We travel for a while without speaking. Thalia moves easily beside me, shoulders relaxed, hands loose at her sides. She is not scanning the shadows or bracing for trouble, and it is rare enough that I notice immediately.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
She exhales softly, and the sound almost becomes a laugh. “I’m tired, Peeble. And a little scared.”
“Yes to both,” I say, because there is no point pretending otherwise. She has earned honesty from me, even when it is not comfortable.
She hesitates, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “And happy. Which makes me nervous.”
We slow slightly as she says it. I understand the shape of that fear. Happiness in Thalia’s experience has always been a prelude, never a conclusion. Something that arrives just before everything falls apart.
“They looked good tonight,” she continues. “Both of them.”
“They did.”
“Every time I see that, I start thinking maybe it will last.”
Hope is dangerous. I have learned that more than once. But I have also learned that refusing it does not make you safer; it only makes you lonely.
“This time feels different,” I say.
“You always say that.”
“I say things lookpromising. This is different.” She glances down at me, and I hold her gaze because I mean it. “They arrived together,” I continue. “They reached for each other first. Then they reached for you.”
Her eyes brighten slightly before she looks forward again. She says nothing, but the set of her shoulders changes; says nothing, some of the careful guardedness easing just enough for me to notice.
“I also believe I deserve recognition,” I add, because the moment is getting dangerously sincere and someone needs to course-correct.
“For what?”
“For keeping secrets. Do you understand how difficult it is to keep secrets from Elle? She asks questions like she is conducting an interrogation.”
“You told her about the pastry shelf,” Thalia says, and the accusation in her voice is almost convincing.
“That was unrelated intelligence.”
“You ate half of them.”
I consider my options. “That was unfortunate.”
She laughs softly, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. It is a good sound. I intend to keep it going.
We pass beneath one of the massive branches, and it hums as we draw close, a single clear note that fades as we move on. They respond to presence, to warmth, to the passage of anyone the city recognizes as its own.
“Do you remember when you tried to teach Kevin to patrol?” I ask.
Her smile grows. “He kept landing on flowers.”
“He declared them suspicious. Every single one. He treated a patch of daisies like a security threat and then fell asleep halfway through his investigation.”
“He was sitting on a mushroom,” Thalia says, as if this is a defense.
“A very important mushroom,” I agree, and the laugh I get for that one is worth the delivery.
