“Damon. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Aunt Etta.”
“Hollow cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. When did you last sleep?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.” She clicks her tongue. Then her gaze shifts to Silas, and her whole demeanor changes. Her face softens. “And you. Come here.”
Silas steps forward, and Aunt Etta reaches up and cups his face in both hands, studying him the way she studies her garden—thorough, appreciative, noting every detail.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says. She drops her hands and waves us both toward the door. “Inside. Both of you. Tea in ten minutes. Damon, your room is made up. I changed the sheets.”
“Thanks, Aunt Etta.”
She disappears into the house. We follow her inside.
Aunt Etta herds us to the sitting room and points at the couch. “Sit. I’ll bring tea.”
“We can help—” I start.
“Sit.”
We sit.
Silas takes in the room—the overstuffed furniture, the fireplace, the shelf of family memorabilia. His gaze lands on a photo of Amara and me as teenagers, dressed up for some town event, both of us glaring at the camera.
“You and Amara looked alike as kids.”
“People always said that. We’re cousins, but we could pass for siblings.”
Aunt Etta returns with a tray—teapot, cups, a plate of shortbread cookies that I know she baked this morning because the woman never buys anything store-made. She pours for each of us, then settles into her armchair and pulls a crochet project from the basket beside it.
“Now,” she says, needles already moving, “where have you been off to?”
“I told you I got caught up cleaning up the aftermath of the flare,” I lie.
“Your mother was very worried,” she says. “I almost came down to the station looking for you.”
Her worry touches me. “I’m okay, I promise. I just needed to handle this before I came home.”
“You work too hard, just like your daddy.”
I can feel Silas’s eyes on me but I look away. I hate feeling vulnerable.
Luckily Silas decides to change the subject. “We were actually hoping we could access the library.”
“Looking for anything in particular?” She looks between us.
I clear my throat then tell her the truth. “Ley line theory. Rift mechanics. Omega biology as it relates to ambient magical fields.”
Aunt Etta’s needles pause for half a second, then resume. “That’s a specific combination.”
“It’s a specific problem.”
She looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “The kind of problem that gets a Council envoy sent to investigate?”
“The kind of problem that makes a Council envoy wonder if he should stop investigating and start listening.”
