Page 67 of Inextricably Tied

In her mind, Harbinger stands in front of her house again. She boards it up until she can breathe.

“Maybe we do need to leave,” Omen murmurs. Sunlight reflects off the shattered glass hanging from strings near the window, broken beer bottles repurposed when he returns from house-calls. “Maybe we keep holding on, hoping this place will feel like it used to, but it won’t. It’s not easy when the Convent is everything. We didn’t have lives before this. We’ve been here longer than we’ve been anywhere else. This place tore us apart…” He flicks a piece of glass above his head, and they all tinkle together. “But it’s also the thing that brought us together.”

They sit like that for a while, under the whir of the sewing machine, until Harbinger exhales. “I wish it was as easy to start something new with Flint and Agony as it was with you two.”

The whirring stops. Harbinger doesn’t get a chance to glance toward them before they burst into laughter.

“What?”

“It wasn’t easy with us! You don’t get to rewrite history now!” Omen throws a pillow toward her. “Revisionist.”

Harbinger ducks under the pillow and gapes. “What do you mean?”

“You fought us every step of the way!” Poe gestures. “By the time you left, I still wasn’t sure if you actually liked us or tolerated us.”

A delinquent grin creeps across Harbinger’s face.

“I knew you were soft.” Omen rummages through the basket of snacks on Poe’s coffee table. “The letters were further confirmation.”

Harbinger sits up straighter. “You got them?”

“Of course.” Poe pulls her foot off the pedal. “You kept writing not knowing if anyone read them?”

Harbinger picks at the fuzz pilling off the blanket. Omen digs his heel into her thigh. “Told you she was sweet on us.”

Writing to the two of them was like a diary, no chance of their reply when Harbinger never stayed in one place for long. Detailing the rough nights, the good days, the familiar pangs from their connection when uncertainty overwhelmed Poe or Omen was numb with grief.

“We had dramatic readings of your letters,” Omen says as Poe pulls out a stack of pages from her desk drawer. She smooths them out, tapping the bottom of the stack until it’s even.

“Got shot at last week.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Also accidentally touched Flint, but that hasn’t been all bad.”

Omen leans closer to Harbinger. “This is my favorite part.”

Harbinger shoves his face away. Poe continues.

“Turns out he’s talented at more than business and security. It was so much better than the fantasies.”

Poe squeals. Harbinger wraps the blanket over Omen’s head as the room dissolves into giddy laughter. It’s as warm as the first memory of Flint touching her.

By the time Omen wrestles out of Harbinger’s grip, she combs hair back into her braid.

“You’re happy with them.” Poe slips the letters back into the drawer, pressing fingers to her lips then down to the paper where Harbinger sealed them. “How much have you told them?”

It’s tempting to lie, but Harbinger doesn’t. “Not enough.”

“I know it’s hard letting people close. Showing them what made you. Things that happened that you’d rather forget. But keeping your back to those things doesn’t make them go away. It doesn’t make them hurt less. You picked them up, but you have to put them down.”

Harbinger hangs on the memory of a much smaller Poe clutching her gloved hands, both of them quivering outside the guest chamber doors. It’s the way they survived the expectations of their gifts, seeing and hearing and feeling things through the Veil that they were never prepared for.

Pick it up, and put it down. Use your powers, but don’t let them control you. Don’t carry the weight of what you see. You have to release it. You have to let it go.

“Flint’s been with you for, what, seven years?” Poe continues. “And now you can see inside his heart. The least you can do is share a fraction of yours with him.”

“And what about Agony?” Harbinger worries teeth into her lip. “He’s already gotten inside my head in ways Flint can’t. In ways I’ve never let him. That’s fucked up.”

“So?” Omen rests an arm against the back of the couch. “People are different. Relationships are different. It doesn’t make one less than another.”

“And do you think, maybe,” Poe stretches the word, “you let Agony closer because Flint is with you? Because you feel safe enough to open up when he’s there.”