Page 82 of Seasonal Fears

“Black hair, blue eyes, and a perpetually baffled look on her face, like the world had gone from being scripted to an improv show overnight. Sort of like you did, when I didn’t stab you.” That last is directed at the other woman, who makes a face.

“Not my fault you had a dead man’s hand and a knife and a story to sell that didn’t make a deuced bit of sense,” she mutters. “If you’d wanted me to go along with you without arguing, you should have come up with something that came a little closer to sounding like the truth, and not the result of smoking all Dodger’s wacky-weed before coming to my lab.”

Aven snarls again, but at least stops trying to assault the air. “You met my sister?” she asks instead, an oddly hopeful note in her voice.

“Met her, answered her questions, and pointed her and her Summer sweetheart toward the labyrinth,” says the blonde, taking another sip from her lemonade. “You should run along now. We’re not going to let you in.”

“My apologies for the rudeness, but you don’t seem like the sort of houseguests we want to encourage,” says the other woman regretfully.

The door opens and shuts again behind them, and a man joins them on the porch, nondescript, easy to overlook, brown-haired and dressed like someone’s favorite college professor. He has a coffee mug in one hand; he adjusts his glasses with the other as he looks across the yard to Trevor and Aven. “They can see the house?” he asks.

“That would be why we’re talking to them,” says the blonde.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” says the first woman.

“We’ll catch you up later,” says the man. “Promise. it’s been a long, weird day, and it’s clearly not getting any less of either.” He sips his coffee and makes a face. “Plus, Dodger’s been mixing my coffee grounds with decaf again. I don’t understand why she thinks that’s a good idea. She needs the caffeine as much as I do.”

“She just drinks twice as much when she does that,” says the first woman. “What have you done to upset her this week?”

“Fucked if I know,” says the man crossly. “You try spending all your time with your temperamental twin sister psychically linked to you. Sometimes she gets pissy because I thought the wrong thing, and then I have to deal with slammed cupboards and stomping for three days before she tells me what it was.”

“You should get better at hiding your thoughts from her,” says the blonde, sounding amused.

“I’ll take that under advisement, because that’s absolutely not something I’ve considered before,” says the man. “Why, wherever would we be without the great Erin to tell me how to organize my thoughts.”

“Drinking decaf a lot more often,” she says.

Trevor is getting annoyed. Their whole routine feels staged, like these people understand how unsettling and off-putting it is for them to chat away like this, like he and Aven don’t matter, like the fact that they’re here doesn’t matter. Aven is even angrier. Heat is starting to bake off her skin in waves, making the air around her warmer than it has any right to be. This is new. She’s tied to her season, but she has yet to make the Summer manifest in his presence.

He’d been sort of hoping it would take her longer. Once she truly manifests the summer, he’s going to lose any chance of breaking free of her. He may even lose his ability to remain Trevor, an identity distinct from the Corn Jenny he’s unwillingly becoming. He always knew this moment was going to arrive. It’s been inevitable for so long that it isn’t even a surprise, much as he wishes it could be.

“It isn’t summer now,” says the man mildly. “It won’t be summer for a while yet, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do any more damage to the garden. It took us a lot of effort to get it balanced just so, and your sister’s boyfriend already messed things up pretty badly.” He looks toward the patch of strawberries as he says that, and the urge to go through the gate and fill his fists with fruit washes over Trevor, almost overwhelming.

He’s not sure he could get through. He is sure that if he could, he’d have to spend the rest of his life there, or that life would be very short indeed. Aven isn’t the sort of person who tolerates disloyalty. Unless she orders him into the garden, he’s staying here.

The man begins descending the steps, one by one, eyes on Aven the whole way. “You must be the other half of Dr. Cosgrove’s science project,” he says. “Please don’t take that as dismissively as it comes across—my sister and I are also part of an alchemist’s science project. Ours was just a little grander in scope, because our alchemist was an even bigger asshole than yours. Boy next to you has flower-petal patterns in his eyes, so I’m guessing that’s your Corn Jenny, yeah?”

“He is,” says Aven warily, shying back, like she thinks the man might suddenly trade his coffee for a cleaver and attack her. “Roland Cosgrove was my father.”

Oh, the subtle joy, the unmistakable gloating pleasure in the past tense. She took that man apart, her first jailer and her first kill, and she has no regrets about it. Trevor is beginning to have enough regrets for both of them.

“Was, huh?” The man sips his coffee again, watching her. “It’s not our place to compromise a coronation. We’re not part of the system that made you, except for on a macro level, since on a macro level we’re literally all part of the same system. We belong to the same cycle you do. We walk the same road. You have your guide, and that’s all you need to make this a fair fight. I’m not going to help you. None of us are.”

Aven bares her teeth. Not a snarl, not quite; just the threat display of a cornered animal, ready to bite if that’s what it takes to save herself, willing to be allowed to slink away. Trevor’s never seen her show her throat like this before, wasn’t entirely sure that she was capable of it.

“You are not welcome here,” continues the man, calm and implacable. “Not in our home, not in our garden, not in our city. You’re on your sister’s trail, and I assume you’re hunting the boy who travels with her, the one who shares your season.”

“I’ll kill him,” mutters Aven. “He has no right to Melanie. She’s mine.”

“See, that’s the funny thing about sisters. Even when they know you, love you, and don’t run away from you, they don’t belong to you. They’re still people, not just the other half of you, and where things usually get confusing is when you stop treating them like they’re real enough to make their own decisions.” He pauses, grimaces. “And none of this is getting through to you, because you don’t want it to. Can’t persuade the unwilling.”

Aven wrinkles her nose. “You’re talking nonsense. Of course she’s mine. I’m her sister. I match her better than anyone else could. I balance her out. We’re perfect when we’re together.”

“Does that mean you’re imperfect when you’re not?” The man sounds genuinely curious. But then, everything about the man seems to have been designed for maximum sincerity. Looking at him, Trevor feels like the world would rearrange itself out of civility and shame if it ever had the audacity to contradict the man for so much as a moment.

It must be an intoxicatingly terrible way to live, afraid to express too strong of an opinion, lest reality rewrite itself to conform. Aven narrows her eyes.

“I am never imperfect,” she spits.