it!”

Luz’s spindling shape shakes; she shivers. Dread fills her ribcage until she can scarcely breathe. This was by-far more sad*stic and cruel a punishment than anything Luz could ever conceive. In the public eye, the Owl Lady went from merry troublemaker, a lovable, rakish outlaw on par with Robin Hood, to menacing terrorist whom preyed on innocents shopping for food in unoccupied territory. Not only did the Ten attempt to butcher Eda’s household today, but they would have Eda holding the knife.

Hooty hurriedly turns off the radio dial, making a soft, crooning sound deep in his throat as he turns to Luz, stooping a little. Camila’s brow creases. “ Owl Lady? ” Hesi tantly, her lips try the words on–they cast them down again seconds later, like a poorly-fitting garment. “Bah, this is nonsense . They think, we don’t really know. who really did it.”

All sound slides off a dark staircase. Eda’s eyes open, usual bravada and brio fled. All of Luz’s neurons are on fire, screaming. “ W-who, Mami?”

“Who else?” Camila’s hands fling open in exaggeration. “Nine times out of ten, something bad happen in this city, it’s the Ten! Owl Lady .” Camila rolls her eyes, and t he timber of Luz's spine all bu t unbuckles with relief. “ Those announcers, they just don’t want to say it’s the Ten, because el policia cover for them! Anyone in Harlem knows that. The radio should stick, to reading romance stories.” Camila wheels her chair over to Raine. “Oh, Raine.” Camila’s hand lifts to Raine’s cheek. “I am so sorry. I know, this is your hometown under attack.”

It’s a beautiful sort of undoing, being reduced to your most essential pistons and gears. Faintly, the echoed bell notes of a struck idiophone bloom in Raine’s ear. “W-we w-will b-be f-f-fine.” Raine assures, half-fearing Camila’s hand will soon burn, as if she lifted her hands to a furnace. “My c-community will never s-suffer the likes o-of the Unholy banners in our h-home. Speaking of which.” Raine’s features briefly snag upon the jagged edge of a reminder in the form of their violin case propped upon the wall to dry : Th ey are an intruder to this household at best, a mortal danger at worst. “... I should p-probably t-think, of g-getting–”

Camila is horrified as she lowers her hand. “Please don’t go.” She implores, and a neat counterargument that flies to Raine’s lips quickly disassembles itself. “Not now–it’s probably still dangerous. And not in this weather. We have the sofa.”

“Didn’t exactly stop her from tryin’ to scenic tour a bomb site earlier, but I don’t think it’s lettin’ up any time soon.” Eda solemnly agrees, squinting out of a nearby window. Surely they’d have no speakeasy customers whom would be willing to kayak out here for a hit of Apple Blood tonight. Eda half-wonders if they’ll ever have any customers again after she’s been pinned for the bombing. “ Ya’d ca tch out your death out there, and then Camila would be in the hospital before the night was over.” Eda wills the heat of her gaze to stop escaping into her cheekbones. “Seems awfully cruel to her if ya ask me.” And to me, she’d like to say, and she can’t, she just can’t.

“...if you insist.” Raine meekly concedes at last. Out of the corner of their eye, Raine’s quite nearly convinced they see Eda and Camila exchange triumphant smiles, eyes lit with mutual congratulation. Quite nearly. Eda grins toothily. “Well, we didn’t exactly bring back groceries on account of us runnin’ for our lives, but we gotta plenty leftover stew from last night, since the safest bet in this house is to make a metric ton of sh*t, anyway. We always manage, right, kid?” Eda turns to Luz for affirmation. “...kid? Ah, hell. ”

King’s pleading eyes lift for help beside Gus and Hooty, whom are forming a circle around Luz. Luz pulls her knees to her chest. A sheer elation had trembled itself upon these bones after defeating Boscha in the glassworks. But an entirely different adrenaline unwires Luz now. Nearly-everyone she loved had been merely ten feet away from a closed-casket funeral. And Dante’s clothes lie in the abandoned bag by the door, like another explosive lying in wait, to destroy everything it touched. Luz might've been taken out of the storm; it burns inside of her now. Among other things.

At once, Camila wheels over. “ Mija ?” A sof t lilt of hesitation, as if Camila’s searching for Luz in the woods after dark. Teeth rattling, Luz s tumbles to her feet, into the warm close of Camila’s arms. Camila exhales a sound soft as a song, vibrating from her breastbone. “I’m sure, i t was just awful. Never mind, never mind, mi ciela . It’s over now.” Camila looks up to see Gus straining a smile, one that aches as good as a hunger pang. “Come here, mi Gusi to .” Camila opens an arm invitingly. “I know my old friend Patricia would like, me to give you a hug just now, God rest her soul.”

Gus needs no prompting, hurriedly enfolding himself into the irresistible gravity of Camila’s warmth. Camila’s hand finds the glowing coals of Luz’s vertebrae. “ Mija ?” Camila’s brow folds into a familiar set of creases. “ Mija , you are burning, in your skin!”

Luz does not reply, eyes glazed, bangs plastered to her forehead as Gus pulls back in the spillover of sheer dread. For a terrible moment, Manuel is cooking to death in his bones all over again, shivering violently despite all the countless layers his wife and child piled atop him in the tenement, despite all the times they took the cold of his hands and bade him: Permanecer. Stay. The haze of despair nearly takes the world apart as Camila cradles Luz.

At once, the slender twin arcs of Eda’s brows disappear into her bangs as she rushes over. “f*ck. I was afraid of this. Everyone, get back . Now.”

“I-I-It’s m-m-my f-fault.” Raine’s voice is more stammer than speech, lines and planes of their face crumpling. It’s surely no good sign, when even Raine’s composure is vacating. “That r-r-r-ridiculous p-p-path back–” Eda understands, far too well, that Raine would probably fling themselves upon the grate if they thought it would mean any amount of penance. “Y-You d-don’t think it’s–” Raine contorts on the collapsing arch of their own axis with anguish. This was exactly what became, of forgetting one’s lot in life. Only someone else, someone precious, had once again been punished in Raine’s stead–

“We weren’t exactly lookin’ to slow-dance through coven territory anytime soon. Your route back was the safest thing we coulda done . It would’ve worked perfectly if not for the rainstorm, Rainestorm.” Eda gruffly takes Raine’s arm as they inhale a sharp breath through grit teeth, attempting to dispel the panic. “Trust me: Ya’d be kicking yer ass even harder if we were at the business end of a firing squad. At least the kid ain’t coughing up a lung.” An unspoken yet poisons the air with dark anticipation . Briefly, the room is submerged in the plunge of silence that's so devastating in its implosion that she can really only bear witness for a moment.

Eda’s the first to recover, not by preference, but by necessity. A wishbone would never suffice when sheer backbone was warranted. “King, Gus–ya two are drenched. Get changed and warmed up and make it snappy, ‘fore it’s you doubled over. Raine: Get a fire and the boiler going.” Eda would worry about the looming scythe of the electric bill later. “Hooty, get some soup and tea heated up for everyone. Cauldron’s in the ice box. Camila: Help me get this kid safely settled.” Eda gives Luz a dry nod as Luz shivers up a smile in quiet fervor, dreamily holding up her wrists. “My hands are snakes.”

“Sure they are, kid,” Eda sighs indulgently, opening her arms. “Probably better if I carry her, ‘Mila.”

A pause like a pulse. With what looks like one of the greatest efforts of her life, Camila slowly passes over a violently-shivering Luz into the waiting crook of Eda’s arms, kissing Luz tremulously on the brow for good measure. Eda whirls around. “Hop to it.”

Everyone is too happy to rush to their tasks like a scatter of marbles, in the comforting relief to have something concrete and finite to do. At once, Camila rolls hurriedly after Eda. Luz’s drenched face is crestfallen where her head lolls against Eda’s shoulder. “...Gus and me, we were gonna visit Willow today. I was real excited for it, too.” She’s not sure of the words dazedly stumbling coming out of her mouth, half-petrified of what else might emerge. “Eda, my bag –” Luz hurriedly bites the inside of her mouth hard, lest she cry out in Dante’s voice.

“Got it,” King promises fervently at once from somewhere in the hazy swim of distance, and Luz’s heart swells with relief . “I’ll put it away.”

“Willow? Did you make a new friend? I’m so happy.” Camila hums, like a little hymn for winter. “Another time, mija . It’ll have to wait. Now, you must rest.”

Raine busies themselves with a fireplace that smells of hickory. Soon, a white hiss and pop from the hearth, fire-licked warmth that bathes them all in flickering amber light. Hooty fills the copper tea kettle hanging over the fire with water. As it sings itself to a steam, Hooty fills several old hot-water bottles and several chipped mugs with chamomile tea, sweetened with elderflower cordial. An enormous pot of leftover Mofongo bubbles over the hearthfire now.

The breathless furnace shakes itself off upon being switched on. King’s face is already pleated with sleep as he and Gus pad back in, clad in warm flannels, hair still wet, as they settle around the fire, features drinking up the bathing red light of the embers. Eda goes to turn on the soft croon of a jazz number from the phonograph, everyone having had their fill of radio for the day.

Freshly-dressed in her warm and dry nightgown, Luz curls upon her and King’s bed, cheeks flustered pink, still trembling. Eda wrings a rag from a bucket to mop Luz’s ashen brow. “Gus and King can share a room tonight. With any luck, the house will still be standing in the morning. Raine can take the sofa. I’ll call Dr. Bo to pay a housecall tomorrow.” Eda doesn’t doubt it’ll all fetch a pretty penny, but it’s hard to mind just now when Luz is clinging to life by the hem. “Uh, and I might need to call a friend to check in on them. ” Darius is actually going to kill her, and not without fair cause.

“You should change too, Eda.” Briefly Camila’s hands tug at a corner of Eda’s drenched dress. Eda’s own consequential flush is not dissimilar to fever. Camila’s dark eyes are parsed with worry. “You were out there a long time. Even a cold is a lit match. It can become something so much worse, so quickly…”

Eda grins toothily. “Nah. I don’t get colds. See, I’m too hot-headed for that.”

“Even so.” Camila busies herself with fetching some blankets from a nearby trunk. “Are you very fond, of this quilt…?” Camila stops to admire a pale blue one patterned with ravens. “The needlework is very intricate. Did you make it?”

“Hell, no. I can’t sew worth a damn.” Eda chokes seconds later. “Wait, a sec, that’s–”

Too late; Camila finds the incriminating corner of the blanket with stitched lettering. Silently, Camila reads: Gifted to Mrs. Edalyn P, Upon Her Nuptials. Yours, always, forever, L

Beaming, Camila looks up. Eda’s accidental strangled expression scatters–and frightens–Camila into sheer bewilderment. A pulse of anxiety sings at Camila’s neck. Eda’s gaze is divorced from the contortions of her body, where she is now absently rocking back and forth upon her heels. Camila is at a loss. What sort of a woman would have a ruin of her own wedding day, the happiest day of a girl’s life? But Eda seems so distant just now, someone might've swapped her out for a forgery. It’s curiously lonely.

At a loss, Camila carefully re-folds the pale blue quilt, settling it back in the pile, embroidered corner down. “But I think this one instead, is warmer.” Camila draws out an eiderdown instead, drawing the ancient duck-feather duvet around Luz. Camila’s voice is the soft latch of a window, a shush of curtains muffling the storm raging outside.

Feeling at last her shoulders settle, Eda exhales, slowly meeting Camila’s eyes. With a brisk jerk of a nod in gratitude, she attempts to relax into the shape of the person she once was, only to find a leave of absence all but embroidered.

And Eda waits , to feel the loss creep in, as is its invariable wont. But Eda can’t think of much to feel when they’re all exhausted like castaways, come at last to their home shore. Briefly, shyly, Camila’s hand lifts itself to Eda’s, as if in hopes of parsing her own warmth into Eda’s thawing hand.

~o*oOo*o~

Luz is in such a feverish stupor that while she’s not quite asleep, she’s also not quite awake, either. A volley of anxious voices fret over her as rain batters and shudders along the windows and awnings like maritime weather. Someone attempts to lift spoonfuls of something to her lips, but she keeps doubling up and away, attempting to curl up and hide in herself.

Eyes, eyes, countless eyes, all shot with accusation . A faceless hunting party takes flight after her as Luz plunges, petrified, into the brush and thicket of a forest. Soundlessly, she calls out for Dante to help– isn’t that what he’s for –but he’s nowhere to be found. Luz bolts with the mindless terror of having one’s head on fire, scaling with gooseflesh all the while. She goes sailing to the ground upon falling upon the enormous roots of a tree, one that she has found, or that has found her. Bones whimpering with fever, Luz wrings herself into a tighter, lonelier ball. at its base of its great roots. The rage-roiling of shadows are closing in a ring of gnashing teeth, hungry for death–specifically, hers.

Then, so quiet, so still, a presence announces itself, but certainly not with the dark, hot rupture of horror as the would-be executioners had induced upon stringing bootstrap and bowstring. The mossy face of the earth itself heaves with a bellow, splitting itself asunder as it chasms underneath the countless dark silhouettes of Luz’s pursuers, sending them plummeting. Petrified, Luz cries out, white-hot fire threatening to cleave her in twain, arms flinging at the trunk of the willow. Her head resounds in a cacophony of helpless prayers as she waits to be devoured in the ruin and bones of the world.

She is not.

The Earthquake fades in her ears. Slowly, cool palms find Luz’s head. Raspy breathing stilling, a gaunt Luz dares to look up, eyes puffy and streaming pink, drenched in sweat and tears.

Shadow and wind plays, with the trellises of trees weaving overhead, where she’s cradled upon mossy roots of an onlooking willow that remains, despite all the ruin about it. A confetti of falling green leaves. Steadily, the rim of an earthenware bowl presses itself against Luz’s lips; a bitter aftertaste tingles with the gritty dark tang of green tea. The thrash of her briefly slows as she eases into the touch, and eventually quiets into a shivering, hiccuping, exhale. Something stills, with a peal of sweetness, like that of a rabbit browsing clover once again.

Something settles itself upon a table. A silhouette stands quiet vigil. Before Luz drowses off, she’s reminded of a tree back in the Dominican Republic, standing sentinel, outside her window.

~o*oOo*o~

The fog around Luz’s brow abates, but her brow still knits a frown, eyes closed. While the sheets of her and King’s bed are familiar enough, King isn’t nestled beside her, kicking her inanely and drowsing sleepily about pie. The clamor of everyday life, Gus and King arguing as they set the table, the rattle of the furniture as Hooty chases down spiders, is awfully stifled to an almost-ominous hush just now. Her mouth feels dry as pulled cotton; her head aches as if assembled backwards. A smell of flowers persists, over medicine. Luz’s eyes sleepily part.

It’s afternoon; she can tell this much by the sun overhead outside the window. A bouquet bristles with a wild profusion of flowers upon Luz and King’s bedside table. A flash of movement plays the corner of her eye; Gus has flown at her in a breathless hug.

“You’re awake! ” He flies to place his hand over her brow. “Temp’s feeling good….wait a sec.” Eyes narrowing skeptically, he quips his index and middle digits. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

“Two, ” Luz rasps upon a dry tongue as Gus wraps his arms around her. “Oh, she is back, baby! Last time I asked ya that, ya told me that two plus two equals snakes . Definitely an improvement if ya ask me.” Delirious with excitement, Gus dashes across the room, flinging open the door. “Hey, everyone! She’s awake! She’s talking! And not about snakes or bein’ chased!”

“Good!” Comes King’s squawk back from downs tairs . “Because I ha te to be the one to tell ya this, but ya snore!”

“And you kick! Surprisingly hard , for a disgruntled goblin whose feet are the size of potatoes. Another night like last one, and I would’ve taken my chances on the floor. Save my poor back,” Gus hollers back indignantly, cupping his hands over his mouth for good measure.

Luz nearly falls out of bed at the sound of a veritable stampede carrying up the old tired staircase. “Don’t overwhelm her,” cautions a melodic, light voice of light-parsed trees.

This time, poor Luz does actually tumble out of bed; a young girl in a dark green jumper over a creamy blouse grabs Luz, silently steadying her. The girl’s dark hair has been immaculately oiled and re-twisted into one braid. It looks not unlike a bee’s stinger, beneath a handsome straw hat trimmed with flowers. The girl has a pine green bow tied at the base of her collar for a choker, look completed with black gardening boots, new and brilliant with polish. The beautiful features knit themselves into a shape Luz recognizes; Willow had silently stood in the corner, as if in silent hibernation.

With a swell of joy, Luz flings her arms around Willow seconds later, a sprawling of a hug. There’s a blooming, not unpleasant jolt of her ribcage as Willow draws in a sharp breath. A flash flood of sheer relief smooths away a knot of worry upon her brow.

“Sorry,” Luz peeps, bashfully tugging back. Willow warily tours her face. Luz can’t help but do the same. Upon closer examination, Luz notices Willow’s eyes are hooded and damp, mouth drawing a crumpled line. Luz is at once concerned. “Hey, are you alrigh t ? How’d ya even find your way–did ya really bring those to me?” Luz’s eyes light upon the enormous bouquet. “Aw, I meant to visit and bring ya flowers–”

“You got blown up.” Willow reminds softly, holding aloft a tasteful Sorry You Almost Got Exploded card, decorated with a hand-drawn tulip from the nearby bedside table. “I can’t say that’s ever happened to me , but I’d want flowers.” Willow hurries herself with straightening them, threading her hands through them. “I came as soon as I got word–”

The door bursts open; if a lick more of exertion were pressed upon it, it really might’ve sailed its way off its hinges. “‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Eda leans against the doorway as a flood of bodies trickle in. Her features look crumpled, as if they’d spent the last few hours hammocked in her hands. “‘bout time ya decided to grace us with your presence.”

“ Dios mio , you’re finally awake!” Camila wheels at once over, looking ready for a forehead-scraping genuflection. “God is so good.” Raine for their part says nothing, face raw-looking even in the climb of day. It briefly lets go of itself in sheer relief.

“Too much, too much,” Willow admonishes firmly, hands rising in a protective barrier as Luz slinks beneath her covers, mind firing in all directions. “You’re overwhelming her.”

Faint wash of relief warming the pools of his eyes, hopping upon the bed, King pauses. “....uh, I don’t suppose ya could fill us in on what ya remember of the past say two days , could ya?”

It’s going to take more than a deep breath to steady the sheer swarm of questions that run into one another now. “...two days? I…I remember comin’ home. It was thunderstorming.” Briefly, Luz’s hands find her hair. “I remember…I remember being cold–” And then she remembers warmth, but Willow presses a glass of water into her hands before she can pursue the thought further.”

“It’s not terribly surprising.” Dr. Bo emerges from behind Raine. “All that rain, prolonged with the shock of the terrorist attack, it’s little wonder you took violently sick as you did.”

“My, what a lovely friend you and Gusito have, mija .” Camila wipes at her eyes with sheer joy. Her own rosary remains sandwiched in her hands; Luz has a sneaking suspicion that Mami had tortured the beads with her prayers to the Virgin. “When Eda called Willow’s uncle, and Willow’s uncle’s nice roommate, to tell them you and Gus could not come visit, Willow was so upset, they bring her over straightaway!”

“And the kid planted herself in that corner of yer room, and stayed there , ‘cept for when Gilbert and Harvey took her back to their place at night.” Eda jerks her head with something that looks suspiciously like a sly look in Luz’s direction. “Your room was packed full the past two days. Except for Hooty sitting on the roof with his hatchet to stand watch–it’s his weird little way of saying he cares. We only left this morning when Bo warned us we could all still go caput with your cold. Honestly, I don’t know if we need to have bothered with calling the doc. Ya had a whole ER unit here at your disposal. Me, though? I for one kept my cool the whole time.”

Dr. Bo lowers her pencil and prescription pad then and there at that one. “ You offered to pay me twice what I normally charge in order to move Noceda to the front of my list and monitor her.”

“Refresh my memory: Why do we hire ya again?” Eda scowls as Raine and Camila both reach to soothe her, briefly meeting one another’s gaze, and hurriedly looking away again.

“This household’s collective IQ plummets like a poor day at Wall Street when you’re unwell, so I would advise you to take greater care, Luz.” Bo rips off a prescription, handing it to Eda. “To be taken at bedtime. You, there.” She rounds on Willow, whom jumps. “Are you a medical student , by any chance?”

Willow is so taken aback someone might’ve blasted a shofar horn in the shell of her ear. “Um, no ma’am. Why do ya ask?”

Bo folds her arms, straightening her smart jacket. “You might consider it as a career. You handled yourself very proficiently as a caretaker. You fed the patient broth and bathed her forehead, and kept her calm when she was panicking. If ever you decided to go to medical school, I’d be happy to act as your benefactress with a letter of recommendation.”

“Gus?” Luz buries her face in her pillow in a mortifying rush. “Be a pal and tip my bed out the window, won’t ya?” Briefly, her insides are light shivering on the water. Taken aback, Willow does smile back, albeit a befuddled one. “Um, thanks.” Willow’s hands press and worry at one another. “Um, Dr. Bo…? Could I have, like we discussed…?”

Silently, Dr. Bo hands Willow a script of paper, which Willow clutches at her heart. Luz’s eyes dilate. “A prescription? Oh, no. You’re not sick ‘cause of me , are ya?”

Briefly, Willow’s gravity insists upon Luz as she steps closer to the bed, keen to comfort. “Um, no. It’s–for my uncle .” Willow presses a desperate look in Eda’s direction, one merely spelling out an SOS. Eda casts a thumbs-up. “Danger’s passed. Why don’t we give these three a moment alone ? Get started on lunch. King, come help, won’t ya?”

“Why I gotta?” King’s all pout and grumble as he follows the entourage out, leaving all but Gus, Willow, and Luz in the room. Smile fading, Luz at once grabs Gus’s arm, face wan.

“Gus. Spare nothing. Please.” She fights to keep her insides from feathering with frost. “What’s happened? What did I say , when I was out? Did I say anything about–”

“Nah.” Gus’s eyes already answer back with Dante’s name. “So, here goes.” He settles himself upon the corner of Luz’s bed, folding his legs. “So, Willow’s been staying at Gilbert’s restaurant in Little Korea the past few nights. Yer Mami thinks that Gilbert’s Willow’s uncle, and Harvey is his very nice roommate whom dresses up and travels with him. Gil said to go ahead and let yer Mami think that.

“Oy,” Luz groans as she presses her face in the pillow. Willow presses a hand to the ghost of a smile. “Sorry about that, Willow.”

“So, we’ve kept our ears sewn to the radio, but there haven’t been any updates on the attack in Little India. Stinks to say, but they still think it’s Eda.” Gus winces as Luz sullenly whacks her pillow. “Thankfully, no one with a sigil has approached Owl House at least. Hooty’s still screening for any hidden sigils. I’ve been tryin’ to fill Willow in with as much of the situation as possible, ‘cause any friend of Willow’s is a friend of mine, too. I’ve even entertained her with my magic tricks!”

Willow bursts out in applause as Gus plucks out his deck of cards. “....how was I,” Luz’s voice emerges too-small, as if at any moment it might hurriedly back indoors. “When I was hallucinating…?”

“Hallucinating.” Gus flatly responds back. “Um, ya had us good and worried sick ‘cause ya wouldn’t let anyone feed ya, or give ya water and medicine. Willow came and talked to ya down a little, and ya didn’t seem to have a problem with letting her spoonfeed you,” Gus points out sardonically as Luz resists the urge to bump her head against the wall.

“You were out of your head. It happens!” Willow hurriedly brushes it aside, though her ears do dust pink. “Now that you’re on the mend…” She turns to Gus. “Do ya remember, when I said there was something important I needed to speak with the two together about?”

Luz hurriedly pats the opposite corner of her bed to bid Willow to sit, sweet with offering. Blushing, Willow sinks down to oblige.

~o*oOo*o~

Willow pauses as a pair of sheer curtains billow gently in the window, crepuscular rays streaming through the trees outside.

This oak room is musty and warm, scattered with countless stacks of dog-eared books, where countless paper airplanes dangle from the walls, and an old trunk has been repurposed into a makeshift pirate ship, with a broomstick-and-sheet mast. Willow smiles fondly at the sight of a fervently-loved-to-fraying-undoing stuffed rabbit, wearing a newspaper pirate hat, and a lopsided eyepatch over a button eye. It’s secretive and cozy–like a child’s fort, verdant like a tree house. Raine’s kind enough to bring them up sandwiches and mugs of lavender tea before excusing themselves. Willow clasps her cups, contemplating her reflection in her hands. “Did you know,” She says at last, eyes down as if her own private axis pins her down to the earth just now. “ What I was, when you first saw me?”

Luz gingerly nibbles on a cucumber sandwich, deep in thought. How to put to words, the tacit recognition of kindred spirits? “Call it…well, Raine would call it intuition . Eda would call it gaydar. But I didn’t want to be rude, and nosy, and scare ya away by prying.” Luz sheepishly draws a hand through her hair as Willow latently realizes, her spine thrilling like the gliding of scales upon a xylophone, Luz has kept the flowers bought from Willow in a little jar upon the dresser. Funny thing Willow’s lungs are, that have hitherto been able to look after themselves, now need reminding to fill with air.

“I wanted to get to know you first, a little at a time.” Luz’s own hands perform a shyness upon her cup. “...speakin’ of which, I don’t suppose, it took ya time, to figure out…?”

“No, I always knew.” Willow says firmly. Luz’s heart sinks a little. “Even before I had words for it. I just knew .” It was something innate, like Willow being born with one foot sworn to the soil, or how a steaming bowl of Mr. Gilbert’s yukgaejang felt, shortly after you drowsed upon a warm futon. “I also knew that I had to hide that at all costs.” Never mind that all of Willow’s willowyness seemed to sprout from her bones in an overgrowth, persistent as weeds. “Otherwise, the kids at the orphanage would have a hundred names ready, before I ever even had one for myself.”

Gus and Luz tense; Luz’s hands curl into fists, itching for a fight. Gus’s eyes might bore holes in space just now. Tentatively, he leans forward. “....do ya want, to tell us about it…?”

Willow’s eyes briefly skim shut. Beneath them, the dull whir and flicker of a grainy film projector. “...I don’t know who my birth parents are, or where they are now. The most I ever found out from the orphanage matron was that it was a big family, whom left me at a New Jersey orphanage. They already had too many mouths to feed.” Her lashes lift; Willow’s sombered-eyed, lips a wry wince. “I grew up being taunted by other orphans as well as the matron for bein’ a sissy boy. ” Her chest aches with the speed of her own blood, among other things. “Our matron was a ruin of a soul if there was ever a soul to begin with. Some days, I had my doubts.”

Cringing an apology, Gus bites the inside of his mouth and tastes rust. Tension quivers at the corner of Luz’s lip like a warning. Willow hums absently in the active, watery light, drawn into her own stillness like a tree. Luz’s breath hitches, insides rendered delicate and luminescent like the billow of a jellyfish bell. “The only thing that really gave me joy at the institution was tending the building’s vegetable plots.” Willow confesses, a rare flash of pride pinking her. “I had a green thumb.” Modesty twists Willow from admitting she has green palms . “I could draw life and color, even from the hardest soil.”

“Of course ya could.” Gus coaxes, briefly skimming a smile as he gestures out the window. “Those tomato plants ya helped Luz with are lookin’ healthier already.”

“But it was a vicious cycle.” Willow murmurs, face relaxing into sadness. “The kids mocked me for bein’ a girl, doin’ a girl job . Well, they weren’t wrong about me bein’ a girl, anyway.” A weak, self-deprecatory chuckle. But Gus and Luz do not laugh. Willow coughs. “Three seasons out of the year, I spent almost all my time hiding in the garden. At least I grew physically strong that way.” Gus side-eyes Luz upon catching the latter appreciatively eying Willow’s forearms.

Those arms are hurriedly drawn around herself. Pales, wavering slightly as if in apology for what had been done to her. “One laundry day, I wound up taking one of the matrons’ dresses from the clothesline, and just–I swear, I wasn’t going, to steal it!” Her voice wobbles on the edge of control. “I just wanted my skin to know, what my heart already did, deep down.”

Willow’s breathing unevens; her pulse speeds so much she half fears she is blurting out of her own edges. “The matron walked in on me in the empty barracks trying it on, in front of the one mirror we had. I was dragged by the hair, into the garden shed for my punishment.” Willow hurriedly makes a disparaging, this-was-so-yesterday wave of her hand and unwound smile before startling, brea thless . “Oh–”

Gus and Luz proceed to lunge at Willow in a bearhug, nearly knocking her over. The sheer helplessness of Gus’s expression launches his deep silence into orbit as his eyes well up. Luz’s eyes are overbright with meltwater. Confounded, Willow’s cup of cooling tea shivers in her hands as Luz takes the assemblage of bone that is Willow’s hand in her own shaking ones.

Willow’s chest surges; a confusion of fate and electricity that bids one’s heart to potentially stop as her eyes meet Luz’s. Briefly, inanely, Willow doesn’t want to settle for this person so much as she wants to settle upon them, like chanterelle and lion's mane mushroom upon a tree trunk, or a ripple of protective second skin upon a cedar, knitting quietly and irretrievably. That seems like a pretty damnable thing to think , let alone say aloud , so Willow clumsily pats Luz on the shoulders instead, insides tangled with fondness. “Sorry,” Luz peeps, pulling back, snuffling. “...ya were saying?”

Willow waits until some semblance of control filters back before chancing her voice. “...hours and hours went by. There was no telling when I was gonna be let out. And so, I decided then and there not to leave it to anyone else, ever again.” Dragging bag after bag after bag of potting soil in a haphazard pile in that crypt-like little room of cobwebs and soil. Clamoring upon her makeshift stair upon her knees.

An enormous planter soaring through the air, falling through the wreckage of an open window. Tentatively crawling through it, shielding her eyes as the sun lifted itself to her in a dart of sky. “I still had the dress on. I broke my way through the shed window, crawled out, and made my escape.” Willow drains her tea as Gus and Luz look at each other in vain for anything to say. “Eventually, I hopped a train with other hobos, and made my way to New York City. I was there would be more opportunities there. It wasn’t long before I saw other girls sellin’ flowers.”

“I thought, about becomin’ a Flower Girl after Papi passed.” Luz murmurs. “But ya don’t hardly make no money. Paper boys at least get to keep tips and a weekly salary.” Briefly, her eyes flicker to the trunk at the foot of King and Luz’s bed where Dante’s clothes are concealed. It feels, preposterously, as if she’s concealing a body there. “Even if that’s just a slower kind of starvation, in the end.”

“My Dad said that Flower Girls often go missing.” Gus agrees sadly. “And that more often than not, no one even bothers lookin’ for them.”

“....that’s one of the reasons why I’m here.” Willow leans in, ​​marshaling all her writhing nerves. “Living on the streets, I lived in constant fear of being poached. The Lord of District Six has a dangerous reputation for a dangerous appetite.” Willow shudders; stricken face sitting in torment. “So, um...to that end, and more besides, can I please, join your team here?”

Alarmed, Gus and Luz swivel to one another. Willow’s voice withers upon her next breath. It’s a sheer loneliness, that’s what it ism these two acting like one unified organism. Against her. “Please,” She croaks, willing for her tears to stay out of her voice, to wring from her own body resolution in the shuddering heave of looming rejection. “I won’t slow ya down, I promise–”

Luz’s hand alights on her forearm and springs away like a grasshopper. “That’s not what we’re worried about at all. ” She sounds so incredulous that Willow dares look up again, albeit upon a shivering glance. “I’ve seen you in action against that purse-snatcher.”

“It’s just,” Gus implores, face riddled with sorrow. “Willow, ya been through so much already. Harvey and Gilbert are so happy to have ya with ‘em. I mean it! They’ll protect you. This is your ticket for a peaceful life.” He hurriedly holds up his hands. “Look: I've made my peace, with however this ends." With the fact that his own cord could not be severed from his best friend’s thread without first snipping clean the conjoined threads of their lives. “This being said , it’s not without what ya’d call certain occupa tional hazards , like having your insides turned inside out.”

Luz scoops up King’s beloved toy rabbit, doubling over. Internally the shuddering of a blackout, mortality carved in her face as if whitted with a blade. “....and, I’m not sure if ya heard , but I’ve kinda been marked for death f or selling in coven territory.” She buries her face in her hands. “Willow, if something happened to ya , because of me–”

“Excuse you,” Gus indignantly counters with a wag of his finger. “We’ve been marked for death.” He grasps Luz’s shoulder as he turns a reassuring face to Willow. "Listien: Ya don't have to join the Apple Blood trade for me and Luz to be friends with ya. Why, ya can swing by the Owl House anytime!”

But Willow is mutinous in her granite hard stare. “I already, know about the car-bombing.” She retorts fiercely, rising to her feet. Startling, Luz looks up from her hands as Willow holds her gaze unblinkingly with equal fervency. “I’ve got just the solution. If anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll just obliterate them from the earth.”

Luz and Gus silently gape at her. Shivering as her pulse surges, Luz gapes at Willow, and believes her.

“Don’t get it wrong: I’m not bloodthirsty. I don’t love fighting. I never did.” Willow turns her calloused gardener’s hands over. “But it’s either fight-or-die on those streets, and you know what I chose.” Her same hands that had cradled seedlings too had shattered glass. “Nothing sounds nicer than simple days of feeding customers at Mister Gilbert’s restaurant, and making ‘em happy.” She bows her head. “But Six is full of some of the worst kind of monsters, preying on innocent girls whom are already struggling. And if the Owl Lady’s business really becomes a success, then you stand to take a lot of leverage the Ten has in New York City.” Iron flows back into Willow's spine with the borrowed strength of an oak.

Gus is still hesitant. “Still, District Seven and District Six are different regions…”

“If even one branch from a tree gets a disease, doesn’t the entire organism suffer?” Willow demands. “Coven scouts love kicking Flower Girls around, trying to take tribute .” Briefly, Willow’s tone bitters itself upon a dark memory, treading upon the looming shadow of the Girl in the Magenta Dress. “And, well, uh, it’s not the only reason.” Sheepishly, Willow offers up the script Bo had penned, a little kite tail of text. Gus and Luz peer in to take a closer look. “My body isn’t done with me just yet. Eda told me Bo was an Owl House regular, and it was safe to talk with her.”

Luz wipes her eyes. "But there's an askin' price."

"Why," Willow is surprised. "How'd ya know?"

"Lucky guess." Gus sniffs, hands on his hips. “Bo don’t come cheap for her help, trust us. We get it.”

“Gilbert and Harvey offered to help me get medicine. But their business is modest, and I don’t want to be a burden. Especially after everything they’ve done for me.” Willow looks upon her new clothes fondly. While her dress strains against her ribs; hunger doesn’t seem to scour her insides as it had tortured the girl whom had first approached Dante in the street. Her skin lays itself a bit more gently upon her bones, as if she was easing into herself. “Trust me: I’ve thought it over, lotsa times.

“Well,” Willow chokes at last. “What say you? I spoke with Eda.” “She said if you fellas were onboard, we could discuss suiting up for combat.”

The tangling of their lives is both a strange and amicable thing. Slowly exchanging looks with Gus, that at last press their faces into the soft of smiles, Luz presses her hand into Willow’s. “....welcome aboard.”

This moment, ecstatic and unbearable, announces itself with the flutter and clang of mail through the slot. Called to her colors, Willow looks up as the window deluges the space in sunlight.

~o*oOo*o~

Days later, beneath the antiquary floorboards, in the now-hushed space of the closed speakeasy that had the anticipation of a classroom, Eda prowls back and forth behind the bar. Raine patiently looks on where they sit upon the piano bench. Willow, Gus, and Luz now perch upon barstools. Eda turns upon her heel to round upon her pupils. "Welcome to Eda's School of Not Dying Horrifically, established twenty seconds ago. Pop Quiz: What's your best bet, for not getting axed on sight by the Ten?"

Luz eagerly thrusts her hand in the air, grabbing her wobbling barstool with the other to avoid losing her balance. "The Power of Friendship?"

"I was thinkin' more along the lines of a gun ." And with that, Eda produces a Colt 1911 pistol from underneath the bar, most-unceremoniously slapping it upon the bartop in front of Luz. "Merry Christmas." A chilly whisk of foreboding sluices down the nape of Luz’s neck, her smile extracting itself.

"Now," Raine rises and steps forward, nodding judiciously. "W-What's the most e-effective way of e-enacting change, even in a h-hopeless s-situation?"

Gus’s eyes are aglow underneath the rim of his tweed cap as his hand rises. "Oh, I know! Is it the Power of Believing in One's Self?"

Raine blanches just a little. "...ah, well, I was going to go with a c-comprehensive understanding of Marxist i-ideology, but since human s-self-determination is a key p-principle, you get a peppermint.” Smiling like an indulgent professor, Raine extracts a wrapped peppermint puff from their pocket, pushing it in front of a stricken Gus. "The answer is: Also a gun." Eda answers in a monotone, retrieving another pistol and slapping it down upon the table with an echoing clatter. "Merry Christmas.”

Making a squeamish face, Gus picks up his gun with his thumb and index finger to cautiously examine it. “On the first day of Christmas, Eda gave to me: A firearm most deadly. On the second day of Christmas, there is no time to flee–”

“Hold on a sec, Willow. Yours has daisies on it.” Eda reassures with a roguish wink as she busies herself with searching in her bag like Father Christmas and his sack.

“ Please . Eda.” Luz jumps down to her feet in growing agitation. All of today’s excitement has been pulled out beneath them like a cheap rug. “When ya said ya were gonna arm us, this wasn’t what I had in mind! I don’t like guns. I can’t believe you’d even–”

“Incidentally,” Eda preoccupies herself with coaxing a spout of Apple Blood from behind the bar barrel tap, swigging her glass. “Automated machine guns don’t particularly care about your misgivings when they’re mowing you down.” Graven seriousness pools underneath Eda’s ironic facade. “I’d feel a whole lot more chipper about ya kids going out on your own again with some heat on ya.”

“I beat Boscha without needing a gun.” Luz implores, whipping around. “Gus. Willow. Back me up, here. Please.”

Draining her glass, Eda stoops slightly to meet Luz at eye-level. “And that was a brilliant maneuver on ya part. I’ll give ya that much. But these are seasoned killers you’re dealing with.” Eda’s hand grips Luz’s shoulder, her amber eyes steady. “Kid. I ain’t exactly fond of ‘em either. Be a whole lot nicer, if these f*cking-stupid things didn’t exist.” Morosely, Eda looks down at her own belt. “But that ain’t the world we live in, so I do have a glock. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t exactly want anyone getting trigger happy with these things, but–”

King surreptitiously clears his throat from where he’d been lurking behind the bar. “Ya know, Eda– I could learn, how to shoot. The King of Demons isn’t afraid to fight.” King hopefully raises the two of his little fists. Eda pinches the bridge of her nose. “And I already told the King of Demons this here ain’t one of your Wild West picture shows, King. Go help Hooty mind the antique shop, already.”

King flashes irritation before something more pained can surface itself, stomping off for the trapdoor. Willow presses a palm against the uneasy of her stomach. “I don’t blame Luz, for not liking this.” Her shake of a laugh trembles her lip. Gus gingerly lowers his gun back upon the table. “Luz is right: If we start, where do we stop , exactly?”

“Eda. You run your own business because ya didn’t wanna play by anyone’s stupid rules.” Luz coaxes, brown eyes conjuring a steady blaze. “Why should we let the Ten dictate how we fight?”

“M-maybe we c-can find a-alternatives here.” Raine soothes, hesitantly approaching Eda as Eda casts a helpless look over her shoulder. Raine incidentally abstains from mentioning the sight of a revolver in the likes of Luz Noceda’s hands is enough to turn anyone’s stomach.

"Willow's w-weapon here is already v-very impressive." Raine praises warmly, gesturing to the coiled barbed bullwhip upon Willow’s belt. Willow turns pink as a poppy from the praise. “W-Would y-you care, to g-give us a d-demonstration?”

Suddenly shy, attempting to force herself out of Luz’s eyes, Willow pads up to the raggedly scarecrow salvaged from the shed, now standing upon the Owl House’s makeshift stage. Uncoiling the whir of her whip, Willow dives for the dummy, whip coiling around the prop’s makeshift leg. Dragging the dummy to her across the floor, whip tearing the fabric of its clothes, Willow proceeds to fly at it in a series of furious blows, boxing fists sending paling straw in all directions. Gus is floored. “Whoa! She’s going to town on that thing, like it owes her money! Stop, stop, it’s already dead!”

Luz is rendered speechless, but lights at Willow as a panting Willow raises her gaze across the room, drawing her bangs from her glistening face. Smiling broadly, Raine claps, retrieving another peppermint from their pocket for Willow. “Well d-done. You m-might consider p-potentially covering y-your w-whip in an irritant like stinging nettles, or poison oak, to s-stagger your opponent e-even more, and d-double your i-impact. Obviously, it doesn’t h-have to be fatal poison, but y-you can make someone second-guess attacking you again if they’ve b-broken out in hives.”

“Someone will ever get a second chance to attack Willow?” Eda sasses as she sidles over. Willow thrusts her fists triumphantly into the air like a championship boxer, and Luz beams. Raine’s fingertips play at their chin. “Willow, do you m-mind if L-Luz and Gus t-try? Perhaps s-something similar will work f-for t-them.”

Desperate to attempt to impress Willow, Luz attempts to spin the thornlike whip like a cowgirl’s lasso during her turn, only to inadvertently fling it across the room, forcing Eda to duck to avoid the incoming projectile. Gus fares little better as the whip wraps around his leg, and he’s forced to swiftly sue for peace. “I’m sorry.” He wraps his arms around the scarecrow. “Let’s hug, and make up.”

Eda’s incredulous eyes magnetize to Raine’s. “Raine.” Eda monotones between grit teeth as Willow hurriedly claps, not wishing anyone’s feelings to be hurt. “This ain’t doing nothing for my confidence, here.”

King pokes out again hopefully. “Ah, shucks. Ain’t that just the way. Can I try no–”

“Then let this.” Luz urges. She refuses to capitulate to despair “Okay, so, Gus and me aren’t savants of the whip. But we’ve found our way through a fight before. We can still do this.”

“I-It’s completely understandable that w-what works for Willow may n-not necessarily work for y-you,” Raine soothes. “But you can still learn from it.” Raine holds Willow’s whip aloft for Gus and Luz to inspect as King pou ts . “You're g-going t-to want to choose w-weaponry that allows you to play your unique s-strengths. A weapon that can be h-hidden in plain sight c-can help you r-remain undetected by p-p-potential a-a-assailants and the a-authorities . When you’re d-dealing with the likes of the T-Ten, the element of surprise is crucial, b-because an o-opponent’s delayed reaction t-time can mean the d-difference between l-life and d-death.”

“So we’re just at the Acceptance Stage that no one thinks it’s weird that a fruit seller knows all this?” Gus dully asks the ceiling. Eda s trokes her chin, holding her mouth in a pensive pose . “.....alrigh t.” She concedes. “Judging by the fact that this dummy’s gonna need emergency stitches, I’d say Willow’s good and golden.” She turns to Luz and Gus. “You two prove ya can effectively defend your pretty little hides with besides a gun, and we’ll look into another deal. Hate to say it, but if ya can’t, ya have two options: Make your peace with learning how to shoot, or make your peace with no more coven territory sales. I can’t have ya gettin’ hurt.”

Bravado fading, Luz wraps her arms around the whimpering bone of her. “‘Use your strengths,’ Raine says. What strengths? It was a lucky shot at Boscha.” It’s a damning thing, just beginning to sense the real scope of your own inexperience.

Willow is apoplectic with disbelief, ready to throw hands with an army of a thousand scarecrows. “What kind of question is that?” Briefly, her hands embroider into Luz’s before she can second guess herself. “You blew up the whole factory .” Willow’s now-fierce eyes solder. “The fact that it was on the fly makes it more special, not less.”

A sharp thrill of uncertainty plays beneath Luz’s ribs. “....thanks. I can’t exactly travel around with a six pack of Apple Bloods as my weapon, though.” Luz’s smile tosses itself down once more. “It’s both way too heavy, and too conspicuous.”

“Shame I can’t exactly fight with mirrors.” Gus commiserates, eyes morosely drooping upon an inward twist of pain. “Using the looking glasses really helped throw Boscha off our trail long enough for Dante to counterattack. I can’t exactly haul twenty tons of glass around to a battleground–”

“But ya can fight with the same spirit , Mr. Illusionist.” Willow urges, clapping Gus’s shoulder. “Deceiving your enemy makes all the difference in the world. You took something as harmless as a mirror, and made it strategy in motion! C’mon, fellahs. I’m sure ya can translate something deadly hidden in plain sight, something that goes out with a bang, into something ya can hold in your hands . That’s the only piece of the puzzle you’re missing here!”

Gus’s eyes become thoughtful as he looks upon an innocuous hat and umbrella stand. Hesitantly, Luz pads over to the bar, inspecting Eda’s glass of Apple Blood. Briefly, Luz staggers as it hits her with all the force of some kind of holy exaltation, although that could very well have to do with the carrying power of Willow’s smile adrift across the room.

~o*oOo*o~

Several Days La ter

Eda squints at the bath of sunlight overhead, shading her eyes. She, Raine, Willow, Gus, and Luz, now all stand in a modest stretch of field two miles North of the Owl House. King watches from behind a nearby tree. The scarecrow stands again upon its stand in the field’s center, freshly patched. Scowling, Eda rubs at the grit in her eyes. “Pray tell why you’d elect to have us wake up at an unholy time and spit on the face of God? And what was wrong with the Owl House?”

Luz fidgets from one foot to the other. She’d never been particularly good , at giving reports in front of the class. “Um…” She plays at her lavender skirt hem. “Why doesn’t…why don’t you go first, Gus?”

Gus needs no further prompting. Flushed to a vibrato with sweet hope, he immediately plucks out his valise, proudly producing a striped white and blue parasol with a dark blue lace edge, winking as he perches upon one leg for good measure. "Whaddya think, everyone?”

Puzzled, Raine blanches. Eda buries her face in her hand. “I think we’re all gonna die, that’s what I think.”

King is flabbergasted. “Oh, c’mon! I could’ve come up with something way deadlier than that!”

"I think that's a lovely parasol .” Willow hurriedly reassures. “Just the thing for summer! But..” Biting her lip, Willow’s smiling on delay now. “.... are you planning on just…. bonking someone in the head with that?"

To her surprise, Gus merely winks, before giving the umbrella a theatrical flourish. "Watch this!"

Twirling the umbrella, the tip sparks to life, fizzing and humming like the chord of a live wire. Willow and Luz clutch at each other in awe, as if Gus is about to attempt a feat of dangerous sorcery. No one dares speak.

Gus darts up to the scarecrow in the field center with his umbrella in tow, driving the hooked tip straight underneath the scarecrow’s chest cavity. Down the dummy falls in a bundle of singed straw, a ripple of hissing electrical stars making it convulse. "I replaced the tip with something called a cattle prod! See, it produces a mild electric shock. I figure if I can conceal the prod within this parasol pole, I can be armed in plain sight.” Gus holds a hand to his blush as the group, save for King, bursts into furious applause. “I sort of got inspiration from Darius, when I saw him coming to Owl House with this fancy new umbrella the other day.”

"Gus, you're a genius !" Luz cries on an exalted wave of joy, flinging her arms around a radiant Gus. "They'll never see it coming. Now you're a fashion-forward dandy, and a threat to society!" Willow praises as she dashes over.

Unnerved, Eda gives the dummy a little prod with her heel. "Looks like this little doohickey will do a little more than prod cattle. Better some coven drivel than livestock, I say." Her scarlet lips quip in a real smile. “Gotta say– not too shabby. “Luz. You’re up.”

Luz playfully feigns spitting her hands and rubbing them together. But the effect is short-lived as her heart pales. Already, her rehearsed presentation sounded considerably more convincing, before the presence of an onlooking pretty girl warranted an internal crisis. Her hands tremble as they reach for her own bag. Seconds later, Willow’s hand skims over hers, steadying like the branch Luz had tied the Owl House’s tire swing to. “Here’s a little trick Mr. Harvey showed me: Try breathing in, one, two, three, four.” Shuddering, already glistening with sweat, Luz’s eyes briefly tremble shut.

“Hold, for four.” Willow urges, hand still lingering for an exquisite, piercing second. Her soap is sharp and clean, like pine. “And release.”

Briefly, Luz exhales, as if she held the entire ocean at bay, letting it all tumble back into herself as if from a great height. With a murmur of thanks to Willow, Luz produces a little crimson sphere from her bag, timidly holding it up. Eda’s brows arch at the sight of strips of newsprint painted red, with a green tip for a stem. Raine looks enchanted. "Oh! Look how cute the little apple is!"

Eda wishes she’d brought her flask. "Lemme get this not-straight: You’re going to put the fear of God in the Ten with your crafting skills?”

“Terrifying paper-mache, I’ll have ya know!” Willow fiercely doubles down, a fist waving in the air. Gus’s face is bewildered, but his eyes are set.

Allowing the spring air, which already has May quivering upon its breath, wash over and around her, Luz lights the green stem of the makeshift sphere. It sparks to life like the lit taper of a firecracker. Like a pitcher on the mound, she hurls it straight at the scarecrow.

BANG.

The searing air echoes as if with Juneteeth fireworks; no one dares breathe as the makeshift explosive powders a pulse of dancing red and violet sparks. The ancient pantleg of the struck scarecrow rises up in a mound of flames. Yelping, Luz hurriedly goes for the bucket of water she’s glad she had the foresight to bring along, sloshing its contents upon the crumpled form of the dummy. Gus’s eyes are saucers. “Whoa! What kind of explosives did ya even use for that, nitroglycerin?”

“Apple Blood!” Luz sings. "Um, hey, that reminds me, I noticed, this kind of side effect , I was kinda hopin' to ask ya about, Eda–"

The wind shifts; Gus sways just a little as if he’s been backhanded. "Anyone else feeling a little woozy right now?" Taken aback, Willow carefully assesses herself, before shaking her head. “I feel fine.” Scooping up King, Raine simply sidesteps away warily, handkerchief over their mouth, solemn as a designated driver in a room full of drunks.

"Something important to remember is that alcohol vapor, whether evaporated or poured over dry ice, is extremely potent." Eda warns, slurring. "Because see, you're by-passing the digestive system altogether, and the alcohol gets absorbed–” Here, she draws the syllables into a song. “–into your pretty little bloodstream. I'm about to get tipsy off the air alone." She stumbles; Raine hurriedly steadies her. Eda lilts a smile at them. “You're pretty."

"I call them Apple Bombs !" Luz sings, voice cresting and ebbing like an arc of seawater. " Took a little trial and error, lemme tell ya that." It’s a modest way of saying Luz tortured the pages of countless chemistry textbooks the way she tortured tuberculosis textbooks, reading with the desperation of attempting to save her own life. "Some of ‘em fizzled right out, and some exploded way too quickly, before I could even toss them! The ratio's gotta be just right when sealed.” Luz’s hands fidge t at her rosary like the worry beads they’ve become. “So, uh, are we in business?”

“Incredibly impressive, sweetheart.” Raine praises at once, and Luz’s ears burn. However, Raine raises a hand. “I’d take care , w-when using the l-likes of a chemical explosive like t-this one, to use it very judiciously. You c-certainly wouldn’t want to risk of using it in a short-range combat situation, or in a poorly-ventilated area. You r-risk potentially s-stunning your own allies.” Eyes twinkling, Raine gestures cheerfully to Eda and Gus, whom still look slightly bleary-eyed, though the brief dizzying spell seems to be lifting. As if just realizing she’s drooping in Raine’s arms, Eda hurriedly drops down and side-steps, a molten blush upon her face.

“I’ll be careful!” Luz cries, at the same time Willow insists: “We’ll back her up!”

Striding over to inspect the smoldering remains of the old scarecrow, Eda can’t help but omit a low whistle. “Looks like we’re gonna need another dummy.”

Gus lifts his eyes to the sky, a sly smile arching upon his face. “Hey, King. Here’s something you can help with!” He ducks as King hurls a pebble at him seconds later.

“We’re in business, kid.” Stooping slightly, salted with a little grain of affection. Beaming ear to ear, Luz pivots at once to Willow. "So, um, how about them apples?"

Willow’s hands automatically rise to shield her mouth, pressing her face into her palms. “You didn’t.”

A sheer, carbonated joy, rises up in Luz’s chest. “I’m just saying, I think the three of us working together will be a gas–”

Falling into a paroxysm of laughter that melts upwards into the air, Willow can’t quite resist plucking up Luz and giddily spinning her around, holding her aloft like an offering to the morning sky. Wiping his streaming eyes, Gus quips an eyebrow. “I’d tell ya could just as easily kill your opponents with your horrible Dad jokes, but that constitutes particularly cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I could be helpful, too.” King pouts, as if freefalling into a well, eyes clouding over upon a rupture of doubt.“If someone would just let me.”

~o*oOo*o~

Rhythmic taps of glasses fall upon the splindy lit tables in sipping intervals amidst the saffron light of the underground. Bessie Smith’s Foolish Man Blues tinkles vaguely from the piano in the echoing underground cavern. Dante looks up from polishing a nearby tabletop with a rag. Normally, the speakeasy only ever echoes when it’s closing for the evening–and even then, Saturday night revelers are often reluctant to quite give up the night, even as heads throb in time with the music. A strange humming resonance in a room that oughtto be brimming with music filled with people, and isn't. Atseven o’clock, it’s near-deserted, save for a modest sprinkling of regulars on the underground. Bemused, Dante lowers his washcloth. He can’t quite settle into his work.

Gus moseys over, clutching his usual ledger. “Sure is slow tonight. Normally, the place would be packed . Especially tonight.”

“Fine by me. ” King retorts, not at all put-out as he sets his tiny soles upon the bar from upon his stool chair. “I could certainly stand to put my feet up every now and again.”

Casting King a nauseous look, Gus consults his notes, finger shushing the paper. “Come to think of it, it’s been awful quiet, the past few days.”

“Maybe it’s just the weather keepin’ people away..” Dante attempts to turning away the slow churn of trouble frothing his insides, like an unwelcome dance partner. Gus levers a Bitch, Please stare. “Ain’t stormed for days , child.”

An ice floe ascends through Dante’s chest. “...that attempted hit by the Covens.” Dante grabs upon the back of an empty chair for balance. “Ya don’t think the Owl House patrons seriously believe the police when they accused the Owl Lady of attacking a market square full of unarmed civilians ? Full of kids?!”

A young drag queen with flowing dark hair in a widow's peak raises a painted brow from her nearby table. She sports a pointed chin, small pointed brows, dark purple lips, and a flowing sequined violet ensemble. Here on the underground, the only title she answers to is the curious moniker of Bat Queen . “Yi, yi. Of course Owl Lady, innocents no t target. But I perform here, long time. Know better.” The Bat Queen speaks in a thick Romanian drawl as she waves her hands helplessly. “Not everyone better knows, my ​​ ingerasul meu .”

“....oh, this is bad .” Linked pearls of Dante’s spine draw closer together as he unsteadies upon his feet in a sickening lurch. “We have to turn a profit, and soon . We have to.” What would become of Mami if she returned to a filthy room where you were liable to wake to thin layers of ice in your wash basins in the winter? What would become of this place, which they poured their blood, sweat, and tears into, for the sake of a safe place?

Sandwiched cozily between Gilbert and Harvey, Willow hurriedly rises to squeeze Dante’s hand. “It’s going to be just fine. So what if things are a little slow just now? Things will turn around!” Briefly, her hand rises for Dante as if of its own accord, before she hastily plunges it in the hollow of her pocket. “Your fortune can change, on the turn of a dime .” Willow’s features feel on the verge of crumbling when neither Dante’s eyes nor spirits rise. On a dime, Willow had insisted, but Dante finds himself casting wishes in a well with fool’s gold instead of coins. “I sure wish Raine hadn’t headed back home. I sure could use their advice just now.”

Willow hurriedly changes tact: “Since it’s nice and quiet, you and Gus can at least sit down and take a breather. Especially since I want to try an Apple Blood for the first time!”

“Are ya sure , popkin?” Gilbert says at once in a hush of concern, just in time for Harvey to pipe in: “That stuff’s incredibly potent–”

Face riddled with apprehension, Dante nonetheless brings Willow a foaming ambered glass. Eyes alight behind her new glasses, Willow takes a hesitant sip before proceeding to eagerly down the entire amber contents of her glass in three, prolonged chugs. “That was amazing.” And with that, she triumphantly casts her glass down upon the table hard enough to rattle it. “Another!” Remembering her manners, she smooths a napkin over her lap. “Please.”

“....well,” A stupefied Dante manages at last, dumbfounded with sheer awe as Gus’s jaw drops. “I s’pose this explains why she wasn’t affected by the Apple Bomb fumes on the practice field. That’s some mad tolerance .”

A chill wets along Gus’s forehead in a fine sweat. “Willow is actually a Valkyrie theory confirmed.”

At the bar center, Darius nurses both a glass of Apple Blood and a broken heart as he slumps upon the table. “I just can’t believe it. My beautiful new car.”

“Whaddaya mean, ya can’t believe it? Cause lending your car to the likes of Edalyn Clawthorne makes the case of her blowing up your vehicle pretty damn plausible,” Eber can’t help but innocently point out, nursing his own drink as Darius casts indignantly at him. Eber holds up his hands. “Don’t worry: I’ll still drive ya to work until Eda can get ya a new car. Just saying: Someone ought to have made one of ya sign a warranty .”

“Are you seriously blaming the victim, here? That’s rich, ye of little comfort.”

“Speaking of rich. ” Eber’s grin unwinds itself as he presses back against the table to lift up the front legs of his chair. There again beside Darius’s bag is that elegant emerald umbrella with the ornately painted, spindly ebony wooden handle. “Looks like ya captured the interest of a rich one, alright.” Eber’s eyes fall upon the monogrammed B upon the umbrella’s immaculate detailing. “Weren’t ya just giving me a lecture on the importance of not getting into trouble?”

“Would you stop talking about it like I’m a courtesan accepting a suitor’s token or something?” Darius snaps, rankling on the defensive. “I’m sure Blight only did it in case there were any potential voters snooping around the joint.”

Eber takes a prolonged pull of his Apple Blood before crossing his arms. “....but you just thought ya’d hold onto the umbrella ?”

“It has a Tiffany’s logo on the inseam.” Darius opens the umbrella smartly, pointing to the logo on the inseam of the umbrella. “I for one think I deserve something nice, especially after the Covens saw fit to send my car straight to Kingdom Come.”

“....I’m serious, Darius.” Eber’s eyes hook themselves upon something irretrievable. “Messing about with Alador Blight will only explode in your face worse than your car. Seriously, I'd almost rather you get back together with Tyronious.”

Even in the unusually-subdued chamber, Darius nonetheless wonders if he’s heard correctly. “You and Eda hog-tied my ex-boyfriend and flung him on an inbound train for Pittsburgh when you discovered he was cheating on me.”

“Good times!” Eber chirps, allowing his glass to affectionately tap against Darius’s in a chime of a toast. “But the worst Tyronius could do is get ya hurt, which is bad enough.” Something catches at the wet of Eber’s throat. “... messing around with the likes of a Blight could get ya killed .” A static cling in the air now raises the hair on Darius’s arms. The look Eber slides back warns an incredulous Darius that he really doesn't want to know. Once again, Darius’s eyes ghost to the red flower on Eber’s lapel.

Eda emerges from behind the empty makeshift stage, drawing a hand to part the draperies lavendered with age, like the stars upon them. “Dante, Gus, Willow.” Eda beckons them to the tiny storage room with an urgent sweep of her hand. “Come with me to the storage closet real fast. I need yer help with moving something.”

Casting puzzled looks amidst themselves, the three nonetheless rise, following after Eda to a poorly-lit, tiny backroom. It hosts little racks of glittering, feathery costumes for performers, a sink for the nightly glass wash, bottles of bleach, and other cleaning supplies. “What’s up?” Dante quests his eyes around in the gloom. “What needs moving?”

“Nothing. I just need to be absolutely certain we ain’t overheard just now.” Eda hurriedly locks the door, suspiciously peering through the keyhole for any eavesdroppers. “Even accounting for the Ten’s vast network of spies, they found out about the glassworks deal awful fast. And Piggers would never squeal on himself.”

Dante’s heart frays itself with pain. “C’mon–no one at the Owl House would do that , Eda.”

“Oh, yeah? Nevareth called this morning. He wants his other eye back.” Eda snarks. Dante has no reply at the ready. Eda leans against the wall. “So, we’ve got a request for a bulk order to fill in two weeks’ time. Much bigger than a few measly crates. My gut feeling is this one’s marginally-less suicidal than dealing with the likes of Piggers and Boscha.”

“Well, I for one already like the marginally-less suicidal part.” Willow cautiously muses. “Keep talking.”

Dante lights upon the shudder of relief. Willow can’t help but muse his profile is an ease for light to fall back on even in the dark of a closet. But Dante quickly cools with careful distance from his own enthusiasm. “Wait. Is the buyer anyone we know? Are they trustworthy? Where do they want to meet? ...what’s their offer?”

“You’re learning to ask the right questions .” Eda nods in approval, lionlike eyes liquid with pride. “Good news: the order is a referral by folks whom ain’t the ac tual antichrist. Viney and her big bro , Jerbo . They work full time at one of the theaters that have yet to be claimed by District Ten. Their manager expressed interest in a stockpile of Apple Blood. As in, they’re willing to lend us one of their delivery trucks the company has on hand for luggin’ around stage sets.” Reddening, Eda tugs at a stray of fair hair. “Sufficient to say, I sor ta omitted the details on what happened the last time we borrowed a vehicle. Speakin’ of which, if we take this job, someone’s gotta stand guard over the truck at all times. Fool us once, shame on them. Fool us twice–we go boom.”

“Wait–why does a performing arts troupe want so much liquor?” Willow asks, stymied. “I’d understand maybe a restaurant …”

Eda grins toothily. “Looks like season ticket holders of theater, even those white-collared stiffs whom urged their reps to ratify Prohibition in the first place, are learnin’ that just ya can’t watch ballet sober. Needless to say, the company has lots of fancy clients, whom nowadays buy fancy punches before shows, and during intermission. Needless to say, said fancy folks wouldn’t mind wetting their beaks with something a little stronger than say lemonade come the final act of Giselle. And, sufficient to say, these rich stiffs couldn’t bear it if anyone found out about their ragin’ hypocrisy, so they’ll keep those wettened beaks of theirs good and fastened shut about what they’re really buying under the table.” Pacing, plotted with a conspirator's intensity, she plucks out a letter from her pocket. “Here’s the theater’s offer.”

Dante, Gus, and Willow pour over the contents of the letter. Willow’s hand falls over her mouth. Dante’s breathing slows to a veritable standstill in a polar trickle. Gus’s swells to a near hyperventilation. He mops at his brow, which has broken out in a renewed gloss. “...have to say, I don’t like the idea of selling to elites whom would normally never give us the time of day, but better the non -machine gun wielding option of the buyers, I guess. I’d sure hate to charge our Owl House clientele these kinda prices in order to stay open, and drive ‘em away. Heck, that kind of maneuver could put us out of business, too.”

“If it’s for Mami and our regulars, of course I’ll do it.” Dante fiercely vows, fist over his heart before his facade cracks. “But gosh–I don’t know, if I want to be an adult anymore. It looks like there might be more hypocrisy and double-standards involved than I could possibly take.” He can’t help but turn “How do ya guys possibly stand it?”

“By drinking copiously, which coincidentally, is how we came by this deal.” Eda flicks the page for emphasis as Dante hands it back over.

“Willow?” Dante’s voice shivers briefly, like light on the water. “Again: You don’t have to do this if you’re uneasy.”

In the tourbillon of dust adrift in the dim drift of cool air, Willow pulls her lips in when thinking carefully. She can feel the blood beating in her temples. “Like I said, I want, to help.” Dante briefly burrows under Willow's arm seconds later. Willow’s eyes are rendered solemn. Inwardly, something is accumulating imperceptibly like roots, something unseen to the eye and none the less vital.

“Well, kid.” Eda rounds on Dante with a drawl as Dante tugs back to clasp Gus’s shoulder. “Looks like you and me got a whole mess of work to do. What’s say we hop to it?”

Spirits renewing on the upswing of excitement, Dante fishes out his goggles, eyes hooded with determination, excitement electric like salt on the tongue.

~o*oOo*o~

The day of the concert house sale measures itself in little pulses that tick the day away,like the longcase, grandfather clock Eda teaches Luz and Gus to refinish in the store’s woodshed. The shed smells of the pine pitch of protective varnish and wood shavings. Soon the mahogany veneer of the clock gleams, like the internal heart of a pendulum visible through glass, pacing itself to strike the hour.

A customer of the Owl House antiquary comes to pick up an old writing desk. King attempts to take a corner to help Hooty carry it out to the truck out back, but Hooty all but cheerfully heaves the desk upon his Herculean arms before carrying it out himself. Gus’s pencil scratches upon a yellowing old ledger as he quietly tallies the numbers of the day, sitting upon an old crate from behind the antiquary register.

Camila’s sitting upon a wicker rocking chair upon the porch, wrapped in a quilt, sewing needles busily at work on darning a pair of King’s favorite overalls. Forbidden from helping in the shop or the kitchen, Camila’s still-determined to be of help, stopping intermittently to doze, April breeze pleasant, and warmth gaining traction. Mami’s greyhound contours of muscle and bone are gradually-softening, Luz thinks, under a steady diet of porridges and soft stews.. Hooty’s now busy at work cutting the grass with an enormous scythe in tow, occasionally pausing to reap an unsuspecting bug.

Smiling, carefully plucking the laundry off the line like little flags and drawing it into the basket, Luz sidles up to Mami to pull the quilts more tightly around her. A promenade of clouds overhead briefly pass over, like the rim of an oyster shell. This place, Luz supposes, skirts fluttering in the upturn of wind, is surely making a life on them.

Still, for all the real contentment of a quiet day, something yet hums within Luz with anticipation for nightfall, like a ribbon of music unspooling from a piano. From within Luz’s trunk in her and King’s shared room, Dante’s garments, concealed under three quilts, beckon like a selkie skin and a siren’s song, longing to be worn and born.

“Hurry up, Da–Luz,” King barks from the barn door, hurriedly correcting himself as he at once pivots to Camila, whom thankfully remains fast asleep in her chair. “What I meant to say is hurry up already, Luz.” Once again, an enormous stockpile of filmy glasses from last night’s fun in the speakeasy await cleaning in an infinity of the dullest kind. “Ya promised you’d teach me slingshot lessons if we finished our chores early.”

“Sure thing, pal–just give me a sec,” Luz cups her hands over her mouth to reassure, kneeling upon the porch, busying herself with clumsily folding the sun-stiff wash. For as much as she ought to have practiced and efficient hands at this by now like Mami’s, Luz’s fingers perform a quiet, fumbling conspiracy upon her nonetheless. They simply reject this work, the way the wrong sort of soil will all but spit a seed back out. Wincing at the lopsided results of her folded piles, Luz turns over her palms as if attempting to read them, wondering timidly what sort of hands Willow appreciates the most. Already, she’s made herself wistful by wishing Willow were here–Luz’s insides turn like the spinning weathervane upon the house rooftop.

At last, evening comes, and with it, a sleepy choruscall of crickets amidst a dusting of stars amidst the wreath of trees. Helping her Mami take her medicine with a bowl of soup from her attic bedroom, Luz quietly closes the window and seals the curtains with a hushed, shivering sound, kissing her mother upon the brow.

As Camila settles back upon the peaceful recline of her old pillows, Luz kneels in front of their old Virgin Mary statue upon a makeshift altar in the corner, one of the few articles to follow the Nocedas from their little room, so hazy and stale. Nowadays, the Lady is surrounded by blanketflower at her feet–Mami liked to have fresh offerings of thanksgiving for their good fortune. With a flicker of anticipatory apprehension, Luz clasps her hands over the upswing of her heart. Maria, forgive me, for what I’m about to do.

Clutching a candlestick, casting a flickering yellow pool about her shadow, Luz returns to her and King’s bedroom. Something reaches noiselessly for her, even as she reaches in turn. Careful to turn the quivering rasp of the key in lock–while Mami slept heavily after her medication, and little wonder why, Luz wishes to take no chances. Plucking out the innocuous pile of quilts, she retrieves the articles of Dante’s clothes, where they have been concealed like another bomb. And why not, when they had the same incendiary power to detonate?

No matter how many times Luz furtively washes these clothes, the smell of fire is simply impermeable to these fibers after the bombing. Still, it’s an exhale to settle back in the familiar shape of Dante Fortunato. Undulating his arms like wings, kissing his rosary beads for luck as he slips his hat back on with a little twirl and a wink, Dante pulls on his boots as King furtively taps out a single word in morse code:

R-E-A-D-Y?

~o*oOo*o~

“Remember, King.” Eda calls, arms wrapped around a large crate of clinking bottles, heaving it into the gaping hollow of the enormous truck parked outside the antique shop. The store’s tapered lantern glows through the window, rendering a warm, ambered square of light, like an oil painting. Behind leaded glass, an elderly Owl House patron’s cane pauses en route to the trapdoor. Eda’s back remains turned. “ Your job during the handoff is to–”

“Watch the boring truck. Enthralling. ” King bends the last word into a long, sarcastic sine wave as he descends the makeshift loading ramp. Huffing, Gus settles yet another packing case among the countless stacks. King’s thrown off his center of gravity and back again upon glimpsing a blue, heart-shaped patch sewn upon Gus’s sleeve, which had been ripped during the bombing. King bursts into a hysterical giggling fit. “Nice patch. Did Auntie Cammie make that for ya?”

“Don’t get too smug, there, little cowboy.” Gus flatly advises, leaning against the truck. “Or did ya seriously not notice your own threads?”

King blankly looks down at his overalls, only to rose-over in apprehension. Camila has seen fit to cover the ripped knees of his beloved coveralls with matching pink heart patches. “Awww.” Slumping, King scuffs his shoe as Gus stifles a chuckle behind his hand.

“The delivery truck’s–a whole lot bigger than I expected,” Winded, Dante staggers over with a hamper of Apple Blood, pausing mid-step to catch his breath. A thrill of shivers accosts his spine when Willow hurries over. “Lemme help you with that,” she implores, despite the fact that she already has a crate tucked underneath her arm. Together, they each take a handle of Dante’s box, carrying it between them like the hands of a small child. Willow turns poppypink when Dante beams gratefully at her. Gooseflesh, like the thousand breathing facets of a sunflower, rises a garden on Willow’s forearms.

“Theater probably has to haul a whole lotta sound equipment, set pieces and junk everywhere, so it makes sense this wagon would be draggin’.” Eda says on a long breath, flashing Hooty a boisterous grin as he helps haul the last of the freight in without even a flicker of exertion on his part. “Now, this shipment of booze ought to last ‘em a good hundred years, or at least until next Tuesday, if they’re anything like yours truly. Alright, Hoots. Ya know the drill: Keep an eye out for trouble, and keep your fluffy keister parked near the telephone, just in case. The emergency numbers are in the desk.” With that, Eda and Hooty pull down the gleaming white hatch lid, sealing the cargo door shut.

Dante’s gaze is fitful upon the dark silhouette of the house, waiting for the sudden stirring of a lantern to rupture bloodshot in Mami’s window. But the attic curtains remain darkened and undisturbed, a closed eyelid. With a creeping in of her familiar skittishness, Willow nonetheless grips Dante's shoulder to steady him. Pale and cool spring twilight falls in a diagonal line across Willow’s sweet face. Giddy, Dante finds himself atop a moment that levers you bright with expectation, even if you weren’t sure what it even was–

With a rumble to life, the headlights rise as the key in the ignition is turned, and the purring engine shakes itself to life. Yelping, Willow and Dante startle apart as Eda eagerly looks out the window. “Time for an inventory check, kiddies. Booze: Check. Arsenal?”

“ Check!” Everyone giddily clamors back, as if about embarking for a field trip. Gus’s hand flies out in the air. “Ooh! Eda! After we finish our shady, back-alley deal to peddle hooch stronger than crack, can we please get d oughnuts?”

“Ya can get a pony for all I care with your share, but let’s get goin’, already,” Eda booms. King cheers. Everyone scurries over to the truck, to the bench seat beside Eda. Willow plunges out her hand to grip Dante’s, gently tugging him aboard. It’s a tight squeeze with all of them, and King, to his great mortification, has to sit on Dante’s lap, but no one wants to risk potentially getting crushed in the cargo load of a driver whom deals primarily in sharp turns and ruined property.

The doors slam. Wheels screech upon the pale pebble trail, and off they’re speeding. It’s a far cry from the likes of Dante’s solitary march to the death trap awaiting in the glassworks. Tonight is tinged with the promise of adventure , the air warm and thick with everyone’s presence. Energy corkscrewing, Dante rolls down the window, whooping cheer made in wild joy, deliriously alive with himself, and the whole world.

~o*oOo*o~

The truck spills out into the density and rush of open necropolis. New York is perforated with a smattering of lit windows. One of those lights must belong to the amphitheater, in the city’s shadowy profusion of comings and goings. Soon, a faceless flock of sparkling strangers will raise foaming glasses beneath bronze and marble excess behind shuttered-velvet drapes. Those gilded gates topside will forever remain bolted to the likes of the Owl Lady’s crew, though the socialites will certainly have no problem admitting the harvest of commoners. Dante finds himself curiously serene despite this. Perhaps it’s because it surely isn’t every hub that hosts Drag Balls each Wednesday, and Sapphic Poetry readings on Fridays. It could, he meekly concludes, also have something to with Willow’s quiet presence.

Amidst streaks of salt and dirty water that catch the orange glare of passing streetlamps, the truck rumbles away from the thoroughfare. Eventually they come across a neglected road near the waterfront, studded with potholes that rattle the truck passengers like a maraca.Soon, the city lights begin to fade, one by one, like extinguishing stars.

The sky ominously smolders into the color of tarnished aluminum; local sidewalks are riddled with a nicotine-yellow sluice of sewage and garbage. Countless rats look up at the looming car in a near-collective assembly of beady-glassy eyes, ominously reflecting the drenching headlights in the gloom. They scuttle and scamper for cover in a nearby sewer drain. Dante’s brow draws with pity.

Gus shrinks just a little at the telltale bolted and bronzed District Nine Fist, emblazoned upon a warehouse stacked full of countless bags of grout and mixing cement. Endless freight cars full of sooty, hard black gems of coal. “ Yeesh.” King uneasily fans the air; the scent of sulfur from the nearby iron lungs of the enormous steel mill is impermeable in this profaner’s paradise. “What crawled up its own butt and died?”

“Was there really no other route?” Gus draws his nose under his collar at the tang of gasoline, side-eying Eda meaningfully. The huddling residential buildings appear to be on the edge of blight.

Beneath the telltale shadows of countless radio towers, equipment rentals, and a drywall supplier, Eda’s features have acquiesced to a grim mask. “I know it’s well off the beaten path to the beaten to death path. But we ain’t got no alternatives. Unless ya folks really wanna tiptoe through Territory One’s backyard ?”

The single digit spreads in the asphyxiating pocket where air resided only seconds ago like a stain. Throats tight with terror, pupils jitterbugging, Dante, King, Willow, and Gus become a human pile-up against the blessedly-locked passenger door in mounting alarm. Gus feigns a jolliness that pole-vaults into borderline hysteria, gesturing to the dystopian nightmare outside as if it is the Coney Island boardwalk. “Of course no t! Nine is Fine as Wine. Why, I like it so much, we oughta be buried here. Good old, scenic District Nine, mm-hmm!”

Deeply perturbed, King squints at a carcass tangled around a shattered streetlamp outside a nearby mechanic shop. “Um, ain’t that a dead skunk tied to that lamppost by the tail?”

Beaming, Gus claps a trembling King upon the back. “Why, it’s a scenic dead skunk!”

Palms splayed upon the window, Willow looks sadly upon decimated remains of a public garden now filled up with concrete, replaced with a looming statue of Lord Mason. It looks more like a memorial to a real tree now. Dante helplessly grips Willow’s elbow before swiveling to Eda. “Poor Mihail. No wonder he didn’ t wanna work here. Ya know, I thought a place with so much money and manpower and equipment would look lots nicer.” For a District that boasts the mantle of creation among the Ten Profaners, Dante thinks this place seems intent on pulling itself out tooth, by tooth.

“Just ‘cause ya see a whole mess of blood don’t mean it’s warming its way through any veins any time soon.” Eda warns, split seconds before she dives the brakes, eyes threatening to split out of her head with dread. “f*ck, f*ck, f*ck–!”

Like a roused, leviathan creature of antiquity, an enormous bucket wheel excavator barrels ahead for them from out of the corner. Growling, Eda’s forced to reverse to avoid a head-on collision; the truck rears like a spooked horse as its passengers go crashing into one another. A yelping King nearly goes flying through the windshield before Dante seizes his arm. "I ain't no defensive driver, but I'm sure as hell an offensive one!” Eda snaps, seconds before the hissing floods her ears, a dry rush of sand in an hourglass.

Straining pupils shrinking, inwardly trembling upon her latch and hinges, Eda peers out the window and wishes she hadn’t. In the orange glare at the solitary working streetlamp, sharp detritus of the waiting teeth of a road trap tear out the carcassed rubber of hissing wheels, air punctuated like lungs with one extinguishing hiss. In a series of squeaks and screeches, the truck comes to a halt upon the nearly-deserted stretch of road.

“Welp, old chum,” King can’t help but monotone to a paralyzed Gus beside him. “Looks like you’re about to get that burial wish of yers.”

Eda draws a ragged breath, shortly before she fails to breathe at all. “.... you.”

Hoping against all hope–and isn’t that word alone enough to ruin you before bullets ever could–Eda goes in vain for the accelerator, before the slow, corrosive trickle of reality trickles through the surgical gauze enveloping her brain. “...should have f*cking guessed.” Faintly over the furious pounding of blood in her ears, her heart produces an incantatory chant to the bars of one name, and then two. The likes of such imbecilic error has ended more than one life tonight.

“...sorry.” Eda murmurs, savagely striking the steering wheel. Seems a pale, piss poor apology just now. “Well, it’s been fun , kiddos. For what it ain’t worth, I never meant, to take ya down with me." The overhang of her brow glistens as Eda’s hand falls over her belted pistol.

Gus’s hollowing eyes ghost a forlorn pale light, and Willow’s own eyes plead against what is happening; her own failure. Dante and King hold onto one another for dear life, gaping as the slow drone of two steamrollers come rumbling in like enemy tanks. The excavator pauses in front of them in a series of electric whirs. Amidst the smell of rotten wood, and rust, a glossy crown of dark hair and a domed forehead peeks ou t. “My, my, my! Such a hurry, Owl Woman . Fortunato .”

A slit-eyed gaze beneath the warning orange of the streetlamps; a barbarism dances upon a forked tongue. “For you to pay a Coven a visit, and no t even stop to chat ?”

“Kikimora. ” Even now, Eda affects indifference. Nothing else will quite linger and chafe like grit beneath Kiki’s ribs. “And hear I thought, someone important like the Golden Guard would intercept. I’d tell ya to take care ya don’t get motion sickness from the lofty altitude of your high horse, but judging by that hideous District One sigil on ya front, looks like ya already did. So, what’s the ingenious plan? Let the Nine grunts do the heavy lifting of murdering us, while you finally get that ugly bowl cut permed at the salon?” She bats her eyes with mock hauteur.

Kiki’s eyes are tight with fury, smoldering toxins like a coal fire. “Oh, you’ll pay for this visit, and in full. No t in the least for your apprentice’s treachery at the glassworks–”

“Um,” Wan with sweat, Dante unrolls the passenger window with difficulty, arms and legs clumsy saboteurs beneath him. “...I don’t suppose the fact that I didn’t kill your friend Bosca means we can negotiate , here?”

Eda crosses her arms. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Like the ones who blew up my best friend’s ride, and saw to foot us with the bill.”

Kikimora’s response is to answer back with a parody of Dante's smile, a grin bared with one hundred teeth. Her frame is coiled to spring out and sever. “ Friend? You surely misspeak. If you’re speaking of that disgraced District Seven agent whom couldn’t take on the likes of a simple rodent the likes of yourself, she deserves every bit of any punishment Lord Vitimir gives her. If you truly wanted to do that brat and us a kindness, you would’ve sho t her where she stood.” Her gloved fingertip mimes the revolver of a gun against her head. “Bang.”

“Kikimora! I’ll go with you to f*cking District Seven, already! Just let these kids walk free! I’m the one whom made Dante fight!” Eda roars, bloodless features ravaged with fear. “The children ain’t got no stake in this game!”

“The hell we don’t!” Dante snaps, choking upon a warning tang of salt. Smothering a yawn in her hand, Kikimora bears down with all the ferocious intensity of a bad dream. “In case reality escapes you once again, you pathetic, sad old drunkard, you’re in no position to negotiate now. New Contract: You come with me, and wear Lord Vitimir’s sigil to your dying day. As for the children, the tiny one will have a promising, albeit short, career in Nine’s coal mines. As for the others, I suppose they’ll be fine contributions to District Six’s doll factory. Refuse, and your bones will make for the most exquisite mortar.”

Silence impales itself upon the moment. Then, Eda bellows a throat blistering scream as eight eyes fly to her in a chorus of reflexive shock: “WHAT THE f*ck ARE YA WAITING FOR?! MOVE, MOVE, MOVEMOVEMOVE, DAMN YOU ALL!”

Hur tling for the handles in sweat-drenched hands, everyone bursts out of the truck, taking off running. King stumbles and Gus hurriedly flings him over his shoulders. Kikimora’s arm flies down in a gleeful rush, waving a handkerchief in farewell for good measure. The massive excavator and bulldozers draw in like the closing of an airway. Gus's face disappears on itself as Eda's eyes go hard with focus, hand going for her gun. Willow claps Dante’s hand in her own, pulses beating the same, panicked, chord, crying out in the skin.

The true terror of the devil, Dante thinks wildly, gaze zeroing in over his shoulder, is the sheer accuracy of her aim.