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Weirdward. That was what Bly Manor was. It wasn’t just old and creaky, like many old places in the English countryside. It was
weird
. The people in it were weird, too. Not weird in the way they dressed or talked or looked, but weird on the inside. The way they acted, the way they thought. And they didn’t get weird until they’d arrived at Bly Manor.
By definition,
weird
doesn’t mean what we think it means. We’ve used it to mean people we find odd, creepy, unsettling. And while it does encompass that, it did not start off as that.
Weird
used to mean
the ability to control destiny. Being part of the supernatural. Unearthly.
That is what Bly Manor did, what it was.
And by definition, Bly Manor was just that: a manor set in Bly. But it was more than that, underneath. Peel away its skin and muscle and tendons, and you were left with the things that made Bly, Bly. Its bones. Rotten to the core, sucked clean of marrow, brittle, but still standing. Despite it all, still standing.
That was how the people of Bly Manor were, too. Still standing despite the events that had occurred since Bly Manor had been conceived, since the Willoughbys became the Lloyds, since the Lloyds became ghosts, and since the ghosts had become the heart of Bly Manor. But it wasn’t really the ghosts that had kept the house together. They had been part of the house, yes, but they had never been the reason the house existed. They had never been the reason the house still
was
. A house is, after all, just a house, even if its rooms are filled with ghosts, its crawlspaces used to store boxed-up memories. The ghosts do not make the house, even if the house did make the ghosts.
But Bly Manor was never meant to be a house, and certainly never a home. The origin of the word hardly implies it’s even meant to be lived in.
Manor
has evolved from
maner
, a French word meaning “dwelling.” But it’s not a noun, as in
a
dwelling. It’s a verb, as in
someone
or
something
is dwelling. And
maner
has itself evolved from Latin,
manere.
To remain.
To remain in a house that holds such contempt for you, only because you died there. To remain in a relationship you are unhappy with, only because you vowed you would. To remain, to remain, to remain. To remain faithful. To remain hopeful. To remain lost. To remain scared.
To remain innocent, in the face of sin. To remain brave, in the face of horror.
To remain yourself, in the face of
weird
.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It could be said that Gansey was not a fan of bees. He was absolutely sure (
deadly sure
, unfortunately) that he was allergic to hornets, but he wasn’t sure about bees. When he was younger, he’d assumed they were all the same. Yellow and black flying insects with wings that chattered like screams, and stingers dripping with venom, just waiting to sink into his skin and kill him dead.
But when he got older, he learned that bees and hornets are similar, but not the same. The same way that Blue and Maura Sargent were similar, but not the same. Or Gansey and his father. Or Adam and his father. (
No, not them. Adam is nothing like his father. Nothing like him at all. And Gansey isn’t like his father, either. And maybe Blue isn’t like her mother. And maybe bees and hornets aren’t that similar after all.
)
Just because one is allergic to hornets does not mean one is automatically allergic to bees, and vice versa. But it wasn’t exactly a risk he was willing to take. But being out in the world, especially in a world like Virginia, it was hard to avoid bees altogether, even in the winter. And with exploring more and more remote parts of Virginia, including forests and caves and “If you dream it, they will come” Cabeswater, it was becoming harder and harder to avoid bees. And every other type of insect, both physical and metaphorical.
It was during Latin practice that Gansey first stumbled across the word
alvearium.
It looked familiar, but also strange and foreign. Well, it
was
foreign. It was Latin. But it just seemed like it shouldn’t have been there among all the other words like
equus
and
musca
and
ursus
. Of course, this had been so many years ago, and all those words seemed difficult but manageable at the time (even before Aglionby, Gansey did have his pick of the finest education in, and outside of, America).
Alvearium
just didn’t fit.
When he found out the meaning of the word, it sent goosebumps up his arms.
Beehive
. It was almost like his body knew, deep down to the core, that the word was a threat to Gansey, even if it was just smudged black ink on printer paper. It was as if his brain was able to translate it, even without having known the word beforehand; as if his soul had connected to the universe, understood the word, and feared that something would breathe life into it and turn it into a real bee.
(Now having been to Cabeswater and walking the ley line – or corpse road – or whatever-the-hell-else people called it, dating as far back as Before Time Was Time – Gansey could look back and feel that maybe that visceral fear, that impossible phobia was actually possible. It was possible in Cabeswater. It was possible for that word,
alvearium
, to become real. To become a swarm of hissing, stinging, writhing bees. To become a living, breathing death. But he hadn’t known about Cabeswater then, or even Glendower, and the ink did not turn into venom, and the paper did not turn into wings, and Gansey did not manifest a swarm of bees in his classroom.)
When he got older, Gansey ran into the word again. It sent the same shuddering tingles up his spine, feeling exactly like bees running up and down his skin. But the definition had changed. Or perhaps it had always been this way, and he just hadn’t noticed because of his childhood fear (and childhood experience). The word didn’t just mean
beehive
anymore. It was the name of part of the ear. It was something you called a compilation of words. It was complex, multi-meaning. Living, breathing. Changing.
Latin was a dead language, wasn’t it? It was. That was why children had to study it. Why books were written in it. Why species were given names in it. But it had been alive enough at one point to change and transform. To go from something terrifying (
a home for bees
) to something innocuous (
the curved bit of ear that catches wax
) to something Gansey could appreciate (
a word-list
).
Perhaps that had been Cabeswater. Perhaps it had sensed his fear of the word and changed its meaning. Perhaps he had done it, during a moment when time wasn’t time and it was more like taffy, pliant and stretching over itself and twisting through past and present and future all at once. Perhaps he had gone back and rearranged the meaning so that he wouldn’t be so afraid. Perhaps he’d done it so that he wouldn’t feel the dread seeping up from his stomach into his chest, into his throat, into his eyes when he saw a photo of a box sent from Ronan’s phone. The box was taped up so tightly, not even Ronan’s razor-sharp wit or deadly knife smile could cut through it.
Attached to the photo was a text.
Noli hanc capsam aperire. Somniavi alvearium.
Don’t open this box. I dreamed of an
alvearium.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It was amazing how the nervous system looked so similar to the splaying fingers of tree roots underneath the soil. How they reached out, branching off one another, creating little tributaries of veins and capillaries, the same way that roots came together and split off from one another in search of water and nutrients.
It was also amazing how trees also had hearts at the center of their trunks, just like people. Not real hearts, not beating hearts. But heartwood. Darker, aromatic, and dead. It was strange that the heart of a tree was dead, but that’s what gave it structure, kept it resistant to decay and disease, kept it standing. Sapwood is what provided the water and nutrients from the roots up to the branches. Soft and pliable and wet. And prone to diseases.
Perhaps that was why Artemus was like that, why Blue was like that. Artemus, locked away in a pantry, hiding from the world, frightened of everything. Hundreds of years living in the dead center of a tree, safe from the dangers of the outside world, then yanked out to mingle with humans, then sent away to worship a false god in a cave far from any living thing. Artemus, not human, not tree, but something in between. Something that can change its skin and walk through tree trunks and commune with the stars. Something
more
.
And Blue, so full of passion and fire, with a cement casing around her heart because she’d seen how her mother had hurt, and the battle wounds of being mocked and ridiculed and harassed and ostracized. Blue, who loved her beech tree and her mother and the women of 300 Fox Way and the world she would never get to explore. Blue, who fought tooth and nail against Aglionby Academy, who cursed at the raven boys, who wanted so desperately to be anything other than what they thought she was, what she thought she was, what the cards thought she was. Blue, who loved and hated the same people with the same amount of effort. Who dreamed of the stars and the roots below the earth and the expanse of the world shrinking down, down, down until she could hold it in her hands, and her tears collecting like raindrops on her fingertips, and her headstrong threats turning to regret on her lips, and the anger turning to confusion turning to desperation turning to love turning to hope. Like trees keeping their roots tucked away into the soil, anchoring themselves against whatever may come, but stretching their branches far up into the skies, wishing their leaves could touch clouds, hoping to grasp onto stars. Hoping against hope, against logic, against sensibility.
Blue was of the trees. Artemus was of the trees. The biology textbooks seemed to prove that with every illustration of the nervous system. Every picture of the human body stripped of skin and muscle and bone, leaving the dendriform nerves. A reminder of where Blue had come from, a promise of where she could return. A secret that she kept tucked against her heart when she sat among the twisting roots of the beech tree and felt its cool bark under her palms and listened to the leaves whisper secrets to her.
Home, home, home.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Adam often wondered who he liked first, Blue or Ronan. And if his liking of one influenced the liking of the other. As much as they would kill him if he ever admitted this out loud to either of them, Blue and Ronan were two sides of the same coin. Even if they couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t, Adam could. And he did, often.
For one thing, they both had short tempers. The first time they met Blue, they had all been in Nino’s, and Gansey had volunteered to speak to Blue on Adam’s behalf, even though Adam had begged him not to. Adam could tell just from a single look that Blue was
not interested
in Aglionby boys. And he’d been right, for the most part. Blue had cursed Gansey up and down right there in the restaurant, not even worried that she was going to get fired.
Maybe that was the first time that Adam realized, even subconsciously, that she was like Ronan. Ronan would drop f-bombs all day long without a care, except if he was in the presence of his brother Matthew. But if he were around teachers or parents or the other Aglionby boys? Ronan’s vocabulary was more colorful than the tiny rainbow bracelet he’d quietly added to his stack of leather bands not long after their first summer as a couple.
A second thing they have in common is that they’re outsiders. Or outcasts. No, Adam is an outcast. He’s never fit in, felt popular or cool, never been welcomed with open arms by someone who didn’t want something from him. Blue had her own group of friends. She never tried hard to fit in. She actually worked out to
stand out
, which was something Adam could never wrap his head around. Ronan was the same. Ronan never tried to be like Declan or like Matthew. He never tried to be like Gansey or Noah or anyone at Aglionby. The only person he really tried to be like was his father, Niall. That was another thing Adam couldn’t wrap his head around. How could anyone want to be like their father? But Ronan’s father was not like Adam’s father. There were plenty of Robert Parrishes in the world, but Niall Lynch was not one of them. He was a good one. A good father, a good husband, a good man. Aside from all the scheming and black market stuff.
And, Adam supposed, Blue wanted to be like her mother, Maura. Maura Sargent was an admirable woman. She was a better mother than his own ever was. She allowed her daughter to be unique, but also let her know that she was still
part
of something. Part of a family, part of a business, part of a community. Adam was part of a white trash trailer in a poor part of town, a punching bag, a doormat, a 5-minute sex session (if that) turned into an 18-year commitment.
As rare as good fathers were, good mothers seemed to be even rarer to Adam. He could understand the abuse, to a point. He was worthless, wasn’t he? He was stupid, and he was a burden, and he was trying to be somebody he wasn’t when he enrolled in Aglionby and started hanging out with Gansey and Noah and Ronan (and, eventually, Blue). But his mother had been a different creature. She’d been silent most of the time. Or she’d asked Adam to appease his father. To apologize. To shut up and take it. To bow down at the altar of Robert Parrish’s rage and provide himself as a human sacrifice for an unobtainable redemption. Maura Sargent wasn’t like that. She had scrounged and bled and cried for her daughter. She had fought for her daughter. She had sacrificed herself for her daughter. And Gansey’s mother, and Ronan’s mother, and perhaps even Noah’s mother (though the information they had on Noah’s parents was as nonexistent as Noah’s heartbeat). All of them were good people, good women, good
mothers
. Mothers that would go to the end of the earth for their children. Mothers that would die for them. That would kill for them.
A third thing, if Adam is still counting, is that Blue and Ronan always had their own sense of style. He supposed this probably fell under the second item, but he liked to count it separate. Blue’s handmade clothes and untamed hair and the car she shared with who-knew-how-many women. Ronan’s muscle tees and unkempt uniform and the tattoo covering his back, up his neck, black ink spilling across pale skin that Adam knows by heart now. No one could make Blue or Ronan wear normal clothes, even if they tried. In fact, the mere suggestion that their clothes weren’t normal would probably end pretty badly for anyone involved.
But Adam wondered over and over again: who did he like first? Did he like Ronan first, deep down, buried under the trauma and fear and self-hatred? Did it come out twisted when he saw Blue, so much like Ronan in her spitfire attitude and unbridled rage? Or did he always like Blue, truly and honestly, but did it dwindle when he realized he wasn’t her true love? Was Blue the unlucky recipient of Adam’s projected love for Ronan? Just caught in the crosshairs of his identity crisis, among all his other crises? He hates to think that what he felt for Blue hadn’t been real. He did care about her. Still does. But he also hates to think that he had loved Ronan the whole time and didn’t even see it because he couldn’t accept that part of himself. (That was, he knew Robert Parrish couldn’t accept that part of himself. And he feared that Gansey couldn’t accept that part of himself. And he wondered if Ronan would ever – could ever – feel the same way. What if he didn’t? What if Ronan had been disgusted by him? What if he’d turned that rage onto Adam one final time, one final explosive time, and blew up every shred of a relationship between them? But it didn’t happen, and Adam had to remind himself that over and over again. He had to make sure he didn’t catastrophize, or else he really would go insane.)
Adam could probably wonder about this his whole life. It became his version of the “chicken or the egg”, and it used to eat him alive.
Blue or Ronan? Blue or Ronan?
But it never mattered. He was never Blue’s true love, and he ended up with Ronan. Everyone was happy (at least, as happy as they could be given the circumstances), and they were free. Blue was free to love Gansey. Adam was free to love Ronan. And Adam could feel miserable for not being Blue’s first love, but he won’t, because he was Ronan’s.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Eros hates to admit it, but he would burn the entire upper city down for Psyche. He’d also burn down the entire lower city if Psyche’s sister, Persephone, didn’t live there. Not that he cares for Persephone, but Psyche does, and that’s enough for him. He’d defied his mother, Aphrodite, for her, and that was no small task. It would have been more merciful, for himself, if he’d just plunged a dagger right into his heart. Perhaps that’s what his mother will ask for, when all is said and done. Perhaps that’s what he will do.
But not yet. Not while he has Psyche.
Eros has never considered urbicide before, not truly. He’d thought more than once in passing about burning all of Olympus, since it felt like that’s what his mother was angling for every time she appeared to him with a new task. Wouldn’t it be easier to just take the city out all out once, rather than by piecemeal? It gets harder and harder to murder his mother’s enemies (if one can even call them enemies; most of them aren’t even aware they’re on Aphrodite’s radar until it’s too late) without suspicion rising.
It may be hard for Aphrodite to believe this, but even the girls with less than a thousand social media followers still have people who care about them and will miss them. Even the men who till the fields owned by Demeter have family who will grieve them. Not that Aphrodite has ever understood the concept of
grief
. You’d have to have a heart in order to grieve, and Aphrodite lost hers long ago.
It also makes Eros laugh when he thinks of the word
urbicide
. It sounds so similar to
herbicide
, which is something Aphrodite would definitely be interested in. While they can’t kill Demeter outright, she wouldn’t be above poisoning all the crops, even if it affects her. (Again, not like Aphrodite has been one to eat. She fights tooth and nail to keep her figure the same as when she was twenty, and Eros isn’t sure he’s actually seen her eat real food in all the time he’s been alive. It wouldn’t surprise him if she survived on the blood of her slain enemies. There are enough of them to keep her going long after all the other Thirteen have been exiled, retire, or die.)
He wouldn’t do that to Psyche’s mother, though, even if she is a threat to Psyche’s happiness and Aphrodite’s plans. It’s a two-edged sword, working around the two members of the Thirteen. On the one hand, Eros is more than happy to piss off his own mother by aligning himself, in part, with Demeter. On the other hand, he hates how Demeter uses her daughters as pawns in the game of Olympus. If Psyche hadn’t been caught cleaning his wounds that night in Dodona Tower, she’d likely be married to Zeus by now. (Although this Zeus – born Perseus – hasn’t shown himself to be nearly as bad as his father, he is, still,
Zeus
. And that is not a title anyone takes lightly, especially not any future Heras.) He wants to wound Demeter as much as he wants to wound Aphrodite, if only to protect Psyche.
What’s happened to him? His mother’s faithful weapon, a dagger hidden in her sleeve, snake’s venom in her charming smile, and now – what? A husband? A protector? A
savior
? He’s never imagined that for himself, not even as a child. He’s always been an extension of his mother’s sharp tongue and cruel wit. He’s always been the back alleys and locked doors and tinted windows of unmarked cars. And how he’s an extension of Psyche, of her grace, her kindness, her light. Her
warmth
. He’s still a weapon, make no mistake about it, but a different kind. He’s keys clutched between Psyche’s fingers while she walks the streets alone. He’s the switchblade in her back pocket while she slips silently across the bridge to the lower city. He’s the match she holds, waiting to burn down Olympus herself, because that’s the type of woman she is.
Psyche doesn’t need anyone to burn the city down for her, because she can do it herself. Eros is just happy to watch.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Penelope doesn’t remember the last time she cleaned Telemachus’s wounds. He’s had so many growing up. Scraping his knee as he climbs the rocky hillside of Ithaca; chasing around sheep and goats and getting snapped on the scrubby brush; slicing his fingers open after endless attempts at stringing his father’s bow. It seems that Telemachus’s life has been a series of paintings of wounds. His hands, his arms, his legs, his feet. His head.
The bruise on his forehead where a young shepherd, younger than Telemachus, accidentally kicked a rock at Telemachus. It sailed high in the air, like a bird, and struck Telemachus in the middle of his forehead. It was, all in all, a minor wound. It hurt mostly his pride, but there was the bruise.
Oh, Penelope
, Odysseus’s mother had chastised her,
you really ought to do something about that! You can’t let these people get away with hurting the future king of Ithaca!
There had been no intention in the harming of Telemachus. It had been an accident, and Penelope knew that. She knew all about accidents. (Telemachus had been one, not that she would ever admit it. It was not good to admit that the future heir of a kingdom had not been planned. It made it seem as if the gods were not crafting some divine plan through her womb, weaving his fate through her blood.) And the rock had been an accident. So Penelope had not punished the shepherd, or anyone else. She’d simply cleaned up Telemachus, held him in her arms, and told him that kings face all sorts of battles in their lives, but they must choose which ones are really important. To waste time and resources on an unimportant battle is tantamount to foolishness, and a quick path to defeat later on. Did his father ever get into spats over silly matters such as pebbles and bruises and broken egos? No, of course not. Odysseus was above that. He had to be. If he had a pride that could be wounded so easily, he would not live on Ithaca, nothing more than a rock full of goats.
Telemachus is much older now, nearly a man. He walks about the palace as if he is ready to inherit it, and perhaps he is. It has been so long since Odysseus has walked these halls, smelling of perfumed oil and the sun’s baked heat. She remembers the last wound of his that she cleaned, though, even if Telemachus’s have all faded into childhood missteps.
It had been the night before he left for Troy, when everyone was anxious to leave for the glory of bringing Helen back. The night was full of the rich scents of roasted meat and new wine. Odysseus’s men were dining together, a farewell to Ithaca and all that it offered them. They’d been promised a short war, barely a war at all. Agamemnon and Menelaus said that they would have more than enough men to overpower Troy, and that they had the element of surprise. They would arrive on the shores in no time, scare the Trojans with their best fighters (Achilles and Ajax, naturally, though there was implication that Agamemnon and Menelaus may have meant themselves), and bring Helen back. They would be home before their wives even missed them; that was the promise.
Odysseus had, somehow, cut his finger while working on his bow. He didn’t intend to take the bow with him – perhaps he knew that it would be a much longer journey than promised, perhaps he had no intention of being on the battlefield himself – but he still wanted to handle it before he left. The cut was miniscule, barely a pinprick on his finger, but it bled. Penelope sat with his hand in her lap while she dabbed the edge of a water-dipped cloth over his finger. Odysseus did not need to be tended to, he didn’t even feel the cut when it happened. Penelope had only noticed because he had smeared blood on his tunic.
While she cleaned his wound, Odysseus watched her carefully with warm eyes and kept the humor in his voice while he spoke.
I’ll face much worse wounds than these in battle, my dear Penelope. You ought not let me go if you are afraid of such a small cut.
Penelope was not afraid, not of the cut. Not of the blood. She was afraid of something else, something that sat in her stomach like a stone plucked from the embers of a fire. She was afraid of Odysseus never coming back. She was afraid of Odysseus landing on the shores of Troy and falling before the battle had even begun. She was afraid of Odysseus seeing Helen and falling in love with her – fair and pale and beautiful, perfect Helen, the face that launched one thousand ships, the face that men pledged themselves to die for.
She held his hand in her lap for a while longer, rinsing out the rag and dabbing it along his cut, though it had long ago stopped bleeding. Odysseus teased her a little more, though never with any malice.
We ought to bring you along, so you may tend to our soldiers. Though I am not sure if they would heal just from the sight of you, or if they would feign illness to stay in your tent longer.
Agamemnon and Menelaus should have thought to send you to Troy first. Perhaps you could talk some sense into Helen and bring her home. You could convince anyone to do anything, my Penelope.
I don’t know why they call Achilles ‘aristos achaion.’ I think the best of all the Greeks are the wives who stay behind. They’re smart enough to not get into wars, and they run the households without us. The only thing Achilles can do is wield a spear.
But eventually, the night drew to a close, and they rolled themselves into their marriage bed, and Penelope prayed and prayed that the gods would not take her husband away. Before the sun rose above the horizon, Odysseus and all his men were gone. Penelope was now the ruler of Ithaca.
It has been several years now, and Penelope’s faith in her husband swells and shrinks like the waves on the shore. In some moments, she is so full of hope, she feels as if she could burst from happiness. And in some moments, she is so empty, she feels that the one thousand ships launched for Helen could not fill the barren sea of her heart.
The suitors come to Ithaca as time goes by, each one taking residence in and around the palace. They eat her food, drink her wine, seduce her maids. They ravage the land. They disgrace the world Odysseus has built. Penelope keeps order as much as she can. The maids must clean and cook and lie on their backs and soothe and coddle and reciprocate every lewd stare and groping touch. Telemachus must fight for his place, his father’s place, in the palace he was born, but he must not overstep and insult the guests. Penelope must balance the world in her hands, like an overflowing cup of wine, and try not to spill anything on herself.
And all the while, she sits in her room, and weaves, and wonders when anyone will come to tend to her wounds.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The dictionary was surprisingly easy for Goodsir to compile. Lady Silence was receptive to him and there seemed to be very little barrier between them when it came to language and accent. Although Goodsir had never considered himself an expert in the language of the Netsilik people, he knew enough to hold conversations with Lady Silence. He knew about her family, including her father who had died due to the recklessness of the
Terror
and the
Erebus
. He knew about the way the tribe hunted seals and fish through holes drilled in solid ice. He knew how fur kept bodies far warmer than any military-issued coat.
He also knew her name was Silna.
He had learned that early on, during one of their conversations in the belly of the great ship. He’d given her his name that first day.
“
Goodsir. I am Goodsir
.”
But he’d never been sure if she understood that string of sounds to be his name. It could’ve been anything to her – it could’ve meant “man” or “friend” or “threat.” It could’ve meant “murderer.” But she must’ve understood to an extent because one day, as they were huddled in the pale light of a candle, she said, “Silna.”
Goodsir had been confused at first. Was this a new word he hadn’t learned? What did it mean?
Fishing hole. Salmon. Blubber. Ship. Hope. Death.
What was it?
Her dark eyes studied him in the weak light, glittering like coal. What was she saying?
She pointed to her chest, fingers disappearing into the thick fur of the coat she still wore.
“Silna,” she said again.
Fur. Warm. Coat. Jacket.
Goodsir was confused because they’d already exchanged those words. He’d written them down carefully, lovingly. He stared at Lady Silence, trying to discern her meaning.
Then a small movement of her mouth caught his attention. The corner of her lips twitching. A smile? Not quite, but getting there.
She placed a hand against her chest and said, “Silna.” Then she reached out and put a hand on Goodsir’s chest. She stared at him, eyes bright, face expectant. She repeated the motion, hand to her chest, “Silna,” hand to his chest, silence.
“Chest? Is that what you mean? Or shirt? Or do you mean heart?” Goodsir’s mind was running faster than his mouth or hand could catch. He scrambled for his pile of papers, his little dictionary, and sorted through them. He had the words for
chest
and
shirt
and even
heart
. He’d had an illustration in a medical book that helped speed up the process of naming parts of the body. But this word – Silna – was not among them. It remained elusive.
The ghost of a smile faded from Lady Silence’s face and she pressed her hand flat against Goodsir’s chest. She was getting impatient. She pulled her hand back and unbuttoned her large coat, pressing her hand against her own chest, thumping it a few times.
“Silna.” She thumped her chest again and said, “Silna.” Then she reached forward, unbuttoned Goodsir’s coat, pushed aside his shirt, and shoved her hand against his bare chest. He jolted at the sudden feeling – her fingers surprisingly warm. She tapped his chest a few times and stared into his eyes.
Suddenly, he understood.
Silna was her name.
He smiled softly at her. He placed his hand over his chest, covering her hand in the process.
“Goodsir,” he said, then he moved his hand to her chest, careful to only touch the fur of her coat. “Silna.”
Lady Silence’s dark eyes shone and her features softened. Goodsir returned the smile, his heart swelling. This was more than just learning a new word. This was more important. This was intimate. This was special.
The door opened and they both turned, Goodsir’s hand quickly retreating against his own body, his face flushed. Fitzjames stood in the doorway, harsh features made stony in the candlelight. He took stock of Goodsir and Silna’s closeness, her unbuttoned coat, his undone shirt, the blush on his face. Fitzjames took a moment to process the scene before him, and another moment to decide what to do with that information.
He finally settled on, “You’re meant to be writing a dictionary.” Then, before Goodsir could respond, he added, “What has the woman said?”
“She has a name,” Goodsir said boldly, looking up at Fitzjames.
“Does she? Well, tell it.”
“It’s–” Out of the corner of his eye, Goodsir caught a look from Silna. Even though he knew she didn’t speak English, he had the feeling that she understood him, and her look stopped him cold. Her name wasn’t like the other words she taught him.
Meat. Fire. Snow. Land.
Her name wasn’t part of a slowly-growing dictionary. Her name wasn’t meant to be shared with those who hadn’t earned the right to hear it from her. It was a show of trust that she shared it with Goodsir. How would she view him if he violated that trust and spoke her name to Fitzjames, or Crozier, or anyone else?
“I’m waiting,” Fitzjames said impatiently, the candlelight casting harsh shadows over his face.
“It’s Lady Silence,” said Goodsir softly, avoiding Fitzjames’s eyes. “It’s what Captain Crozier calls her.”
“Oh, then, by all means.” Fitzjames threw a disapproving look to Silna, then, with ill-disguised disgust, left the room and closed the door.
Goodsir hazarded a look at Silna, who hadn’t made a sound during the whole interaction. Her face was as stoic as ever, jaw set, lips straight. But her eyes were sparkling. Was it humor? Gratefulness? Joy?
Goodsir returned the look with his own shy smile and thought quietly to himself,
Silna. My Silna.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Winston was reclining in his leather chair, a crystal-cut glass in his hand. John stood in front of him, looking somehow both exhausted and wired. This was a common occurrence in the Continental – Winston looking far too relaxed given the circumstances, and John looking like he was readying for the next round of whatever war he was currently fighting.
You floated into the room, dressed in a flowing night robe made of layered gauze in a baby pink color. You wore a matching nightie, trimmed in lace, underneath, your hair undone and brushed out. Your bare feet plodded quietly along the cold tile floor. You didn’t get the chance to listen in to their conversation – which was private, anyway – before Winston lifted his brows and looked over John’s shoulder.
“How’s my princess this morning?”
John turned quickly and stared at you, confusion in his dark eyes.
“Fine,” you said with a sweet smile aimed past John at Winston.
“Breakfast will be up in a bit,” he said. It was well past breakfast, but you’d slept in again. It was hard to leave the comfort of your bed when you could so easily tempt Winston back into it. It hadn’t worked this morning, clearly, since Winston had had a meeting with Charon, and now with John Wick. If you were lucky, you might be able to get Winston back to bed sometime after lunch.
“John,” you said with a nod.
He nodded back, watching you.
“I’ll be waiting,” you said as you turned and headed back toward the bedroom, not quite clarifying if you’d be waiting for breakfast or for Winston. It was understood, however, that you meant both.
As you left, you heard Winston speak quietly.
“What? Did you expect me to have no private life because I’m so busy taking care of you? Really, Jonathan.”
“That’s not it. I just didn’t expect her to be so …”
“Pretty?”
“Young.”
“Jealous?”
“Impressed.”
Winston laughed and you nearly skipped back to bed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Kara was not a police officer. She wasn’t even meant to be working in a police station. But the rise of red ice had caused a rise in domestic abuse and child abuse. Kara was built for managing households, taking care of children, and navigating dangerous adults. When more and more children were brought in with signs of abuse, or were being temporarily held in custody while their parents were arrested for drugs, the police struggled to figure out how to deal with the kids. Until some genius noticed how many of these houses had androids – maids and butlers and cooks and nannies. And they decided that the best person to take care of these kids were the ones who were built to take care of them.
So Kara was recruited to sit in at the police station to take care of five children that had been brought in alongside their parents. They’d all been in one house – the house Kara lived and worked in – playing upstairs while their parents dealt downstairs. Police arrived not long after, and everyone was taken away in cruisers.
“The hell is this?”
The gruff voice belonged to one of the officers. Kara learned his name was Hank. He was an older man with unkempt graying hair, and he wore shirts with strange designs. Kara had been programmed to catch patterns in human appearance and behavior to avoid danger and preserve her ward’s life. All of her pattern recognition was telling her that Hank Anderson was a red ice user. His disheveled appearance, ugly clothes, bad attitude, and general unpleasantness were the same as so many other users and dealers. It was shocking that he was a police officer.
“Kids,” said Fowler. “Brought them in with their parents.”
“Don’t tell me the kids are dealing, too.”
“Not yet. Parents were doing a deal with the kids in the house. Took all of them with us to make sure they’re all okay. Social service BS and all that.”
Hank grunted and said, “Who’s that?”
“Some ‘droid. Came in with the kids.”
“For what?”
“Child advocate. I don’t know. But she’s a nanny or something, so she can take care of the kids while we book the parents.”
Hank gave her a disapproving look. “Damn creepy making them look so human.”
“Must make the kids feel better.” Fowler clapped a hand on Hank’s shoulder and gave a tense smile. “And the cops.”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody’s gotta interview all these kids about what happened.”
“Why are you telling me? Tell some social worker, or Youth Services.”
“They’re all tired up with a bigger bust down south.”
“So?”
“So …” Fowler gestured to a room currently filled with small chairs and a handful of toys. “Best get started.”
“What?”
“You’ve all we got.”
“I’m not sitting in with kids–”
“That’s the great thing about being your boss. I can make you do anything. And you’re sitting in with these kids.”
“You want to
interview
these kids, right? Not traumatize them further? Reed would be better than me. He may be stupid and ugly, but he’s not scary.”
“Sorry, Anderson. Took a poll and everyone agreed you’re the best candidate.”
“The hell they come up with that?” Hank growled.
“Dunno. Guess everyone felt you have a sort of grandpa quality about you.” Fowler fought a smirk.
Hank muttered not-so-quietly a curse that Kara had never heard, even during her time around red ice users. Hank then turned his cold blue eyes on her and, for a brief moment, Kara felt something. She didn’t think it was fear, because she had seen fear in children, and even adults, and that wasn’t right.
Without even knowing, her LED turned yellow as she processed the information and tried to fit it into what she already understood about the world.
“What’s she doing?” Hank barked, glowering at Kara.
“Looking at you,” said Fowler.
“I know
that
,” he gritted his teeth. “But why is she
staring
?”
“Dunno. Maybe she likes you.”
“Could be she’s trying to figure out if he’s under arrest or not,” came Gavin Reed’s smug voice. “He looks just like the homeless dealer we brought in.”
Hank flipped him off and Reed laughed. Grumbling to himself, Hank approached Kara and stared down at her. She was sitting in a chair and was nearly miniscule compared to him.
“Well?” he grunted. “You gonna get up and do something or do you gotta charge or something?”
Kara blinked up at him, then slowly stood. She held out a slender, pale hand and smiled at Hank.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Kara. I was–”
“Made by CyberLife, yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.” Hank turned and sulked toward the interview room, which now had one child in it.
Kara watched him closely as he gripped the door handle tightly and cursed having to work with kids. Then he turned and looked at her, brow knitted in annoyed uncertainty.
“Maybe you should go first,” he said. “You know … You might make the kid feel more comfortable.”
Kara smiled brightly at Hank and said, “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
His scowl faltered and he opened the door. Kara stepped into the room. The child – a little boy – lifted his head from the table and leaped to his feet.
“Kara!” He bolted into her arms and held her tight.
Kara glanced at Hank as he huffed, loudly, whispering, “Damn,” under his breath. But it wasn’t annoyance on his face. It was a different expression. Something softer. Something reverent.
He was surprised.
Kara smiled and guided the boy to the table. “This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” she said, taking a seat beside the boy. “He’s going to ask you a few questions, okay? Just tell him the truth.”
The boy nodded and looked at Hank. Kara followed his gaze. His expression had changed again. No longer surprised.
He was impressed.