Page 92 of Storm Caller

Maybe I should ask myself what I’m doing here. Why do I keep trying to find my way back? What am I hoping for? A happy ending that’s never really been a possibility?

Should I knock? Just let myself in? I wasn’t prepared for this indecision. This is my home, or it was, yet I feel like I’m arriving as a stranger.

Thankfully, I’m saved from having to decide when the door swings open to reveal Cara, our housekeeper.

“Poet!” she says warmly. “I’m so happy to see you.” She steps aside to gesture us through. “Your mom said you’d be coming for dinner, and it’s been far too long since you’ve had my famous roast chicken.” That’s when her gaze lands on Rook. She stutters, her face draining of color as she takes him in.

“Cara, this is Rook,” I say, my voice firm and probably a bit too bright while I try to make up for her rudeness. I shouldn’t blame her. I reacted the same way once. I know she’s been fed the same lies as everyone else, but it still sends a prickle of annoyance down my spine. “My friend.” Again, I fuse the words with certainty, hoping to snap her out of her shock.

“Of course,” she finally says. “Mrs. Graves said you’d be bringing someone. I just assumed it would be Trin—” Her sentence cuts off as her worried gaze pings to me. “Or not her, maybe.”

Clearly, she knows what happened.

“Not tonight,” I say, pretty confident that I’m never inviting Trinity for dinner with my family ever again.

“Nice to meet you,” Cara says to Rook, regaining a semblance of manners.

“Likewise,” Rook says, using his formal voice. After witnessing him in his element out in the Veil, I understand more than ever that he knows how to play this game.

Cara blinks, almost as if she’s surprised to find he can speak in a civilized manner, and I resist the urge to growl. “Come in,” she says with a wave. “Your parents are in the salon. Can I take your coats?”

We hand them over as I scan the familiar space.

I think about the night Rook and I broke in to steal my dad’s keycard, when I felt his assessment of the luxuriousness of our surroundings. While Cloudspire is awe-inducing for its sheer existence, its purpose is function, not form. Rook’s room is comfortable but simple. Nothing like this. I think about my masquerade dress and when I asked for somewhere to throw it away. In the Tiera Frais, they use only as much as they need. New Manhattan should have emulated that, but we let ourselves become seduced by the luxuries of the past.

Skirting through the living room, we turn a corner and head toward the back room, which my parents use for entertaining.

“Hello,” I call ahead of us. They know we’re here, but I want to make sure there are as few surprises tonight as possible.

“Poet!” my mother exclaims as we enter through the arched door. She’s dressed in a flowing yellow dress that reaches to the floor, with her hair pulled up into a high knot at the back of her head.

The room is like an egg cut down the center, with one flat wall and the other curving into an oval made up of windows, offering an unobstructed view of the city and the Tiera Frais far in the distance.

She rushes over and throws her arms around me, squeezing me tight. “I’m so glad you came.” Pulling away, she frames my face with her hands, soft tears forming in her eyes. “We’ve missed you so much.”

I don’t contradict the “we” in her statement as she steps back to reveal my father seated in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, wearing his usual crisp white shirt and pressed gray pants.

“Dad,” I say as he nods and then pushes himself up. He strides over and stops, assessing me.

“I’m glad to see you looking healthy,” he says. “After your time in that cell . . .”

He trails off as something troubled passes over his expression.

“Yeah,” I say. “I was— I am . . . fine.”

Not really, but I don’t know what else to say.

“This is Rook,” I say, reaching back and pulling him up beside me. He comes forward reluctantly from where he stands a few paces away. “Rook Athira.”

“Athira?” my dad says, his brows drawing together, and it occurs to me that if High Commander Summit Athira knows of my father, then maybe the reverse is true as well.

Rook and my dad stare at each other for a moment.

“Yes,” Rook says.

Another thought flits across my dad’s face. “Welcome to my home,” he says and reaches out to shake Rook’s hand. It isn’t warm or friendly, but there’s a thread of respect in his tone. I’m not sure what it means, but his reaction seems to deflate some of the tension in the room.

“Can I get you a drink?” my mom asks as Cara enters and heads toward the bar. “Anything you like.”