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Pa’s face is turned away from the light. I can’t make out his expression, but I watch him clip a dagger to his belt and secret pens in his sleeves. “I don’t know. There’s a price I can never pay. And there’s something else. Something neither the Wardana nor anyone else can ever have.”
I draw my knees to my chest as my heart thuds and my eyes sting. Where did I go wrong? Which of my choices led to this? Should I have left the mother and child to fend for themselves?
Pa reaches under the lone pillow at the cot’s head and pulls out a familiar book. I hold my breath.
Most people who use ikonomancy do so like a child learning her letters—they memorize the alphabet and learn the words that they’re taught. The truly talented mancers figure out how to combine ikons by stringing the letters of the alphabet into new words. Pa was better than them all; he created new letters, and with them a whole new language.
And his little book is where he wrote down the best of his work.
Pa scrawls something on the cover. An ikon whose shape I try to commit to memory, but even as I do, I know I won’t remember the exact proportions. Before my eyes, the book shrinks to the size of my thumbnail. “Will this fit in your locket?”
I pull Ma’s locket out from under my shirt. Pa tips the miniature journal into my palm. The book fits easily, nestled between a painted portrait of Ma and our family ikon engraved on the other side. Ma’s painted features give me pause. She has large, furious black eyes, a strong nose, a strong jaw. The only softness in her face comes from her lips. I’ve always liked to think I look like her, albeit a little watered down. My nose is a little less sharp and my jaw a little less bold. My gray eyes are Pa’s, but my lips are hers. I’ve got her softness, but not her strength. I click the locket shut and pull the chain over my head to hand it to him.
He stops me. “No, Vesp, I want you to keep it.”
I meet his eyes with questions caught in my throat. “I don’t want to keep it. You keep it and bring it back to me.”
Pa presses my fingers closed around the locket. “Just for a littlewhile,” he says in a mild tone that gives him away. He’s lying through his teeth. “For safekeeping.”
I tuck the locket back under the collar of my overdress. Pa holds out his hand, and tentatively, I place my hand in his.
“In case something happens, you need to promise me that it won’t fall into the Wardana’s hands. If you can’t keep it, burn it.”
My stomach churns. “What if I read it?” That’s his worst fear, isn’t it? Some childish part of me wants to threaten him.Come back to me, or else I’ll do it, I’ll read it.
His expression flickers, reverting to his usual somber so fast I must’ve imagined the smile. “Do you know why I never wanted you to learn?”
I shake my head.
“It takes something from you. Something you can never get back. Not the magic itself, but the power. To affect the world with a word? With just a symbol? It makes men greedy. They begin to think they can rewrite fate. That they can hold the very sun in their hands.”
Pa looks at our hands.
“If I had never learnt, your mother would be alive.”
“Papa—”
He drops my hand, and the softness leaves his face. “If all goes well, I’ll meet you at the old temple in the fourth in four hours. If not, run.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod.
“Go now. Pack your things.”
I pull myself out of the trapdoor.
“Vesper,” Pa murmurs so quietly I almost miss it. “When we had you, we hoped you would be better than us.”
His words are a gut punch. I’ve failed him. I’m not a genius like Pa.I’m not a hero like Ma. I don’t even have a quarter of Amma’s kindness. I mean to apologize, but the words catch in my throat. I don’t have the air in my lungs to speak them.
Pa wraps bandages around his face as if he’s got a disfiguring curse—a quick disguise—and pulls on a shawl with a heavy cowl. He hops up out of the hidden room, and I follow him as he goes out into the main room.
The stormtouched are gathered around Amma, who stops playing her sitar when she sees us. A sharp note hangs in the air. Pa goes to Amma and kisses her knobby knuckles. She holds his hand tight until he pulls away.
Standing at the door are Jem and the two newcomers. Amma rises to her feet and adjusts Pa’s shawl so the waxed mosscloth covers his chin. It’ll ward off the damp, but more importantly, it’ll keep the Storm from touching his skin if he gets caught in a stormsurge.
Amma cracks the door open. The street is full of people stretching their legs and assessing the damage. Perversely, a little gratitude hangs in the air after a stormsurge. Folks are grateful to be spared. Some get holy about it, praying to the Storm to pass them by the next time, too. Pa calls them fools.
Amma steps out with her cane, walking a few yards away as if to take in the air. A large group passes by at the same moment, carrying candles and ikonlanterns for a post-stormsurge prayer. Amma pretends to trip, and several people come to her aid.
In the middle of the commotion, Pa ducks out with the mother and her daughter. They separate quickly, and Pa slips into the crowd.
I run outside and help Amma to her feet, brushing the dirt from her clothes.
“Getting too old for this,” she sighs into my ear. Over her shoulder, I watch the back of Pa’s head until he melts into the distance. A dark feeling wraps its claws around my heart.
I should have said goodbye.
