“You know, I was wondering if I’d run into you,” Father Mendez goes on. “I did remember hearing you were at Caliburn. I hope you’ll forgive me for not reaching out—I wasn’t sure if we’d have time away. But now that I’ve seen you...” He trails off, studying me. “As it happens, one of the things we’ve been working on is a garden. A memorial garden,” he clarifies. “For those we’ve lost to violence.”
My mind goes blank.
“Ordinarily, you know, we name these things for the, ah, benefactors of the financial gifts.” He gives an apologetic smile. “But after this grant came in, anonymously…well, I suggested we name the project in memory of those we lost, instead.” His smile warms. “In honor of Sean and Margaret.”
“Oh,” I say. “Wow.”
I don’t know what else to say. Thanks? I’m not ungrateful. Of course I’m not. It’s just…
Honor the memory.
What I have I ever even done to honor their memory?
Run here and never come back?
My stomach feels like a block of ice.
“We only just made the decision,” he’s saying. “I was going to write you, or call. But now, here you are!” Another laugh. “God truly works in mysterious ways.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t much care for that idea either, even though I know it’s true.
“We were hoping you could be there,” he says. “For the dedication ceremony.”
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re busy, of course,” he rushes on. “You know, Ididbring that up. Reminded everyone that you’re atCaliburn, for goodness’s sake, that you’ve got studying to do, and that’s ontopof your athletics. And I said, well, if he wanted to visit, he would have been back atleastonce by n?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No, of course. Yeah. Of course I want to come. Please. I’d…be happy to.”
It’s not that far. Two hours, two and a half maybe. I could do it in a day, assuming the Volvo doesn’t die on me. The season’s over. The other guys can hold down the fort.
I grab a pen from by the cash register and hand it to him, along with my receipt, which Father Mendez uses to scribble down the details.
“All set,” says the shopkeeper from behind me. I turn, and take the wrapped-up flowers, the potted roses and the long branches of hawthorn. “Hope she likes them.”
“Um, yeah. Thanks.”
I turn back around, and Father Mendez is smiling again. “Oh, my. Well, don’t let me stand in your way.” He winks, stepping to the side. And as he does, he glances down at my right hand. At my parents’ wedding rings. Then back at the flowers in my arms. “It’s good to see you happy, Callahan.”
TWELVE
GWENNA
The flameon the stove won’t stay lit.
“Come on,” I groan, twisting the knob back and forth under the burner. It’s the damndest thing: it snaps to life instantly, cheerful and orange under the saucepan of milk, and then five, maybe ten seconds later…whoosh.Nothing.
After my third or fourth try, I’m genuinely annoyed. Then, just as quickly, concerned: is this some kind of gas leak? Is the Camlann House kitchen about to go up like a grenade? I squat slightly to peer into the burner, the grate, and even though I’m barely half an inch away, there’s no sense of warmth at all. When I touch the grate itself, it’s cold iron—like the fire was never there.
Strange. Very strange.
Straightening, I look around me for other options.
Do microwaves kill magic?I wonder. I could text Morgan, but think better of it—it feels like a stupid question to ask, and she’s not exactly someone whose cooking advice I’d take as gospel anyway. Instead, I elect to nuke just the milk by itself,thirty seconds on high in a red CALIBURN FENCING mug, and then carefully remove it to stir in the honey separately.
The honey isthick, more paste than liquid, and I practically have to chip it out of the jar. But, with a little elbow grease, I manage to get a solid glob on the end of a butter knife, roughly the size of a large blackberry, which I dunk into the milk and stir.
Hm. I half expect the mug to glow or sparkle a little, give some indication that the divination powers or whatever are infusing into the milk. But nothing. If this is magic, it doesn’t feel especially enchanting.
