“What will you call them?” asked Charles.
Unlike everything else in this ordeal, I actually had an answer for that. My long days had given me a lot of time to ponder names, which were a much safer mental challenge than the rest of my life. It would be nice to say I’d come up with really symbolic names or names of great people who’d left some impact on my life. Nope. It was a much simpler matter than that. I simply gave them names I liked. Ordinary names. The kinds of names a person shaped—not ones that shaped a person.
“Ivy and Isaac,” I said. I was a fan of alliteration.
Candace and Charles seemed pleased by the choices. I’d once heard her go off on “the ridiculous things people name their children these days,” so I think she was relieved I hadn’t made up some weird monstrosity for them.
“These are amazing times we live in,” she said, looking down at Ivy. “Imagine having these little ones a hundred years ago. What would’ve happened then?”
Or, I thought, what would’ve happened if they’d been born in the Otherworld? Because I had to assume they would’ve come early there too, in a position not suitable for natural birth. Dorian had seemed confident of his healers’ magic to handle anything, but I wasn’t so sure—especially considering the gentry track record with infants. I couldn’t believe anything the Otherworld could offer would match the care the twins were getting now. And I knew in that moment that everything I’d been through—turning my back on the Otherworld, coping with boredom, keeping away from magic—had all been worth it.
I gazed at my children and sighed happily. “We’re exactly where we need to be.”
Chapter 10
The next few weeks were surreal, and for the first time since coming to Alabama, I no longer worried about the Otherworld or filling my time. Isaac and Ivy consumed my life.
Not that there was much I could do for them. They were in the hands of the doctors and NICU nurses. Initially, I was able to pump breast milk for the twins to supplement the high-calorie formula they were also being fed. I was a little weirded out by being hooked up to a machine, but it was worth it to feel like I was contributing something. In time, it became clear I was one of those women who simply couldn’t produce milk very well, and I wondered if it was the result of my half-gentry heritage, since their women often had similar problems. Regardless, after two weeks, I stopped my attempts, and the twins went on a strictly formula diet. Some of the nurses tried to reassure me that the best antibodies came in the early days and that I’d done a good job in giving what I could. I knew current thinking recommended breast-feeding for much longer, however, again making me feel woefully inadequate.
So, my contribution simply became frequent, daily visits. I watched my children and the machines that supported them, silently counting each breath and heartbeat. I liked to think that Isaac and Ivy could sense my presence, even from inside their boxes. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but it gave me some hope. I was rarely alone in my visits. One of the Reeds was almost always with me, and I took comfort from that too.
It was probably one of the most stressful times in my life, but progress was made in tiny, agonizing steps. The twins’ prognosis remained good, and before long I was allowed to touch them inside their compartments. The first time I did it, brushing Ivy’s hand, was like a miracle unfolding before me. I was certain I’d never felt anything so soft. And as the one-month mark neared, I was told Isaac and Ivy might have to stay for only one more month, based on their progress. I barely heard that part because it was immediately followed by two pieces of good news. The doctors expected the ventilators to come off soon and also that the twins would be in good enough condition that I could hold them.
“I can’t even imagine that,” I said to Evan as he drove me home that evening. “From the minute they were born, they’ve been these fragile, unreal little things.... To be able to hold them ...” I sighed and leaned my head back. “I can’t wait.”
He flashed me a quick smile. “I hope you’ll let the rest of us have a turn.” I smiled back. In the beginning, I’d thought his visits were simply as a kindness to me. Soon, I’d realized he was coming to regard the twins with as much affection as his aunt and uncle did. He’d gaze at them wonderingly, eyes shining as he let himself get lost in thought.
“Well, there are two of them,” I joked. “The problem might be having enough hands to hold them.”
“Not in this family,” he said, chuckling. “You’re going to have to fight us off.”
We reached Candace and Charles’s house, and I felt like I was floating ten feet off the ground. My mood was brighter than it had been in some time, and my physical condition was equally good. Spending so much time sitting and waiting had given me a chance to heal from most of the side effects of surgery. My staples had been removed ages ago, and I’d even gone back on birth control pills out of habit, though sex was pretty far off my radar just now. The waiting and inactivity were probably the only positive parts of the twins being confined to the NICU. I had no doubt that had things been different with them, I would’ve been out foolishly taxing my body long before its time.
“Looks like a visitor,” said Evan, turning the car off.
I followed his gaze. I’d been so consumed by my own joy that I hadn’t even noticed a strange car parked in the driveway. It was nothing I recognized, though I did spot a rental sticker on it. I wasn’t particularly concerned, since Candace’s clients sometimes came by in person. Plus, if there’d been some danger, I knew she would have called us and warned us away.
We walked inside, and I could hear voices from the kitchen. I practically sprinted in, anxious to share the good news with Candace and Charles. Like Evan had said, I had no doubt they’d be lining up to take their turns holding the twins. When I entered the kitchen and saw who was there, though, I came to an abrupt halt. My happy words faltered on my lips, but a few seconds later, a new joy spread through me.
“Roland!”
I hurried into his arms, and he gripped me tightly. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him. The Reeds had become an adoptive family to me, but they could never replace Roland and my mom. Not having those two around during this part of my life felt strange and wrong sometimes.
When he finally released me, I saw his eyes were wet with emotion. “It’s good to see you,” he said gruffly. “We’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I said, feeling very young. “And Mom.”
Introductions were made with Evan, and then we all sat down at the table. Pictures of the twins were scattered everywhere. The NICU had been no deterrent to Candace, who brought a camera nearly every day.
“I heard the good news,” Roland said. “I’m so happy for you. They’re beautiful.”
“And we got some good news about them today.” How could I have forgotten my big announcement? As expected, Candace and Charles were delighted at the thought of holding Isaac and Ivy. “You need to come see them,” I added to Roland. “We could go back tonight. Or in the morning. How long will you be around?”
It was at that moment, as the question left my lips, that I realized something. Roland wasn’t supposed to be here. That had been an unquestionable part of the plan from its inception. Roland could be tracked, and no matter how much we might miss each other, distance was the safest option. I met his eyes and could tell he knew what I had just realized.
“Not sure,” he said vaguely. “But I can definitely make time to see them.” His evasive answer didn’t surprise me. His presence must mean there’d been some Otherworldly development, and that wasn’t a topic we could discuss with the Reeds. A glint in his eye told me we’d talk about it later, and I gave a quick nod of understanding.
Dinner was requisite, of course, and conversation shifted to happier topics, like the twins and Candace’s cooking. I couldn’t get enough of talking about Isaac and Ivy, yet at the same time, a nagging feeling dimmed some of my joy. Roland being here couldn’t be a good thing.
Our chance to talk finally came later when Evan left and Candace and Charles settled down to watch the evening news. Roland and I went on a walk around the Reeds’ vast property, ensuring we’d have ample privacy.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I’m glad you’re here—you have no idea how glad—but there must be a reason you’d risk someone from the Otherworld following you.”
Roland sighed and came to a halt beside a pecan tree. “That’s the thing. There’s no risk because no one’s trying to find you anymore.”
I stared incredulously. “What? That’s ... that’s impossible. Of course they are. Kingdoms were on the verge of war because of me.”
“Not anymore,” he said. “They’ve got bigger things to worry about.”
“Bigger things than the divisive prophecy saying my son will lead their armies into conquering this world?”
“Amazingly, yes.” He gazed up at the starry sky, gathering his thoughts. “I guess it started ... oh, I don’t know ... a month or maybe a month and a half ago. It seems the Otherworld—or rather, large parts of it—were struck by a blight.”
“What does that entail exactly?” I asked. For some reason, “blight” made me think of barren fields and locust plagues.
“Winter,” he said bluntly. “Perpetual winter. And not just any winter—pretty much the worst you can imagine. It came without warning. Steady snow and frigid temperatures that kill people and crops. I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it myself.”
“Which kingdoms?” I asked, frowning. Most of the lands remained in a permanent climate—a pleasant one—like mine and Dorian’s kingdoms. Some monarchs did have their kingdoms cycle through four seasons, but they did so with the same kind of preparation that we did in the human world, making sure there were provisions put aside for the winter. Maiwenn’s kingdom was like this.
Roland’s face was grim. “All of them. At least, most of the ones in your ‘neighborhood.’ Some farther-out ones were spared, but everything you know was struck.”
The implications didn’t hit me immediately, and when they did, I wasn’t sure I believed them. “You don’t mean ... not ... not my kingdoms.”
His only answer was a nod.
“That’s not possible. I mean, the Thorn Land’s a desert! And besides, I would know... .” Yet, even as I spoke, I wondered if that was true. Would I know? I had removed myself from the land, leaving it to Jasmine’s care. I didn’t connect with it in a deep way anymore. All I had was that steady humming that told me my bond to my kingdoms was in place—a bond, I realized, that had felt numb recently. I’d written it off to distance or Jasmine’s caretaking. “It’s not because of Jasmine, is it? Like, did the land not accept her?”
“You’re missing the point again, Eugenie. It’s everywhere. Yours. Dorian’s. Everyone’s.”
“Dorian’s ...”
That was what really drove the point home. Despite Roland’s words, there was some part of me that could still blame my absence for the blight in my own lands. Other kingdoms’ suffering could be written off to weak monarchs. But Dorian? Dorian was strong. His bond to his kingdom was rock solid, his control of it absolute. If there was any monarch whose power would protect his land against impossible odds, it would be Dorian, followed closely by Maiwenn.
“Oh my God,” I said. “That’s what they wanted, isn’t it? Dorian and Maiwenn summoned Volusian to come to me with some message, and I sent him away. I thought it was a ploy, but it wasn’t—was it? They were trying to tell me about this.”
“Most likely,” agreed Roland. “I hadn’t heard about that. Dorian only recently got in touch with me to convince me to come over and see it for myself. Then he begged me to let you know what was happening.”
“Dorian doesn’t beg,” I murmured, still stunned.
Roland stared off into the shadows, his face troubled. “Under most circumstances, I wouldn’t have told you. People can’t live in cold like that, and those who survive have no food. You know how I feel about the gentry. But when I actually saw it ... the death and sickness. Well. I don’t know, Eugenie. I don’t like them, but no one should suffer like that. Not even the gentry.”
I sank down to the grass, mostly because I felt exhausted in mind rather than body. My lands. My kingdoms were suffering ... had been suffering for a long time ... and I hadn’t known. Maybe I could leave Otherworldly politics behind. Maybe I could even leave my enemies behind. But the land was part of me. I was responsible for it, and I had failed it.
“I don’t know what I can do,” I said. “Even if I went back ... I mean, if Dorian and Maiwenn haven’t come up with any ideas, I’m not sure I could do better.”
“They mentioned something about uniting powers to attempt to break the spell.... I didn’t really follow that, though.” Roland’s tone conveyed that even if he pitied the gentry for their suffering, their magic was still something he had no use for. “Dorian also has some ideas about who’s responsible.”
Of course he would. Even if his own magical attempts proved ineffectual, Dorian wouldn’t sit idly by. He’d try to solve this mystery. My knowledge of the situation was limited, but I tried to figure out where his thought process might go. I jumped back to one of Roland’s earlier comments, about how some outlying kingdoms hadn’t been affected.
“Who isn’t under the blight?” I asked. “You said a few weren’t.”
“The Yew Land is one,” said Roland, looking surprised at my leap. “That’s who Dorian thinks—”
“—is responsible?” I guessed.
“How did you know that?”
“Because as much as I hate to admit it, I know how Dorian thinks. If some places were affected and some weren’t, I’d look at the unaffected ones too.”
“That’s what Dorian said.” Roland didn’t look pleased that I could “think like Dorian,” and I could definitely understand his dismay. “But that’s not all. Apparently, they’re making quite a profit off of food. Their land—and I guess their, what, subsidiaries?—are still able to grow and produce food, and they have no qualms about selling it to the stricken lands at very, very high prices.”
I was aghast. “That’s terrible.”
Roland shrugged. “But some of the monarchs are willing to pay, rather than see their people suffer. And it’s better than the alternative... .”
I looked up sharply at his ominous tone. “What alternative?”
“Stealing.”
“From the Yew Land?” I certainly didn’t endorse theft but was surprised Roland would care one way or another about gentry stealing from each other.
“No,” he said. “From humans. There are gentry who have been raiding our world for food and supplies.”
I gaped, unable to immediately form a response. I knew better than to say “that’s impossible” again, but it was still hard to believe. “If there were elementals going on food rampages, I think I would’ve heard about that. They’re not exactly subtle, and there are only a handful of gentry who can cross over in true form.” Dorian was one, but I knew with absolute confidence he’d never lower himself to that.
“A handful is all it takes,” said Roland. “And those are exactly the ones doing this—not the elementals. One of them’s that boy ... the one I saw that day in the Rowan Land, whose sister had been attacked? You know him, right?”
I jumped back on my feet. “Pagiel? No. No way. He wouldn’t ... no.” Once again, though, I had to question myself. Pagiel was entirely capable of crossing worlds intact. Even though I knew he was good at heart, I also knew he had a fierce, passionate streak about the things he believed in. He’d made it clear—both in his defense of me and his sister—that he didn’t care about the dangers involved if it meant doing what he believed was right. And if ever there was a cause that would trigger all his noble impulses, wouldn’t it be feeding his starving people?
Yes, Pagiel as an Otherworldly Robin Hood was very much a possibility. With his powers to control wind and air, he’d also be a formidable—<
br />
“Oh Lord,” I said. A flashback came to me of that weird story in the news about a Tucson robbery. “I saw something about a grocery store in Tucson. That was him, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Roland. “With a couple cronies. The one good thing is that they’re pretty fast and efficient. Most humans don’t know what they’re seeing when the hits occur, so there hasn’t been any mass hysteria about supernatural invaders—yet. And that’s the thing... .”
I snapped myself out of my dizzying ruminations and focused on him. The lines of his face were hard ... and filled with sorrow. “What is?”
“Do you know how hard it was for me to come to you? I swore nothing would get me out here ... no matter how many of those bastards come knocking at my door or tried to get me to tell where you were at.” I flinched, wondering just “how many” there had been. “I was willing to maintain the plan, no matter what, for as long as it took to keep you safe ... and then all this came along. Never in a million years could I have foreseen this.”
“I don’t think anyone could have,” I said softly. Roland was usually unshakeable; it was hard to see him so worked up.
“When I saw those people, what they were going through ... that nearly made me come for you then and there. Then, when I found out what that boy was doing ... well, that sealed it. We can’t have that, Eugenie. You know we can’t. If other gentry catch on to what he’s doing and realize they too can just march on over and take what they want, you can imagine the chaos that would follow. What’s really awful about it all is that in some twisted way, I understand why he’s doing it. He’s a kid. He sees a problem, and he’s trying to fix it. God help me, maybe I’d do the same in his place.”
It occurred to me then that Roland’s emotion wasn’t just because he’d come to me in exile or because of gentry going on rabid shopping trips. Those were upsetting him, but the real problem was that Roland’s worldview had been shaken. He’d spent his life in the shamanic trade, crossing worlds and ousting those who didn’t belong in ours. His view of the gentry had never been good, and it had worsened when he’d rescued my mother and later seen the way I’d been ensnared in magical schemes. Yet, now, through a weird series of events, against everything he’d always told himself, he’d suddenly come to see the gentry as ... people.
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