Pa scooped the cut peaches into the bowl and mixed them so the sugar, cinnamon, and other ingredients clung to them. “Bah,” he said. “Your mother won’t let us take any jobs beyond the nearest isles regardless.” He waved a meaty hand westward. The nearest islands were all within an hour or two’s sail, and the seas around them were known to be calm, due to a stretch of barrier reefs.
“We both agreed,” Ma said calmly.
“You proposed,” he said. “I nodded.”
Marin’s mother considered that, then shrugged. “That’s worked well throughout our marriage.”
He grinned, leaned over, and planted a kiss on her cheek. Ma laughed and swatted his arm lightly. Marin kept chopping peaches and didn’t fight to keep the smile off her face. They’d nearly lost everything two years ago, but it hadn’t changed them. She didn’t understand it, but she was grateful for it.
And they never once blamed me.
Instead, they’d rallied to help her escape.
Carrying the bowl of sugary peaches, Pa led the way inside, poured it into the ready-and-waiting pastry shell, and then slid the pie into the oven. Meanwhile, Ma poured iced peach tea into three jars and set them on a tray to carry back outside.
While the pie baked, they drank tea beneath the peach trees and watched the winged cats attempt to chase a seagull, who was havingnone of their nonsense. As the afternoon wore on, Ma and Pa took turns gossiping about the neighbors—who had had a baby, who had painted their fence an alarming color, who had plans to dominate at the End-of-Harvest Festival with his pies… which was Pa. Pa had plans to dominate. He’d perfected a pie crust with just enough vanilla to make the judges meow.
“Meow?” Marin asked.
“It’ll be good enough for a cat.”
“You shouldn’t be feeding the cats pie. Pa, are you feeding the cats pie?”
“Ooh! Have to check the oven!” He darted away without, she noticed, answering the question.
Ma turned to Marin with a serious look on her face, and Marin automatically braced herself. Other than stopping to make a delivery before coming to Flicker—one single well-paid stop—she didn’t think she’d done anything that warranted that kind of expression, but who knew? She wondered if it was Iovar, but she didn’t want to ruin the beautiful afternoon by saying his name out loud. It felt like casting the worst kind of spell.
“What?” Marin said when the look went on a few seconds too long.
“You should come back for the End-of-Harvest Festival,” Ma said. She held up her hand to stop Marin’s immediate protest. “It would mean a lot to your father, and I believe it’s time. You’ve exiled yourself for long enough—what happened wasn’t your fault. You were the victim. He was the snake in the grass.”
Yeah, but Marin should have spotted the snake before it struck.I was the one who invited the snake into the house. Into my bed.She wasn’t here to argue, though. “I think it’s better if I—”
“It’s not,” Ma said. “You tried disappearing. You tried keeping your distance. Did it make you feel better? Are you happy sneaking into your own home like a criminal when you were the victim? What are you afraid of? So you may see him. So what? He can’t hurt you now. He can’t hurt any of us. We’re done with him. But we don’twant to be done with you. We want to see you more. Your father and I… we’re getting older, and we won’t be here forever.”
They werenotold, and wow, she did not want to be having this conversation. “Ma, I can’t—”
“How about this: come back to celebrate with us. Just the family. You don’t have to see anyone else if you don’t want to. Watch the pie contest from the sidelines. Place a bet on the winged cat race under a false name. Wear a disguise. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just come.”
Before Marin could trot out the million excuses why this was a terrible idea, Pa emerged from the house, all smiles, holding the peach pie with two oven mitts. “Ta-da! Look at this perfection!”
Ma applauded, and Marin joined in.
He placed the pie on a kitchen towel on the table with a flourish. Steam curled out between the pastry lattice. Peach liquid bubbled around the edges, and it smelled like the most glorious dream of peach, cinnamon, and pastry.
Ma cut the slices and served them on her favorite mismatched dishes, the ones painted by her mother with little flowers on each. Marin’s plate had buttercups around the edges.
“You try it first,” Pa said.
Marin cut the tip of the pie with her fork and popped it in her mouth. It exploded on her tongue like sunshine at dawn, bright and sweet and cheery and… “Oh, there’s the vanilla!”
“And what does it make you say?” Pa pressed.
“Meow!”
“Excellent.” He beamed.
Ma leveled a look at her. “And?”
