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“Don’t tell me it’s another surprise?” she says, her voice low in case Lucy is listening in.
“Okay, I won’t,” I reply, glad to see she’s read my expression as something other than a minor case of nerves.
But she frowns and I know why. For some reason, the perfect ten doesn’t like the fact that I spoil my heir. Felicity wipes a hand across her yellow and white sundress, then runs a palm along the fabric.
“It’s just…” She trails off, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what she’s about to say. Again.
Spoiling Lucy isn’t going to make her feel more loved.
I cast a quick look at Lucy, who’s still listening to music while drawing all over her Sketch Pet, a stuffed animal combined with a sketch pad she needed immediately. I could tell because her eyes lit up as we passed the private airport’s gift shop on our way in.
“Not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done,” she continues, no doubt referring to the wardrobe of new clothes filling both their suitcases.
“Don’t you mean love what I’ve done?” I smile. If I’m lucky, she’ll grace me with one of her own.
“Just don’t feel like you need to say yes to her all the time. That’s all.” She pats my hand, and I decide to let her win this disagreement.
Which is how I see it. She’s asking me to cripple our youngling’s future by limiting her access to the family's strengths. In this case, money. What sort of caregiver would I be if I didn’t share my fortune? How will Felicity know what to increase and expand upon if I keep her in the dark?
“She needs stability,” Felicity continues, while I make some noise humans equate to agreement. “Not… like a genie granting all her wishes or something.”
She pats my hand again and smiles. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of a small sensation spinning at the base of my stomach. As Felicity’s grin spreads, the feeling expands into a full-grown tornado beating against my organs.
“It’s a trinket at the end of the day,” I reply, though I realize it’s a status symbol among children.
Younglings of all races enjoy destruction, which is exactly what most of the doodles on Lucy’s Sketch Pet dragon look like. On every Sketch Pet animal I’ve seen. That's the point.
I study the swaths of yellow, green, and orange that Lucy is currently adding and don’t see what else to call them but blights on an otherwise inoffensive cloth canvas. I’m not trying to be rude, merely descriptive. The back of Joe Galaxy, which Lucy has named her Sketch Pet, has similar renditions but of different colors.
“But that’s the point. I don’t want her to look at things like trinkets.” She shrugs and it takes everything in me not to stop and study her caramel-colored shoulders. I’m glad I went with the straps and not the cuffed-sleeve version of her ensemble.
“You’d rather she look at them like they’re important?” My question catches her off guard. “Because that sounds more materialistic than a father treating his brood to an art project.”
I leave out the fact her glow-in-the-dark colors were a separate purchase, as well as the pen case I bought to hold them. Plus the laundry bag I figured we could snag to wash Joe Galaxy in. It’s important to keep things nice. It shows responsibility. So really, Lucy is learning with all these additions.
“I’m not saying don’t do it,” she backpedals in a whisper. “I’m just saying, be careful. Gifts don’t make up for quality time.”
“I was just thinking about quality time,” I reply, figuring now would be the perfect opportunity to let her know I’m already planning on teaching the girl to fly.
Her broomstick will serve for wings but still. It’s something we will do together. It’s never too early to learn a skill like scouting. Lucy will thank me later when she’s a master of the sky and a shadow in the night.
“Oh yeah? What kind of quality time?” Felicity asks as the pilot’s voice comes through over a scratchy intercom to say we’ll be landing soon.
I look back at Lucy, currently swaying to the cacophony of sound blaring from her earbuds. I figured earbuds would inspire her to focus and clearly they have. The little mage is too focused on the flower or puddle or house or whatever she’s drawing to know I’m waving at her.
Felicity takes a pretzel from her bag by her side and tosses it at Lucy. It hits the girl’s hand, and she looks up with a frown that slowly turns into a smile.
“We’re landing,” Felicity says, telling her to buckle up.
I wait until Lucy is buckled and looking out the window before whispering to Felicity.
“The flying kind,” I say. I squeeze her hand as an excuse to touch her. She flinches and I remind myself that she’s delicate.
“Pardon?” she asks, and I reiterate.
“We’ll start slow, of course,” I tell her as the plane descends. “But she’ll be doing tricks off her broom from a mile up in no time.”
I realize it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it comes out. Felicity’s almond-shaped eyes are wide. Her beautiful mouth hangs open. What? Witches fly. Demons fly. Is this about humans not being about to do the same?
