Under a Waning Sun

Ears burning in shame, Silas snatched a glance at the red spot on Morgan's temple the next morning over their steaming bowls of breakfast stew. He didn't bring it up, and neither did Morgan. As usual, most of the meal passed in silence.

Morgan scraped at his bowl and swallowed a slice of boiled carrot. "The farrier's order coming along?" he asked.

"Almost done," Silas said into his own bowl.

A minute passed between them as they finished breakfast. When Morgan pushed himself back from the table, the wheelchair squealed and they both winced.

"Gotta get those replaced soon," Morgan grunted.

Bedbound, he'd instructed Silas to take the wheels from Kyle's cart and attach them to one of the two dining chairs. They'd lasted much longer than either of them had thought.

"Why don't you head over to the wheelwright and see if he has any around this size," Morgan said.

Silas regarded Morgan through a curtain of black hair. Once the farrier's order was finished, he'd been planning to find Ivy or Caelan and ask them about lumshade. With how busy they both were, it might take him the rest of the day to track them down.

"When?" he asked.

Morgan dunked his bowl in the washbasin and shrugged. "After the horseshoes are done, I suppose."

"Today?" Silas asked, exasperated.

"Don't see why not," Morgan said, wiping his hands on a rag hanging at the stove. "You can stop by the general store while you're over there, stock up on supplies. Two birds with one stone."

Silas stared into his empty bowl. He was gripping his spoon so hard the handle was starting to bend.

"Somethin' wrong?" Morgan asked, his back still turned.

"Can't do it today," Silas mumbled.

"What was that?"

Silas raised a trembling chin. "I can't do it today."

Morgan turned his head and Silas could see the welt on his temple. "Is that so, Silas?" His mouth was a thin line.

He'd spoken it like a threat.

Silas stood up, still holding the spoon in one hand. He squeezed, and the metal bent over itself, pliable as molten iron.

He thought about that time he'd overheard a customer whispering to his friend. There's some sort of darkness hanging around that boy. Don't you feel it?

He was certain that in that moment, Morgan felt it.

The doctor yesterday, when she asked about him - she was probably remembering it.

And Ivy and his friends - didn't a strange look pass over their faces sometimes? They were all seeing it, too.

That darkness they felt was the wolf. It was Uriah.

And soon, if Ivy or Caelan could help, that darkness would be smothered.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Silas slammed the warped spoon on the table. He told himself that there was nothing unreasonable in Morgan's request. Asking about new wheels was, in fact, the least he could do.

"I'll take care of it," Silas said, opening his eyes but still avoiding eye contact with Morgan. "Just . . ." He raised his palms and took a step back. "Just give me some space right now. Please."

He turned and left, leaving the dirty bowl on the table.

He was in no mood to work on horseshoes and instead needed some fresh air to clear his mind. He'd go look for Ivy first.

It made the most sense to check her booby-trapped workshop, but he decided to take the long way there and swing by the fountain where all the young Suns hung out, in case she or Caelan were there now, making new friends or flirting with the girls, respectively.

Around the fountain, three young teenagers were sitting on the edge around the water, watching a red-headed young girl climb the center statue, leaning off the weathered stone horse.

Ramona turned around to Silas in full face swinging out her arm with a loud: "YEEHAW! I'm a sun, now, baby!"

The three teenaged boys laughed at her, and Silas understood what Ramona didn't seem to.

They thought she was a spectacle, but she thought they were a part of it, not observers.

Silas hated to insert himself into this spectacle, but Ramona had already seen him and it was too late to melt back into an alleyway. Her eyes lit up, and she lifted an invisible hat to wave at him.

"Silas!" she called over. "Hey! Hey! Lookit this!"

She leaped down from the statue and jumped over the water, cutting through the group of boys who kept laughing and whispering. With a bright smile, Ramona eagerly came up and lifted her shirt, showing a one-rayed tattoo on her stomach, pointing to her belly-button.

"Ain't that something!" she said, slapping her own belly.

"That's real nice, Ramona," Silas said, his face flushing red. Not because of Ramona - this kind of goofiness was well-expected with her - but because so many other kids were watching them.

Ramona, a Sun now too? Silas thought it was fitting that she and Ivy, two peas in a pod, would join around the same time. Still, once he mustered the courage to glance at it, it startled him to see the starkness of the blue ink on her belly, the skin surrounding it an angry pink.

"When'd you get singed?" he asked.

"You're looking at fresh blood," Ramona said, dropping her shirt and lifting her arms to flex rather non-existent muscles. "Just got it yesterday!"

Well, that increased his odds of finding help, at least. He was friends with three Suns now.

Ramona leaned in, steepling her fingers as she waggled her brows.

"By the way," she murmured, lowering her voice to a barely audible volume, but less so for him. "If you know anybody who needs a lil somethin' somethin'..."

Silas stared at her blankly.

Ramona widened her eyes and winked. "You know, a boost, one of them lum-tums, as they say. I know a guy-gal-girl who might know a person of a certain persuasion who has that thing on them."

Now it was Silas' turn to widen his eyes. Did Blue Sun tattoos give you mind-reading powers?

She leaned away, grinning. "Just networking is all. Business!"

Dumbstruck, Silas opened his mouth to reply, but the boys were still watching them, smirks on their faces.

"Ohhhhh, Silas!" one of them called out, teasing. "What're you blushing so hard about?"

"Does Silas have a social life?" another boy guffawed.

"Silas and 'Mona, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S--"

Hiding in a tree actually sounded pretty good right about then. He'd pass on the kissing part, though. Ew.

Still blushing furiously, Silas turned back to Ramona. "Can we . . . talk about this somewhere else?"

Ramona spun back around and stuck her tongue out at the boys, full on spitting. They just burst into laughter as she spun around and looped her arm in Silas's skipping away and pulling him with her.

She led them around the corner of the street, and then skipped them into an alleyway buzzing with flies around a wastebin.

"We talk business with the buzzards," she said, gesturing to the insect cloud. "What's the thinker in you thonking?"

"He's thinking about how awkward that was," he replied, truthfully.

"Awkward?" Ramona asked. "Those guys' opinions aren't worth two grains of sand rubbed together. I like 'em cause they laugh at my jokes. I wouldn't worry about it."

She punched Silas's arm, but then her eye twitched, and she limply drew her fist away, shaking it out.

"Okay, Hoss does that all the time and I didn't realize how much it'd hurt!" she whined, rubbing her knuckles.

"Hold on, try it again." Silas lifted his own fist. "See how my thumb goes over the fingers, not on the side?"

Ramona stared intently at his hand, then mirrored him perfectly.

"Now punch me again, and it shouldn't hurt so bad."

Ramona unleashed all of the strength she had in her punch. Which was more than Silas thought she had, but also not nearly enough to hurt him much.

"Huzzah!" she said, eyes brightening. She pulled her fist away with a giggle. "Wow! That was riveting. I felt so powerful just now."

Silas laughed. "You are! You're a sun now! How'd that happen, anyway?"

"I did some spying and drug delivery and now I'm official," she said proudly, puffing out her chest.

"Drug delivery?" Silas couldn't believe his luck. "You weren't kidding," he said in wonder.

"Oh, come on," she said. "You know that big mansion at the end of the street with the ten-foot fence and all the huffy rich scientists?"

Silas nodded. "The one where Caelan went all the time."

Ramona went bug-eyed as she stared at him, one single eye twitching.

"That's where he was this whole time?" she shouted. "I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TRACK HIS ROUTINE FOR AGES AND HE WOULD ALWAYS GET THE SLIP ON ME!"

Ramona grabbed his shoulders and shook Silas in earnest. "How did you know this? How did you find out? How long have you known?"

"I didn't know it was a secret!" Silas said, grinning in exasperation and showing his palms. "Caelan was friends with the Lowe daughter before she left."

Ramona pulled away, shaking her head and holding her hands together.

"I swear, that well-read little boy really gets to me sometimes," she said like a prayer. "Slinking around. I don't need the competition."

A beat.

"Anyways!" Ramona said, popping back with a smile. "Yes! I'm here for all your lummy needs. What's the sitch?"

"Lummy?" Silas snorted and shook his head. He was grateful that Ramona was making this conversation a lot more light-hearted than it should be. He heaved a deep sigh. "It's Morgan. Ever since his accident, you know . . ." Silas threw up his hands. "There's not much more he can do to cope with the pain."

Ramona nodded slowly, sucking in her cheeks as she listened.

"He can't get around very well," Silas continued, "so he asked me if I could look into it for him. See if I could find some, uh . . ."

"The flower, the shade, the lum-inating--"

Silas stared at her. "They don't actually call it that, do they?"

"I have endless nicknames for any singular item in existence," she said matter-of-factly. "But I understand you a straightforward sort of business fellow. You want lumshade, yeah?"

Silas nodded and took another deep breath through his nose. "Yeah. Can you help?"

"How much?" Ramona asked, leaning back.

"Well, I'm not sure. He's in a lot of pain. What do you think?"

Ramona narrowed her eyes slightly.

"How about a little bit, just for starters," she said. "It's on me! And then, if you decide that it's you know, uh -- helping this 'pain' situation -- then I can fetch you more."

Silas turned so he was looking at Ramona straight-on, trying to see if she was being serious. "You'd do that for me? I mean, for him? Isn't it risky?"

Ramona huffed through her nose, smirking lightly as she punched his arm again, but with just a light tap. Her form was flawless this time.

"Only if you're stupid about it," she said. "Just don't be like the lum-bums, and you'll be fine. A little fun here and there won't hurt, yeah? You could use a little loosening up."

Silas stiffened. "Fun? Ramona! It's not for me!"

Ramona's eyes widened.

"I mean, Morgan!" she laughed, flipping her braid over her shoulder. "Obviously! He's such an... old man! Hah. But you're cool."

Her sarcasm was obvious. "I swear, I'm not gonna try it," Silas said. "Why would I? He needs it, not me."

Ramona sighed and rolled her eyes, smirking. "Whatever you say, Silas. I don't judge."

Silas faltered for a moment, struck by her sincerity. But it didn't matter. Even if she didn't judge him for trying lumshade, she'd do more than judge him for the reason behind it.

"Here, take this for now," Silas said, taking a silverpiece from his pocket. "Morgan said this should pay for it."

Ramona hid her hands behind her back. "Oopsie!" she said. "No hands! I said it's my treat!"

"Ramona . . ." Silas smiled despite himself. "Fine. But I'll pay you double next time."

A short time ago, he'd thought the hunt for a lumshade would take all day, and then Ramona appeared and practically placed the vials in his lap.

"Be careful," he told her.

Ramona scoffed. "You've never seen me careless," she said, flipping around and sauntering out the alley with a swish in her hips. "Ta-ta dearest Silas! Don't do anything too-out of character! I'll find you later!"

And then she disappeared.

Silas breathed a sigh of relief. This day was turning out to be much better than yesterday.

Next stop, the wheelwright.

WC: 2131
Collab with @soundofmind

Here was the dilemma: Ramona couldn't sell from her stash for free. That defeated the purpose of running a business, and even though Ramona was full of generosity, the Blue Suns weren't know for their philanthropy. Ramona couldn't explain to her brother that she'd slipped a little for herself, because that would compromise everything.

Rule number one of drug-running: you never taste what you deal.

That's what makes you the customer, not the seller.

That left explaining to Hoss that she wanted to give out free samples. It was a marketing strategy, sure, since lumshade got people hooked easily, but Ramona wasn't trying to do that with Silas. She was just trying to help him have some fun. Do something different, besides hammering metal or reading. He didn't do much besides that, and it showed.

Silas had no social life, and he barely saw his friends as it stood. That, and Ramona had an unspoken rule.

If a friend asks for something, you do it. Didn't matter how odd the request.

So she came up with a different plan. She was going to take lumshade from the one person she knew didn't need it.

Her father.

Ramona knew where he was staying because Hoss kept tabs on their father like a stalker. Every move he made, Hoss was aware of, and Ramona was the unfortunate victim of his moody reports. Where she normally would've faulted her brother for it, now it came in handy -- she knew where her father's camp was, just outside of town. He'd been squatting in the forest for some time, spending all his money on lumshade and saving on everything else.

In her head, she'd pictured a campsite, but what she actually found was much less glamorous.

There were a few "homes," carved out into the trees. Sticks were built together in rickety lean-to shelters and dirty blankets nested inside of them. A few lum-bums were settled out there already, most of them worn out and sleeping, curled up in the shade. Ramona found that her silent steps went unnoticed, and even as she drew near, no one bothered turning their heads.

The stench of the camp was like the breath of a million dogs, but Ramona cut off the scent by refusing to smell. Nose closed, she kept her breaths shallow as she crept through the shadows, searching for a splash of red.

She didn't find any, and instead stood in the midst of a crowd of lum-bums and trees, all too unaware to notice her.

With a sigh, she went up to the lady near her feet. She was laid out on her side, holding something in her purpled hands.

"Hey," Ramona said. "Any idea where a 'Simon' stays out here?"

The woman looked up at Ramona with a dreamy look in her eyes.

"Simon?" she asked, as if Ramona were the man in question.

Ramona frowned deeply.

"Nevermind," she murmured, moving on.

She had no luck asking others until a man, sitting against a tree, spoke up, more lucid. His matted hair hid his forehead, and his overgrown beard covered his whole chest.

"Ey," he said with a point of his bony blue finger. He pointed into the distance, and Ramona's eyes followed to an empty lean-to, covered with a tarp, like a door.

Suddenly nervous, Ramona stared at the beared man, then the "tent."

The man just clicked his tongue and dropped his hand, turning away. Recieving the only real help she'd get, Ramona took in a deep breath and tip-toed through the sleeping bodies once more. When she reached the tarp, she hesitantly peeked inside, letting in some sunlight.

To her surprise, Simon had managed to curl up his legs to his chest, barely fitting under his shelter. His bare feet craned to the side, caked in dried dirt, and his clothes were stained with mud and mystery fluids.

Cradled in his hands, Simon held onto three vials like they were liquid gold.

But Ramona knew that purple glow.

Biting her lip, she arched into the shelter, spreading out her legs to balance herself and not land atop her father's stinky mass. She set one hand on the ground by his arms, and with her free hand, grabbed a fallen stick of small size and then reached for the middlemost vial.

The stick was of approximate circumference to the vials, and Ramona painstakingly shimmied the vial out of his cold hands, then replaced it with the stick.

When he didn't budge an inch, Ramona decided Simon wouldn't miss any of it.

He didn't need lumshade, anyway. It was just a crutch, Hoss said. A crutch for people who couldn't live without it.

She plucked the other two out of his hands, and when his hands started to clench around nothing, she shoved another stick into his hands. It appeased his dreaming brain enough that he stilled, and Ramona tucked the vials into her vest quickly, leaping out of the tent, out of the cloud of stink, and out of the camp's grime.

It scraped over her skin like dirt in the air, and even when she made it back into town, she could feel the smell clinging to her clothes. She scrunched up her nose and breathed again, shaking her head at the smell.

Not wanting to show up at Silas's like she'd been skunked, she took a dunk in the town fountain and showed up soaked instead.

Slapping her wet bare feet on Silas's back porch, she whistled instead of knocking, knowing Silas's ears were always keen. Kyle was in his pen, munching on a fresh trough of grains. He was apparently too busy to say hi, though his ears were trained on Ramona.

The door opened a crack, and Ramona caught a glimpse of one wide, dark eye.

A moment's hesitation later, Silas swung open the door. His eyebrows were raised in questioning anticipation.

"Why do you open the door like I'm going to kill you?" Ramona joked, plopping her hand on her hip.

"We really gotta install a peephole in this thing," Silas said, inspecting the width of the door. "Kyle isn't the best guard dog."

"Yeah, he doesn't even say hello," Ramona said with a swing of her arm to the preoccupied goat. "I need incessant doggie licks, stat."

"I have just the thing," Silas said. He ducked into the kitchen and came back with an exceptionally sticky stickers bar. "I was saving this for his birthday tomorrow, but . . ."

Ramona's eyes widened as Silas offered her the nutty berry snack, and the honey holding it together briefly stuck their hands together, with the bar between them. Ramona tugged hers away, taking the bar with her.

With a little grin and a giggle, she ran off to Kyle and extended her hand to the goat. Kyle lifted his head and focused on Ramona with one out of two lazy eyes before he wandered over and went straight for the snack, gobbling it up between his flat teeth and licking her hand for all of the remaining honey it was worth.

Ramona laughed lightly through her nose, very self satisfied with this end result.

Silas was watching, arms crossed and grinning. "Happy early birthday, little bud," he said.

Ramona scratched Kyle's head, between his nubby horns.

"Hey, when's your birthday, Silas?" Ramona asked, realizing it never came up all these years.

"Oh, uh." Silas gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not for a while. Middle of Aurne."

Ramona hummed. It all made sense, now. Silas was an autumn baby, and this made sense, because he was mild like the dying trees, but not in a bad way. He was just understated. Not showy, like she was.

"What day?" she asked.

"13th," he replied. "What's yours again? Sol something, right?"

"I turned fourteen at the start of summer," Ramona said. "The 5th of Sol."

Because she was the fifth child of the Simon line, according to her brother. She knew Ossie and Hoss were before her, but he never told her about the other two. It wasn't very important, though. Ramona just assumed that anyone with red or reddish hair was related to her at this point.

Well, except for Ivy. Ivy didn't look like Simon at all.

"When you turn sixteen we should do something," Ramona said, getting to her feet, while Kyle still nommed on her hand.

She let him, of course. She embraced the goat slobber.

"What if we did something fun? Like, go down to Lake Lily or something. Learn how to swim," she said.

"Really?" Silas looked off to the side, thinking. "Maybe the others can come too. Weather should be nice."

"I'll convince them," Ramona said with a more devious grin.

"What about your Blue Sun things?" Silas asked. "And Ivy's?"

"Travelling is just part of expanding the business!" Ramona said, stretching out her arms. Kyle bleated when her sticky hand was taken away, but it only added to the moment. "And I'm sure Ivy can tinker on the go. She's smart like that."

As she shook off Kyle's spit, she felt the jangle of the vials in her vest, tinkling like a wind chime. Her eyes widened, and she laughed.

"Oh! Right!" she said, pulling them out. "I meant to give you these."

"Shh!" Silas hissed, waving his hands frantically. "Put those away!"

Ramona froze, and then tucked them back in her vest.

Silas exhaled. "Thank you. Come inside and wash your hands first."

"Sheesh," she muttered. "Okay, okay."

She followed Silas inside, ducking her head as she passed through the door. The smithy was always too warm, especially in the summer months, so the stick on her palms turned sweaty. Sufficiently chided, she washed her hands in the corner with the water basin, pouting as she watched Silas over her shoulder.

He'd been expectionally high-strung lately, and Ramona wasn't sure if it was all about work, like he kept saying. Silas was a hard worker, and always had been, but lately, he'd been running himself into the ground.

His skin was pale, dark circles shadowed his eyes, his face was swollen with acne, and more and more, he'd turn like this, on a dime.

One moment, he'd be fine. Then he'd snap.

It reminded her of Hoss, but it was different. Silas didn't jump to hit her, or push her around. He just yelled, or jumped away.

Like he was afraid of her. But she'd given him no reason to be.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, glancing around the place for Morgan, even though she knew he was absent.

She knew when Morgan came and left. She had it memorized. Why else would she have found Silas at this hour?

"Are you... like, doing alright?" Ramona asked, even though the answer was an obvious no.

Silas nodded quickly, staring at the ground. "I'm fine. Just . . . work's been a lot. It's all on me now, and . . ." He looked back at her and smiled shyly. "Anyway. Can't believe you actually got them. Morgan will really appreciate it."

...Right. Morgan.

Ramona didn't know why Silas was being so weird about it, but if he couldn't say it outright, it was probably because he didn't want to. With a shrug, Ramona just smiled.

"Yeah," she said. "Anything for my pals."

Then, she pulled out the vials, and held them out as an offering for Silas to appreciate.

His hands were shaking ever so slightly as he accepted them. Holding them like you would a baby bird, he drew them to his chest and breathed out through his nose. "I hope this helps," he said. "Thanks, Mona."

Ramona nodded slowly, and a sting of worry pricked her. Silas hardly called her Mona. It... made her feel things. Weird things.

"Does Morgan know how to take it safely?" she asked.

"Oh." Silas was wide-eyed. "Um. It's his first time using it, I think, so. Maybe not."

Ramona huffed through her nose, and her eyes softened. Tilting he head to the side, she beckoned Silas to sit with her by the furnace.

"Come on, then," she said. "I'll show you."



There was something odd in the air when Ramona came home that night. Hoss never stayed the night anymore. For years, now, he lived on the base, and suns were his home more than Momma's shack that was falling apart. Now, the couch bent under his weight. The well-worn cushions had gone flat, and Hoss looked as heavy as the space around him.

Momma and Ron were nowhere to be seen. It was late, and Ramona was always late, now that she had errands to run and things to sell.

No one had waited up for her since she was ten.

So when she stopped in the entryway, staring at her brother, stationed like a sentry with the presence of a stone, she knew something was about to change.

Hoss and Ramona's eyes met, and for the first time in her life, she felt like she was looking at a father, and not her brother. It wasn't for their resemblance: Simon had never been present in her life, and he never acted like a parent should, but before Hoss had a chance to say the news she already saw bubbling in his throat, she realized that Hoss had been more of a father than Simon ever had. Even more than Momma. More than Adonis.

Hoss was the Ossie of her home, and she'd missed it, because while she was busy being a kid, Hoss was busy surviving, and now he bore bad news that Momma couldn't say. She felt the sting of the absence of her mother, and the pain of the absence of her father, and the burden that Hoss took upon his shoulders, and how angry it'd made him.

"Simon's dead," Hoss said. But he didn't sound angry. He didn't sound relieved, or happy, or proud of the news.

His tone told her everything that his words didn't. Hoss didn't kill Simon. In fact, he'd had nothing to do with it, but he wished he did. He felt responsible for telling her, and Momma was in the room with Ron, where they were both asleep, too tired and quiet to care. They didn't bother to stay up for her because no one ever cared about making anything a "family matter," and if Simon was never true family, it shouldn't have mattered at all.

The only wildcard was her.

She was predictably unpredictable. Momma was tired of her riddles, Ron never paid attention to her, and Hoss was the responsible one.

Now Simon was dead, and Ramona expected to feel nothing at all for a man she hardly knew. She even wanted to say: "good riddance," but the words were stuck behind her teeth, as a permeating chill cut through her skin, down to her bones.

"He died of an overdose," Hoss said quietly, more gentle than she'd ever seen him. "He's been dead for three days, but no one was sober enough to tell."

Ramona's words caught as a knot in her throat.

No. She saw him that morning. She stole his lumshade. He'd been sleeping, but he was so still. He was so stiff. He barely moved. The smell had been unbearable, but she hadn't stopped to think anything of it. It was just bad hygiene. Lum-bums were always letting themselves go.

If Ramona confessed to seeing him, she'd implicate herself in something deeper than theft, and Hoss never left any stone unturned.

Her gaze grew distant as she stared at the floor in horror, realizing there was nothing to be done.

"...He was never a father to us," Hoss continued. "But it's still an undignified way to go."

His eyes stuck on Ramona, and she looked at her feet, glued to the ground. Hoss stood up, and the couch sunk with a sigh in his absence. Ramona didn't flinch when her brother's big, meaty hand rested on her shoulder, lacking all of the comfort it was intended to give.

"Lesson learned, then," he said, patting her cheek twice.

She looked up, unfocused, and confused.

"Lesson?" she asked, still smelling the scent of her dead father lingering on her clothes.

"Users only die in pity," Hoss said. "Which is why we don't taste what we deal. Because we're better than that. We have to be."

Ramona didn't move as Hoss brushed past her, and he stepped out of the house in silence, leaving the heavy air behind. When the front door closed softly, Ramona wondered who'd replaced him. Who was wearing her brother's skin, inexplicably calm, undoubtedly rejoicing in Simon's death behind stilled eyes? Who compelled him to use restraint and hold his hands carefully -- pulling doors shut without force, and touching Ramona without striking her? Was it Simon's death? Did something change with their 'father' gone?

Did Hoss feel released from having to replace him?

Ramona finally turned around, staring at the door and the shadows that held it, picturing her brother walking back to the Blue Suns base: wearing their mother's pout, their father's eyes, and sporting Simon's bright red hair, pulled back into a bun tighter than the fists he formed.

All the relief in the world was found in Hoss's heart, but Ramona felt guilty, and she didn't know why.

It wasn't her fault, and yet, she pictured her father, reaching out his hand, inviting her to help him out of a grave he'd dug for himself. Reaching for pity from a little girl who had no wisdom and no money to help him in the ways that he wanted. He wanted help, but it wasn't to save himself. It was to buy the coffin, and hammer its nails.

She never took up the hammer, but she'd overlooked it, hadn't she? She'd passed him by while Simon burned all his bridges.

Was anyone left to blame?

Ramona looked back at their couch, and the way it sagged and drooped like a withering plant. It felt like looking at her mother, and her father, and the state of her family, always falling apart loudly, but breaking in silence.

Maybe that was why, when left alone, she broke in silence too. Sitting on the floor, with her hands to her face, muffling the shaky cries in the back of her throat, because just like Momma, and just like Hoss: nobody could ever see her cry, especially over someone like Simon.

Nothing felt more shameful than crying over someone who didn't deserve it.

His sister had joined the Suns, and it might be the end of the world. Ossie sat on the edge of the town square, his fingers fiddling absent-mindedly with the little wooden lute Adonis had given him so long ago, back when he'd been little, back when Beau had been alive. Before he'd killed him. Ossie had always wanted to play an instrument, but he'd always known he never would. There was no money for instruments, and he didn't know how to learn one on his own anyway. The entire dream was nonsensical. Childish, really. Maybe that's why he'd always clung to it so hard.

This is what he thought about as he stared at the fountain and the group of other teenagers, all recently-inducted Suns, who stood and laughed under the sparkling sprays of water. Ramona was one of them now. He didn't know how someone who was good could be, but he knew she was good, just as he knew they were bad. The conflict left his stomach unsettled and uneasy, because how was he supposed to help protect her from the people she was now a part of?

Ramona wouldn't like him thinking like that. Ossie wasn't naive. She hadn't wanted things to change when they'd learned about their father, and Ossie had tried his best to make sure they hadn't--at least not in her eyes. He'd tried to act the same, to do the same things towards her, to say the same things. But still, at the back of his thoughts, lurking... the terror, and the panic that somehow, he would lose her too, and that, too, would be his fault. Just like Mabel, sick at home, barely able to leave the house now, life oozing away slowly like sludge clogging the center of the waterpiece in front of him--the center of the town.

Simon had been found dead from drugs, and Ossie had tried his hardest to find anything other than a numb annoyance for it. He'd never felt this way before--seeping, pooling like water lapping at his knees, ripples on the surface of the algae-covered lake they escaped to when they could. He'd been his father, but he hadn't, really. Ossie didn't have a real father. He had his step-father, Kyle, but Ossie shouldn't be his burden. He had his real kids to think about. Ossie wasn't about to drag another person down with him, even though he felt like he was slowly drowning.

He picked his nail against the wooden lute in his hand, listening to the small, high-pitched snapping noise it made each time his nail came closer and closer to breaking, then pulled itself back into position. Ramona was a Sun now, and maybe the world was ending, but he couldn't find anything other than a vague dread inside him. Ossie was tired out of sadness. He was tired out of hopelessness. Ossie was tired.

A loud bout of laughter broke out around the fountain as one of the teenage girls splashed through the water, scooping up a handful and dumping it onto the head of another girl, who gasped and shoved the first one into the water altogether. They struggled in the water, and it was hard to tell if the fighting was real or fake. After a few seconds of the two screaming at each other, several of the other teenagers yanked them apart, throwing both of them to the hard ground. With their clothes stuck to their bodies with water, they looked like soaked, scolded puppies, fur flat against skin, teeth bared, eyes flared.

What did Ramona see in them? What did Adonis see in them, and Ivy? The Suns hurt people, and killed people, and they dragged the bodies of teenage girls away in the middle of the night and told boys with their sick brothers they wouldn't give them the life-saving medicine. Not couldn't-- wouldn't. With Hoss as her older brother, and begrudgedly also Ossie's, he couldn't understand why Ramona would ever want to be a Sun. Sure, they had privileges, but...

He squeezed his hand tight around the wood, then loosened it to look at the imprints he'd left in his skin. Maybe if he squeezed hard enough, it would stay permanently, like a tattoo. No matter how hard he tried to hold onto anything though, it always seemed to slip away in the end. Maybe that was what people got out of the Suns--people who weren't allowed to leave you.

Ossie dreaded going home most days now, and felt bad for it. He'd basically given up staying with his sisters, who could take care of themselves on their own, though even that was changing rapidly with Mabel's decline in health. It felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He'd finally gained a little bit of movement, the ability to do something other than cook and change diapers and stop crying all day. He'd started working out. He'd started exploring the town. He'd gotten to see more of his friends over the last year than he ever had in the past. All because he'd gotten Beau killed. Because he hadn't helped enough. And now Mabel was getting sicker and sicker, and Ossie was slowly being dragged back into their dark, run-down house, soothing coughing fits, helping her to the bathroom, feeding her piece by piece and cleaning it up when she threw it all up on him and the bed.

If Hoss would've given him the medicine, this never would've happened.

Beau would be alive, and Mabel would be thriving. A seed of anger, small but righteously growing, planted in his chest as he watched the other teenagers his age splashing around the fountain. Who had they lost because the Suns refused to help them? Nobody, he was sure. They had the privilege of being useful, of being told their help mattered, of being allowed to give something in return for what they needed. Ossie had been turned away. Sure, he'd been younger, but he could've done things for them. He didn't know what, but he knew he could have been help if they had let him. Hoss had refused.

Hoss, who had killed Juni, who had threatened Ossie to not speak on it, had refused Ossie the medicine that could have saved Beau. Sure, it was still Ossie's fault. He should have kept pushing, gone to someone else, gone to every member of the Suns until he had found someone who said yes. But Hoss had turned away his brother. Ossie would NEVER do that to Ramona. Ossie would never even do that to Hoss, even though he hated him.

Before he could process it, Ossie was rising to his feet, because Mabel was sick, and he needed to talk to Hoss, and he wasn't about to let one of his other siblings die because he was too cowardly to do something about it.

He'd be at Lilly's Spoon, likely--that was where most of the Suns spent their evening time, and where Ossie had run into Hoss the most. He knew this because, after the first couple of times, he'd started avoiding it like the plague when he'd picked up on the pattern. Ossie hadn't wanted to see Hoss or interact with him at all, especially not after Juni, but now--now he knew he needed to. Ossie had done something big for Hoss. Not only that, but Hoss had refused to do something big for him. In a way, it was almost like Hoss... owed him?

Ossie hadn't thought of it like that, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his blood boiled, because... yes. Ossie was the reason Beau had died. There was no question about that. But if Ossie was responsible, then Hoss was at the very least an accomplice, or responsible because of negligence. Ossie clenched his hands into fists as he frowned. Ossie had done so much for Ramona, hadn't he? And Hoss had refused one little thing, a tiny vial of medicine, even though Ossie had offered to pay, offered to babysit, offered to do anything. Ossie knew now that those offers had been foolish. They weren't worth anything to a Sun. Still, he'd offered everything he had, and Hoss had let Beau die.

Ossie deserved this much from him.

His thoughts raced along with his heart as he marched up the street, leaving the fountain and the carefree teenagers behind as determination built inside his chest. A couple people scooted out of his way as he shoved the door to the bar open. Several faces turned to look at him. Anxiety skipped inside his throat like a stone on the lake, and he tried to shove it down as he searched the scattered patrons for Hoss. Ossie was bigger now. He was bulkier, and taller than a lot of the men in town. He couldn't be pushed around anymore, and he was going to prove it. For Mabel.

"Hey, no trouble inside." The old, gruff woman behind the bar leaned against it on flabby arms, eyeing him warily. Her voice scratched against Ossie's ears, as if to make him cough on her behalf, and as she pushed herself up and off the bar in front of her, a ripping, sticky sound resounded from whatever substances hadn't been cleaned off its surface the night before.

Ossie halted for a moment at the confrontation. He'd just worked up the courage, and the sudden stop startled him. Just as quickly though, he tamped down his fear. He'd killed his brother. He couldn't kill his sister too over his cowardice.

That's when he spotted him-- sitting on a barstool near the far corner of the room, with a woman sitting across from him, adorned with beads of glass that shone like jewels hanging around her neck, and heavy powder caked onto her cheeks and eyelids. He was speaking softly, hand on a glass and circling it absent-mindedly against the counter of the bar, while she nodded and fluttered her eyes every couple of words he said.

"Hoss," Ossie called, moving forward before his anxiety could have time to talk him out of it.

The man's mouth stopped moving, and his blocky shoulders turned. With a cold, half-lidded stare, Hoss met Ossie's eyes and said nothing. His finger froze from its circling, and the woman beside him turned away.

Chatter quieted in the dirty tavern.

Ossie walked towards him, conscious of every movement of his own body, like if he carried himself high enough, they wouldn't know how terrified he was. "I need to talk to you," Ossie said plainly.

Hoss stood up, three inches taller. His stool scraped the floorboards, and his hand remained on his glass. With unbroken eye contact, Hoss downed the last of its contents and set it back down.

"Seems you do," he said, brushing his shoulder as he stalked to the door.

Part of Ossie hadn't expected it to be so easy--getting him to talk to him--but he turned on his heels nonetheless and trailed after him. The second the door clicked closed again, he could hear the talking resume in the tavern.

Hoss stood three feet from the doorway, facing him.

Waiting.

His blank stare felt like Ossie was looking at Death himself. Hoss helped kill Beau. He'd killed Juni. He needed to remember that. He was doing this for Mabel, so she didn't end up like Beau. "You need to singe me," Ossie said, and just like that, it was done. He'd said it. He couldn't take it back now, even if he had wanted to. He didn't even know if he'd known that was what he was going to say to Hoss, but once the words left his mouth, he knew it's what needed to be done. Adonis would never do it, and Ramona and Ivy didn't have the levels to do it yet. Ossie would make sure he stayed one of the good ones, like Adonis, and he'd get the medicine he needed, because once you were in the Blue Suns, you were family, and then they couldn't refuse Mabel the medicine she needed.

"Why?" Hoss asked.

"You owe me." Ossie hadn't meant to, but the ends of his words curled into a growl, and he took in a short breath to remind himself that Hoss could still kill him if he wanted to. Even if he didn't want to, and was simply bored. Good, a part of Ossie thought. Do it.

But Hoss didn't flinch. Instead he said: "Prove it."

"You know what I saw, and I know you saw me," Ossie said. "You owe me."

There was a long pause, and Hoss stared as the setting sun cast Hoss's shadow over Ossie's face. What Hoss was contemplating, Ossie had no idea. All he knew was that Hoss' eyebrows drew down over his eyes, narrowed at him, and Osmond returned the look in the long, drawn-out silence.

"...You've really grown up, haven't you?" Hoss asked quietly.

Ossie felt an unknown pang in his chest at that--sadness? Some sort of loss? Whatever it was, it didn't matter. He didn't have the privilege of stopping to think that over right now. He didn't have the time. "Is that a yes?" he asked instead.

"Where do you want it?" Hoss asked instead.

He tried to hold back his shock. He hadn't been expecting Hoss to readily agree with him. He'd been working himself up towards an argument, having to prove that he was worthy of this, that Hoss did, in fact, owe him. He hadn't even thought fully about where he would want it if he got it. Nearly immediately though, the answer popped into his brain and out of his mouth before he could even process it. "My chest," he answered. "Over my heart."

Hoss's gaze travelled to Ossie's chest. His expression remained hollow, and his eyelids drooped heavily, but he nodded.

"Follow me, then," he said.

And with no fanfare, no defense, and no further questions, Ossie followed Hoss to the end of the street. They cut into a muddy alley, where Hoss ducked beneath clotheslines and hanging plants. Then he turned into a shabby door, with light leaking through the the cracks.

A narrow stairwell led to a basement, where firelight marked every corner of the room, and a small, scrawny girl sat on a stool by a larger woman, poking a spire into the skin on her wrist. Blue ink and red blood pooled together at the tip, and the girl looked up from her work with dark strands of hair falling over her pale face.

Hoss stepped to the side, and she smiled at Ossie.

"New blood," she said, as the big woman cleared the seat. She wiped her arm clean.

"Sit down," Hoss said to Ossie, and he pointed to the chair. The girl watched with a smirk.

This was it then. There was no turning back. Instead of an increased wave of anxiety though, Ossie felt... relief. Maybe this was what he was always meant to do. He knew many of the Suns weren't good people, but he would be good, and he would help his family. He would make things better from the inside, and he would make sure Mabel would not die. Not on his watch. Without hesitation, Ossie sat down.

The girl reached around to her work table, and procured a fresh needle, and new ink. As she spun back around on her stool, she crouched on it like a frog, ready to poke.

"I'm Wilson," she said. "I'm new here."

"Osmond," he replied, watching her movements with careful eyes.

"Well, go on, Mondy," Wilson said. "Show me where to put it."

He lifted his shirt up. Weirdly, he didn't feel embarrassment or pride as he pulled it off completely to reveal the muscles he'd worked so hard to cultivate and tone for the last several years. Instead, he felt an intense wave of distance from himself, a numbness and lack of care that caught him by surprise. He tapped his chest, over his heart, and it didn't feel like he was the one doing it. "Here."

Wilson's mouth turned into a wry grin.

"Classic," she quipped, before digging the needle in.



"What the hell have you done?" It was his mother's fourth time saying--or fifth? Ossie had lost count. She was talking herself in circles now. Ossie wished he was brave enough to stand up to it, but instead, he stood silently and took it. He didn't try to argue with her. Really, he deserved this, didn't he? Her anger. Her disappointment. "You've wrecked yourself!" She screamed. "You've damned us all! Damn you, Osmond, damn you!" She picked up a cup and pulled her arm back, but Kyle wrestled it deftly out of her grasp before she could launch it across the room.

"Osmond, you should go," he said with a firm nod. "I think we all need some time to process."

Ossie didn't need time. Ossie didn't want time, not alone with his own thoughts.

"Osmond," Kyle repeated. "Leave, now." Ossie watched as his mother turned and buried her face against Kyle's chest, like that would shield her from Ossie. From the other room, he could see his two sisters, faces peeking around the corner to witness the chaos without subjecting themselves to it. He couldn't protect them now, if he left. But when had he ever been able to truly protect them? He'd tried, but he'd failed. Beau was still dead, and Mabel was still sick. His mother may hate him for this, but becoming a Sun was the one thing he could do to protect all of them. To get the medicine.

"Osmond Ferrer," Kyle said. "Leave my house." He pointed an arm at the door. His house. When had it become his house, and not Ossie's house too? Still, without a word, he turned and exited the front door. His ears buzzed a high-pitched rhythm, growing louder and softer in time to the beat of his footsteps as he walked down the street. Finally, he slowed to a standstill, listening to the echoed music of his mother's anger vibrating in his head.

He stared at the ground blankly, his right hand circling over his chest, like the pattern against his skin could soothe the pain it held. He'd done this for them, and they were still disappointed. He still hadn't done enough. That was the usual though, wasn't it? That was the norm. They'd never say it, but everyone knew he was the reason Beau had died-- because he hadn't sacrificed himself to save him. At the time, he'd thought he'd done everything he could have, but he hadn't considered sacrificing his soul. His being as a good person. That was gone now anyway though, gone with Beau's body, and he had nothing left to cling to besides the hope that maybe he could help make sure Mabel didn't end up suffering the same fate.

He stood in that same spot on the pavement for a long moment, eyes staring distantly into space, buzzing in his head like a swarm of wasps crawling into his ears, stuffing them like cotton, before he looked up at the feeling of someone's eyes on him.

A familiar shadow stood over him, as storm clouds began to gather overhead. Hoss tilted his head toward Ossie's house.

Ossie pulled his hand sharply away from his chest. The buzzing stopped sharply. Somehow, he felt like he couldn't seem sad around Hoss, or upset, or even doubtful. That didn't feel like something that was allowed, and it left Ossie unsure of what to say or do.

"Kris has lungs on her," Hoss said quietly.

Ossie's eyes flickered to the ground silently.

"Hey. Grow a pair," Hoss said, slapping the side of Ossie's shoulder. Ossie stiffened and looked up at him. "You're a man of action."

Hoss grabbed Ossie's hand, and pressed something into it. It was cold, and cylindrical.

A vial.

Hoss pulled his hand away. "Now prove it to her," he said. "You're a part of our family, now. And family takes care of family."

Hoss pointed to the shimmering red liquid in Ossie's palm.

"Go take care of your sister."

"Is this..." Ossie couldn't even finish it. What he'd been working for, what his family had needed for years. This tiny little bottle.

Hoss only nodded, with lips tight in a line.

"Thank you," Ossie murmured.

"Your family, our family." Hoss said stiffly. "Now... go."

Ossie looked at Hoss for a moment longer. He'd never really viewed him as a brother. He knew he was one, or at least half of one, but Hoss had never treated Ossie like anything other than a nuisance. Somehow though, this changed everything. Ossie did everything he did for his family. But Hoss was saying now that the Suns were almost like a family too. He hadn't thought of them like that before, but it made sense. A lot of them lived together, and they were around each other all the time, and they bickered and they fought, but the moment someone from somewhere else said something about one of them, they were all on the same team again. The anxiety and dread built in his chest eased slightly, at that thought. They weren't all good people--but they were his family now. He did anything for his real family, and now this new family would do anything for him. Hadn't this medicine already proved that?

If only he'd been able to do it before Beau.

That thought sent a surge of sadness through him, one that normally would have crippled him with guilt, but this time, he just tightened his grip on the vial in his hand. He'd killed one sibling. Now, he was about to save the life of another. If that wasn't repentance, what was?

Without another word, Ossie turned away from Hoss and headed confidently towards his house. His mother and step-father had always hated the Suns, and Ossie had too, but now they had to see why he had done it. He'd become a bad person, yes, because the Suns were bad people, and Ossie was now a Sun--but he'd also done something good. Maybe it wasn't as... easy, as good and bad? Maybe nothing was as simple as that in real life. He could be a good person and be a Sun, maybe, if he worked hard enough. Maybe he could even help other Suns become good people too. Then what he had done wasn't the murder of his good self, but maybe a rebirth--a calling. A mission.

He opened the door with such force that it swung on its hinges and slammed into the wall, sending his two younger sisters yelping and his mom and step-dad jumping to their feet before they realized it was him. "Osmond, I swear to the dragons--" his mother began, but Ossie cut her off, making his way across the room towards Mabel.

"Drink this," he said. Mabel looked hesitantly towards their parents.

"Don't you--" his mother started, but Ossie spoke over her again.

"Drink it, Mabel," he said firmly. Without a second of hesitation, she took the vial and gulped it down. Immediately, a coughing fit seized her body, subtle at first, then vicious, until she had fallen off the edge of the couch and was doubled over on her hands and knees on the ground, hacking and struggling for air.

"What did you do?!" his mother cried out, as both she and Kyle rushed towards her.

"What was that?" his step-dad asked in a panicked voice. "Osmond, what was that!"

"It's going to help!" Ossie insisted. Strangely, even though his heart was pounding rapidly in his chest, he felt calm through it all. He didn't doubt it. He knew it was going to help.

Mabel's coughing got worse, louder and wracking her body. Tears leaked from her eyes as she pushed against the floor, her knuckles white with the effort. And then, suddenly, she vomited, but unlike anything Ossie had ever seen before. He wouldn't have even called it vomiting, if it hadn't been something coming out of her mouth that she hadn't just put in there. It wasn't liquid. It wasn't even a sludge. The item, slimed with remnants of blood and spittle, glowed a faint, sickly green, and almost looked like it was pulsing.

"What is that?" Ossie's mother whispered, horrified. "Is that-- is it alive?"

"It looks like a plant," Kyle muttered, looking like he himself might also throw up at the sight of it.

Mabel broke down into tears then, finally able to catch her breath. "Was that thing inside me?" she cried. "What is that thing?"

Thick clots of blood oozed down the sides of the--plant? Fungus?--as it sat on the floor in front of her, looking completely undisturbed.

"Shh, it's alright," Ossie's mom said, rubbing a soothing hand across Mabel's back as she started to dry-heave. "It's alright, it's alright." Even as she said it, Ossie could see her hands shaking. She looked up at her husband, eyes wide, and it seemed like they had an entire silent conversation before either of them glanced his way again.

"Where did you get that vial?" Kyle asked, rising slowly to his feet. Behind him, Ossie watched his mom pull Mabel slowly to her feet, still rubbing her back. Grace, who had watched the entire incident silently, hid behind the couch with frightened eyes.

"The Suns," Ossie said. "It's the cure."

"You mean I'm better now?" Mabel asked. "I'm not gonna die?" Her tears sped, and she said, "I don't wanna die, I don't wanna."

"You're not going to," Ossie said, relief sagging his bones for the first time in a long time. It was blissful. He smiled a little, and found that he actually felt it. How long had it been since he'd felt a smile like this? "You're not gonna die, you're gonna be okay."

Mabel trembled in space for a moment, before she ran towards him and hugged him, so sudden that he nearly lost his footing and sent both of them tumbling for a moment. Ossie wrapped his arms around her, one across her shoulders and another behind her head. Both parents were watching him now. His mother no longer looked angry at him for joining the Suns. Instead, she was watching him with glassy, sunken eyes and an expression of complete dispair. "You're all grown up now, aren't you?" she asked. She laughed, and it caught in the back of her throat, transforming midway into a sob. "She drank that vial even when I said not to, and why wouldn't she? You've practically raised them." Her voice started to ramble, and it seemed like she was about to pick up speed into another furiously fast, spitting argument, but instead, she faltered.

And just like that, Ossie's mother was crying. She was crying... because of him? And not because she was disappointed or angry, but because he'd grown up? Wasn't that what he was supposed to do?

"You weren't meant to go and..." She broke down completely, hands covering her face, full body weight sinking against Kyle, who stood next to her looking equally confused, brows furrowed, arm wrapped around her. His eyes didn't leave Ossie though, and it was unclear who he was thinking so hard about--him, or his mother. He looked troubled, and he didn't say anything, which didn't help.

"...I gotta go," Ossie said suddenly, pulling back from Mabel. Before he knew what he was doing, he retreated towards the front door. His mother felt like a stranger he'd never met, and even his sisters and their needs couldn't pull him to stay in this house, with its crying and its grief.

"No, wait, Osmond, I-- please," his mother said, extending an arm towards him. "Please, if you'll just--"

"I gotta go," Ossie said again quickly. "I've got somewhere to be."

He fled, closing the door behind him and running down the steps of the porch onto the street. Anything to get away from his mother, crying and emotional over him.

He rounded the street corner, and a familiar presence was waiting. When he looked up, he met Hoss's eyes, and Hoss nodded sharply.

Understanding. And approval. Ossie took in a deep breath, and nodded in return. Something about the approval sent a rush of light through his chest, easing the weights and burdens he hadn't realized he held there. Maybe he'd killed his innocence forever--or maybe he'd discovered it, finally. The feeling of fully doing something right, for once in his life.

Hoss understood, just as Ossie did now--brothers would do anything for their little sisters. They'd give up their lives, the possibility of ever being anywhere besides the Sticks. They'd give up their skin, now marked with a steady circle of blue.

Maybe Hoss wasn't so different from him after all.



Ossie had made the decision to not be a coward anymore. He'd gotten the medicine for Mabel, and whether he liked it or not, he was a Blue Sun now. For life. He wasn't a good person, because he'd killed his brother, but he was going to make sure he wasn't a bad person either.

He had to tell Ivy about what he'd seen.

The guilt had begun consuming him for the past several nights. Maybe it was that the immediate fear of Mabel's looming death had taken up every crevice in his brain, and had suddenly vanished to leave room for other, smaller threats, but now that it was on his mind, he hadn't been able to make it stop. She had to know that he'd seen Hoss. She had to know it was Hoss--not so Hoss could get in trouble or anything like that, because really, Hoss probably hadn't had a choice about it either. He just had to tell her so that she knew, and so Ossie wasn't hiding something from one of his closest friends anymore. So he wasn't hiding something from someone who... maybe wasn't just a friend, anymore.

Not that they'd talked about it.

Not that it was possible, since he'd seen Juni the night she had died and he hadn't spoken up.

Still, the guilt consumed him, and it fueled his walk, faster and faster, as he approached her in the open field she sat in, fiddling with one of her endless inventions. Ossie didn't know whether it was harmless, or some type of bomb that could kill the both of them in an instant. He found that he didn't care either way.

"Ivy," he called out, and felt a sudden wash of shame flow through him. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve someone like him as a friend, or as anything else.

Ivy's gaze flicked up, and a smile flitted over her lips as she pushed the device-- some kind of metal sphere welded together at the center-- off her lap. She patted the dry grass beside her as an invitation.

"The one and only," she said brightly, though there was a curious look in her eyes as she examined him, taking the place of a question about what brought him here.

He watched the spot of grass next to her, but couldn't bring himself to sit right next to her. Not when he was about to say something she might hate him for. She didn't deserve to be stuck with him, but maybe she'd understand, right? Hoss could've killed his family if he'd said anything. And who could've killed Hoss in return, if Hoss hadn't? They were all just in a cycle of protecting their own. Ivy would understand that.

"I--" he began, but struggled to push out more words. "I need to tell you something," he said quietly, then sunk to the ground a few feet away from her, giving her the distance he felt sure she would want.

Ivy blinked, and her smile didn't fade exactly, but it did freeze in place like she was ready to drop it at a moment's notice. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he said plainly. "And it's my fault." He glanced away, unable to maintain the eye contact any longer. He couldn't stand to look at her sharp, ocean eyes, at her lean, slender face, or the way she pursed her lips when she was taking something seriously. He couldn't bear to watch her break.

There was a pause from Ivy, then the clinking of metal tools as she shifted. "I'm listening," she said, sounding more uneasy than preemptively angry.

"The night that..." Ossie trailed off and cleared his throat, one of his hands slipping into his pocket to fidget with the wooden lute. "The night that Juni..." He couldn't bring himself to finish it. The words stuck in his throat, sticky and sharp. He could feel Ivy's eyes on him, narrowed in increasing concern, her head tilted slightly to the side, as if trying to guess what he was going to say, or read his mind.

"Died," Ivy said, with far more patience and neutrality than he would've ever expected from her. Why was she so calm saying it? "The night she died."

"Yeah," Ossie echoed numbly. "Died." He stared at the grass in front of him, dying from the recent lack of rain. "Beau, he'd been up coughing, and I was walking him around, and..." Here it was. There was no turning back now. He was about to lose one of his closest friends, and he was doing it on purpose. Ossie felt sick. "I saw Hoss with her," he whispered, staring at the ground. "I saw him carrying her, after she was... He told me not to tell anyone, and I was scared he'd hurt my family if I did." Ossie looked up at Ivy finally, into her eyes, like that could convince her of his next words, like maybe she'd believe him. "I'm sorry."

Ivy had started frowning at some point after he'd looked away, and her brows were furrowed low. It was the look she gave to a stubborn bomb that refused to go off, or to an invention that wouldn't reveal its secret inner workings to her. Not the kind of look that should follow the announcement of her sister's murderer.

"Ossie," she said evenly, like she had news to break to him. "You think I didn't know it was Hoss?"

The question hit him like a punch to the chest, and he looked away, trying to catch his breath. "I... I don't know. I didn't know you did. I didn't..." He trailed off again.

"Ossie," Ivy said again, with more sympathy this time, as she shuffled closer to him. He could feel the pity in her gaze. "Adonis told me. It's okay. There was nothing you could've done anyway-- you don't need to feel bad for not telling me."

Ossie frowned. He didn't understand--he'd betrayed her. He'd betrayed Juniper, and disrespected her memory. He felt sick every time he thought about it. And Ivy was saying it was okay? "I'm not a good person," he said softly.

If even possible, Ivy's frown turned more perplexed. "Why are you saying that?"

"I killed Beau," Ossie confessed, and it felt like a weight lifted off his chest suddenly. He'd never said it to anyone before. It felt relieving, in a way, to finally be able to make sure others saw that he wasn't a good person.

"Of course you didn't," Ivy insisted, sounding stunned for the first time in this conversation. "That's not-- that's not how the blame works. If there's anyone to blame, it couldn't be you."

"I could've gotten him medicine. I didn't try hard enough." Ossie swallowed. "I'm scared that I wanted him to die. I mean, I didn't think I wanted him to. But I dreamed about it. And then I didn't do enough."

"I saw you doing as much as humanly possible," Ivy said gently. "Do you think I was wrong?"

Ossie shook his head. "I think you believe you're right."

"Generally speaking..." Ivy let that sentence trail off as she inched closer again, this time to put a steadying hand on Ossie's shoulder. Her blue-green eyes were intense and confident. "Well, I'm going to keep believing that, and you'll have to let me. You're one of the best people I know, in fact. And you're not convincing me otherwise. Bad people don't worry that they aren't good."

Ossie watched her with a sinking feeling. She didn't know how bad he was. Nobody did. His eyes drifted from her eyes down her face, towards her lips, pursed. He glanced away with a flash of heated embarrassment. He had just told her that he'd killed his brother and that he'd known who killed her sister, and now he was looking at her lips. He really wasn't a good person. He didn't know how she couldn't see it.

"I know Juni wouldn't hold it against you." The sentence came after much delay, and Ossie realized he couldn't remember the last time Ivy had said her sister's name out loud. "That's probably the best way to honor her-- not blaming yourself for it. The fault lies elsewhere. Let it stay there."

Though he found it hard to believe her, he nodded. Agreeing with her--at least to her face--was the least he could do for her and all the problems he'd caused her. "Alright," he murmured. "I will, for you."

Satisfied, Ivy pulled her hand back, though she was a little slow to. Her face was still calm-- too calm, he thought, even when she hadn't learned much new from him. But maybe she'd just learned what to do with her grief. She'd always been tough. If there was any battle playing out in her mind right now, it seemed mostly won.

"Thank you," she said, a little quieter.

He nodded silently. What he didn't say, but what he was thinking, was that he would do anything for any of his friends-- or anyone who was almost more than a friend but wasn't actually. He'd do anything for them because they were his family too, even if they were family in a different way, and Osmond was never going to let his family get hurt again. He'd make sure of that.

On the afternoon of Silas' sixteenth birthday, he and Kyle found themselves closing up the smithy early and heading to Lake Lily. Silas left extra early on purpose, knowing Kyle would want to stop and nibble on enticing sprigs of grass all along the way.

It was a warm day for Aurne, the perfect kind of day for a swim. Silas didn't know how to swim, but he wasn't too worried about that, since he didn't think any of the others did, either.

Silas wasn't fond of birthday parties, but at least this one wasn't a surprise party like the one eleven years ago that ended his residency at the Carver house. There was the possibility that Ramona had some devious surprise up her sleeve that he'd have to watch out for, but it brought him a great sense of relief that he wouldn't turn into a werewolf this time, no matter how loud the explosives.

A week after he'd started lumshade, Silas took the werewolf book out into the smithy and tore it to shreds, dropping each piece into the furnace and watching the orange coals swallow the paper greedily.

It was over.

As the book turned to ash, so too did the weight of darkness on his chest. A peculiar contentedness had settled in its place, and it bewildered him at first. Why wasn't he looking over his shoulder every few minutes? Why had the constant drone of townsfolk softened to a gentle whirr?

On the path to the lake, Silas stepped around the scattering of dead leaves as best he could, while Kyle crashed through them with reckless abandon. As they meandered through the scraggly forest, he was unsurprised to find what appeared to be traps rigged by his cousin. At one point, Kyle went to investigate a trap that had fresh game in it and Silas hurried over to pull him away. As far as he knew, goats were not meant to be carnivorous.

Saoirse popped out from behind a tree. "Kyle," she said. "Dude, We've talked about this."

Silas spun around, startled.

"Huh," Saoirse raised an eyebrow. "You okay? You always hear me from--" she waved a hand, gesturing off in the distance. "I dunno. Not three feet away."

This was one thing he didn't appreciate about the side effects of lumshade. His extraordinary sense of hearing, though over-stimulating, had kept him safe.

"Guess I was distracted," Silas muttered, and quickly changed the subject. "Are you on your way to the lake?"

Saoirse looked down, suddenly much more interested in the trap by their feet. She crouched down to inspect the snare. "About that," she said. "I don't know if me going is a good idea."

"What?" He stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Everybody's been getting singed," Saoirse muttered. "They know how I feel about that. It's your birthday. I don't want to make it awkward for you."

She had a point. But in a way, that was exactly why Silas needed her there. She was the only non-Sun friend he had left.

"And imagine how I'd feel as the only unsinged person there," Silas said.

"...that's a good point."

"So? Are you coming?"

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Silas's shoulders relaxed. "Good. Got any more traps to check, or are you ready to go?"

"That should be all of them," Saoirse said, even though her bag was a little less than half-full. "Lead the way."



When they arrived at Lake Lily, sparkling and blue, everyone else was already there. Ossie was sitting on a log next to the shore, his toes in the water; Ivy and Ramona were wading in the shallows. Caelan, meanwhile, was mid-shirt removal.

Ramona looked up first as Silas and Saoirse stepped out of the trees.

"It's the birthday boy!" she shouted.

Ivy cheered, using Ramona's moment of distraction as the perfect time to launch a surprise attack, kicking up a splash of water in her direction.

Silas laughed. It was good to see everyone together, just messing around. It'd been a while. Ivy dunked Ramona's head under the water as Calean made his final reveal. Beside Silas, Saoirse groaned.

"This is already a spectacle," Saoirse grumbled.

Caelan's suns tattoo was on full display on the right side of his torso, already with two rays. Silas could see Saoirse visibly counting, and not with admiration. She shot Silas a cutting glance of apprehension.

"Silas!" Caelan clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. "'Mona said this is your first swim?"

"Yeah," Silas replied, suddenly intimidated. "Isn't it yours?"

"I may have gone swimming a time or two back in the day," he said, smiling. He put a hand on his hip and gave a slight shrug. "Just don't ask me to play lifeguard."

Saoirse folded her arms, sulking in Silas' shadow.

"You're not going to give it a try?" Caelan asked with a sly smirk.

"Don't act like you're missing out on anything with me sitting out," Saoirse snipped. "There's enough eye candy over there."

She waved mostly to Osmund, but Ramona and Ivy were splashing around in front of him. Caelan rolled his eyes.

"Let's keep things light for Silas's sake, Saoirse," he said, keeping his tone neutral.

But Saoirse had none of it. She pointedly sat down on the nearest rock with indignance, and Caelan shook his head with a sigh. Saoirse then reached into her bag and pulled out her fishing pole, locking the two pieces together.

She began to thread the fishing line.

"Alright then," Caelan said to Saoirse. "Suit yourself." Then, to Silas. "I'm getting in. Come on!"

Silas followed the boys' leads by taking off his own shirt and leaving that, his bandana, his shoes, and his satchel on a rock.

Caelan stepped to the raised ledge on the border of the lake. He said, "Silas, this is for you." With a laugh and a flick of his fingers in a salute, he leapt and disappeared into the water below. He resurfaced, and water streamed down his body as he slowly pushed his wet hair back away from his face.

"The water's great," he called. "It sure would be a shame to miss out on it and sweat on the shore instead."

The water sure looked nice. Silas dipped a toe in. "Cold!" he yelped, drawing his foot back quickly.

"Just jump in," called Caelan. He didn't bother hiding his amusement. "It'll help you get get used to it faster." He began to back away.

Why not, Silas mused. It was his birthday, and this was his first birthday party in ten years.

Determined not to overthink it, he charged up the ledge, squeezed his eyes shut, and threw himself at the water, like a duckling learning to fly.

Cold! Coldcoldcold!

But Caelan was right - the initial shock was already wearing off, and in its place was bubbling exhilaration. Silas sprang to the surface, laughing. The water was just shallow enough that he could stand on his tippy toes.

"He swims!" Ramona shouted from the top of the rock where Silas was before.

"Didn't even look like you were drowning," Ivy praised. "Very good indeed."

"Your turn, Mona!" Silas said.

Ramona squatted slightly, tensing her legs as she prepared to jump off. But right when she was adjusting her balance, a moment away from the leap, Ivy shoved her from behind with a sudden move of the arms that Silas didn't realize had happened until she was drawing back already.

Ramona squealed, spun, and face-planted into the water.

"Oops," Ivy said innocently. "Wow, it's slippery up here. They should put up a sign."

Ramona sunk slowly and then flopped upright, face covered in hair. She parted it like curtains around her mouth.

"I meant to do that," she said.

"Of course," Ivy assured her.

"Clear the area," Ossie said, treading water nearby, "Ivy's next!"

"You'll never take me alive!" With that, Ivy pinched her nose and jumped off the rock.

Everybody fled and shielded themselves for the splash. Saoirse didn't move nearly far enough, however, and found herself doused with water when Ivy landed nearby. She was still coughing and sputtering when Ivy, who had taken an almost worrying amount of time to float back to the surface, reemerged with a cheeky grin.

Ramona burst into laughter. Ossie covered his mouth to hide a grin. Caelan fought a smirk as he opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Saoirse gathered up her gear and moved a few paces down the shore, silent save for her wet socks squelching in the mud. She sat down on a dry rock, tore off a new piece of bait, and got right back to fishing.

"I did give fair warning, right?" Ossie said, too quiet for Saoirse to hear.

That earned him a flick of water from Ivy. "Like you had anything to do with it," she teased.

"Fair point," Ossie said, smiling wider. "How was I to predict the power of your splash zone?"

"Don't even try," Ivy said, with a flip of her wet, unusually straight hair. "It's beyond your imagination."

"Next time I'll just act like one of your bombs is going off, then," Ossie said.

"I think that's wise," Ivy agreed. "Not that you'd ever have to worry about that."

Ramona floated onto her back and began to wiggle her legs, propelling herself blindly towards Silas and Caelan. Silas had to swim backwards to get out of her way, to a point where the lake was too deep for him to touch the bottom. Water got in his mouth and he choked and spluttered.

An arm wrapped around him and pulled him up.

"Here I said I wouldn't be lifeguard," Caelan teased.

Ramona bumped into them, her head butting into Caelan's side. She smacked Silas with her hand in a backwards stroke.

"Oops!" she said, spinning over in the water.

"Hey!" Silas splashed her in retaliation, right in the face. With a glint of mischief, Ramona dug her arms into the water and splashed back at both of them.

Caelan blocked the brunt of the attack with his arms. He raked a hand through his hair to push the strands plastered on his forehead away. "I think both of you need swimming lessons." He sent a wall of water flying her way with his arm.

"How about reading-while-swimming lessons?" Silas said, laughing.

Paddling like a dog, with her eyes pinched shut, Ramona squirted water out of her mouth onto Caelan's shoulder.

"I can shwim jusht fine, thank you," she said behind a wall of hair.

Caelan looked down at her with a face half-frozen with horror and disgust. Then, a devious smile slowly spread over his mouth as he leaned in close and pushed the hair out of her eyes. "I'd have to disagree," he said. He grabbed her under the arms and began dragging her to shore.

Suddenly, Ramona turned into a flailing fish. Her protests turned gurgly and incomprehensible as everyone began to watch and laugh.

When they reached the edge of the lake, Caelan tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and made his way over to the ledge.

"Stand back, everyone!" he called. "We're doing swim lessons, trial by fire. Or should I say, trial by water?" He smirked at Ramona over his shoulder and threw her forward.

She flew like a dying bug, then curled into a ball. The Ramona boulder splashed in front of Silas. Drenching him.

"Hey!" Silas laughed.

With everyone else sufficiently distracted, Silas figured now was as good a time as any to touch base with his... supplier.

He scanned the perimeter of the lake, looking for the goat. Seeing no one but Saoirse and Caelan, he began wading toward the shore. "Wanna help me look for Kyle?" he said over his shoulder.

With her head fresh out of the water, hair in her face like a curtain, Ramona flopped it like a sheet of paper, holding its shape as it curled back.

"Kyle's missing?" she asked, running out of the water with urgency.

"I'm sure he's fine!" Silas said, amused by her panic. "He knows to stick close, but still, I'd like to keep an eye on him." He stepped up onto the pebbly beach and wrung out his hair.

Ramona shook out her arms like boneless sleeves. "He's cross-eyed, Silas! Don't make jokes like that!"

Silas snorted and picked up his satchel. "Sorry, sorry. Come on, let's look through here."

He glanced up to see if Saoirse was watching them and she was. He might've just been seeing things, but it looked like she narrowed her eyes, ever so slightly, like she knew Silas was up to something. He smiled uncomfortably and turned away.

Once they entered the cover of the scraggly forest, he felt safe enough to breach the subject.

"So," he said, "Morgan wanted me to ask you—"

Ramona threw her head back and cackled. Her hair flopped back to its normal shape.

"Morgan wanted to ask me?" she repeated with a teasing lilt.

Silas knew that Ramona knew. There was no denying it anymore. But it was still way easier for him to pretend she didn't, and dance around the truth with Morgan as his pawn. Anything to keep Ramona from pressing him about the why.

He laughed her off. "I've got the money. What do I owe you?"

Ramona pursed her lips and glanced to the side. "...Three silver," she said reluctantly.

Silas nodded and dug around in his satchel. "Has it been causing you any issues? Getting it?" He placed three silverpieces onto her palm.

"Getting it's not the issue," Ramona said, tucking the coins away into the pocket of her shorts. "It's literally my job."

"Then what is?"

Ramona tilted her head to the side with a coy smile, and she held her hands behind her back as she raised her brows, as if expecting the answer to be obvious.

"I just don't get it," she said, softer. "Why you feel like you have to lie."

Silas quickly looked away. Dragons above, why couldn't she just leave it be?

"If we could just talk about it normally, it wouldn't feel so hard, you know?" Ramona said.

Silas shook his head vigorously. "It isn't hard. It's fine."

"I meant for me," Ramona said, quieter, looking at the ground. "It feels weird, talking in code with a friend."

Ouch. He continued to stare at the ground.

"Wait here," Ramona said with a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "Just a second."

She darted back to the lake, still dripping with water.

Silas felt miserable. He knew there was no possibility he could ever tell her the truth, not now, and probably not ever.

It was strange to realize he'd scattered pieces of his true self among his closest people - Morgan, Saoirse, Ramona - and yet none of them had the complete Silas. Morgan knew about the bad dreams. Saoirse knew about the werewolf but not the lumshade; Ramona knew the opposite.

It was isolating, sure. That he could deal with. But when that secrecy hurt his friends?

He heard the sound of crunching leaves behind him and whirled around, thinking Ramona had snuck around back to scare him, but it was just Kyle. Silas leaned down and scratched the goat's rump, sighing.

Ramona came slinking back through the trees with her head ducked down, quiet, and unassuming. She glanced over her shoulder before she gave Silas her full attention, holding something behind her back, hidden in her hands.

"Happy Birthday," she said, revealing two vials in her palm. The purple fluid swished as she offered it.

"Ramona..." Silas' shoulders sank, exasperated by her stubborn kindness. "Why?"

"Don't be stupid," Ramona said, sticking her hand closer. "You know why."

He took her outstretched hand in both of his, covering the vials. He meant to say thank you, but instead "I'm sorry" left his lips.

Ramona awkwardly slapped her free hand over his, still cupping hers. Atop their hand pile, she held a stickers bar.

"You say sorry too much when you're hungry," she said. "Have a snack."

Silas' eyes widened. "A stickers bar!" He was too gleeful to register embarrassment for the voice crack.

Ramona beamed. "Now there's the birthday smile!" She let go of his hands so he could take the bar.

Tucking the vials in his satchel with the coins, Silas then took the bar and broke off a piece for Kyle, who nibbled it greedily. He split the rest in half and offered it to Ramona. "Cheers?"

"Cheers!" Ramona said, triumphantly shoving the whole thing into her mouth.

Silas ate his, too, then licked his sticky fingers. Ramona followed suit.

"Thanks, Mona," he said. "Back to the lake?"

Ramona smiled, and seeds were stuck between her teeth.

"Race ya!" she said, punching his arm. Then she broke into a sprint.

She smoked him, easy. Silas didn't want to jostle the vials, so he cradled the satchel and fast-walked back to shore, placing it gently on the rock with his other things. Kyle skipped along, hoping for more snacks, and stood up on two legs so he could stick his snout in the satchel. Silas had to push him away.

Silas wanted to go back into the water, but Saoirse was giving him that funny look again.

"We found Kyle," he told her.

"I can see that," Saoirse replied drily.

Ramona had gone deeper into the lake to help the others hunt for pretty rocks, leaving Saoirse and Silas a stone's throw away. Saoirse looked like she was waiting for him to tell her something.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Silas asked, avoiding the obvious.

She lifted up a small carp she'd caught, but her expression was flat.

"Are you?" she asked.

Silas nodded. "We should've come here sooner." He gestured at the beautiful vista: lake, trees, friends.

She hummed. "What were you doing with Ramona that had to be secret?"

Saoirse. Ever blunt.

"Secret?!" he said. "We were looking for Kyle."

"We tell each other everything. Right?" she asked. "I already know more about you than anyone else. We're family."

"Of course," he said, an uncomfy dread twisting in his belly for the second time that day.

"Then spit it out already," she said.

Silas stepped backwards, toward the water. "It's nothing, I swear."

He turned to rejoin his friends.

Saoirse, his cousin, bore holes into the back of his head as he walked away.

"You wanted me to come here," she whispered.

Silas turned back around and threw up his hands, exasperated. Maybe that was a mistake, he thought.

"Of course I did," he spoke out loud. "We're family. Like you said."

Saoirse's lips pressed into a line, and he could tell there was more she wanted to say, but the others were drawing near to the shore again, within earshot.

"Of course," she echoed.

There was a tug on her line, where her fishing pole had sat idle, leaning on the rock. She grabbed it, and with split attention, finished under her breath: "I just want to stay friends too."

There was a sudden cheer behind him. Silas looked. None other than Kyle was testing the waters, and everyone was very excited about it.

Silas gave his cousin one last pained look and a nod that he hoped conveyed his pledge of loyalty. He would tell her. He would tell her everything. Just not yet.

For now, Silas had a birthday party to enjoy, and Kyle was learning how to swim.

Tied around Ramona's waist was a rope carried from her childhood, always tugging. It strung between her and Ivy's homes, from Ramona's living room to Ivy's shed, from her hands to her hands, year to year.

When it came to friendship, some things were inherent, and some things were human. But Ramona had no explanation for the slack. A corrosive desperation curled her fingers against Ivy's door, and her knock was a tug, hoping she would answer. Because these days, she knew when Ivy was there.

She just didn't act like it.

"Hey, Ivy?" Ramona called, bouncing on her heels.

A droning silence met her ears, like aggressive vacancy. The problem was, Ramona knew Ivy was tinkering because they had the same strings. Uriah would point her in a direction, and Ivy in another - and while Ramona never blamed work for stretching them thin, she didn't like how far away Ivy felt, even when she was just behind the door.

Autumn air nipped through her thin coat. The ruddy mud around her was a monochromatic blanket for everything in the Sticks: dead, red, and brown. Ramona knocked again.

"Ives?"

The silence stretched even longer and thinner. Just before it seemed like the only possibility was for Ivy to ignore her, the door creaked open.

Ivy was almost as pale as the clouds overhead these days. Ramona didn't know when that had happened-- it couldn't have been a sudden change, but it felt like one day she'd blinked and noticed she couldn't remember the last time she'd stood in the sun with her friend. They'd done that all the time as kids. Now, by appearances, it looked like those days had never happened.

One thing was constant, though. The light in Ivy's eyes remained bright-- it just felt like it wasn't for Ramona anymore.

"Mona," Ivy greeted, tilting her head curiously as she leaned elegantly against the doorframe, tossing thick auburn braids over her shoulder. "What brings you by?"

It was too much to say: I need you. That would make the rope a noose. So instead, Ramona pulled a small box out of her jacket pocket and presented it with a bright smile.

"For you!" she said.

Ivy picked it up, but didn't open it just yet, instead examining it carefully. The smile on her face grew with intrigue. "What's the special occasion?"

"I just saw it and thought of you," Ramona said with a shrug.

"Aw," Ivy said appreciatively, tucking the box away in one of the pouches on her belt. "That's really nice of you."

Ramona nodded, though she didn't feel like the niceness needed to be said. It felt weird to acknowledge it. When did they get to the point of acknowledging it instead of just doing it? When did it stop feeling natural?

"Well, come on, aren't you going to open it?" she asked with a little laugh. It felt forced.

"Oh! Duh." With a start, Ivy scrambled to retrieve the box again, popping the lid off and peering inside.

Ramona bit her lip and held her breath. Ivy's fingers curled tightly around the matchbox, lifting it closer to her face. She didn't really understand why she was doing it-- it wasn't like Ivy would need to read the label closely, and it hid more of her expression. From what Ramona could tell, though, Ivy seemed almost... well, confused. Like she wasn't sure what Ramona had given her this for.

Then Ivy looked up, and she was smiling again, and Ramona couldn't tell if she'd made all of that up or not.

"These are cool," Ivy said with a bright tone, tapping the lid. "Good brand, good quality. Where'd you get them? Or is that confidential?"

Ramona huffed, pulling up another smile. "Oh, well, for the sake of mystery, I'll keep my sources secret."

"Classified it is, then." With a chuckle, Ivy moved to put the matches in the same pouch she'd stuffed the box in, but this time she seemed to hold it tighter in the moment before she let it go. Maybe.

"So!" Ramona said. "I was wondering if you'd want to meet up later today. I heard that farmer Creed's pumpkin patch is pretty right now, and thought maybe we could catch it before the picking."

Ivy's face fell a little bit with regret, and the minute she saw it, Ramona knew she had her answer before her friend even spoke.

"You know, I don't think I can make it." Ivy sighed, shaking her head slightly as she glanced back over her shoulder into the dim workshop. "I'm really sorry. Uriah's got a project deadline for me, and I'm barely going to make it as is. I don't think I can take any time off before it's done."

"Oh, well -- hey, Ives, that's fine. I get it. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your work, for sure," Ramona said with a quick nod. "We could always catch each other another time, when you're less busy."

"Oh, yeah, for sure," Ivy confirmed with a nod of her own.

If Ramona could take those words and carve them in her heart, she would. But she was getting used to empty assurances. Disappointment tugged the rope between.

"Well, I don't want to keep you," Ramona said.

"I really wish there wasn't anything keeping me. It's just--" Ivy sighed again, leaning deeper against the doorframe. "I'm out of copper wiring. It's not normally an issue, but none of the regular places have it, and I don't know where to ask. I can still get the job done with substitutes, but it's really holding things up, and I'm wasting all this time I could be spending on other work, or things that aren't even work-related."

A light ignited in her mind.

Copper wiring. Ramona knew a guy - who knew a guy - who could get copper wiring. Right? And, well, it would be easy enough. She'd just have to pull a few strings. Especially if it would free Ivy up!

"Oh -- I could get some for you!" she blurted.

"Well-- hold on," Ivy said, holding up a hand with a slight laugh. "That's really nice, but I can't ask that of you. It's not worth your trouble anyway."

"No, it's really not a big deal!" Ramona said. "If I can help, I want to, okay? You're too holed up as is."

"Mona..." Ivy hesitated, glancing behind her again. "I mean, if you want to look around, I won't stop you. You'd probably be better at it than me. But if you change your mind or come up empty-handed, it's fine. I'll just figure something else out."

Ramona scoffed and propped her hand up on her hip, giving Ivy a look.

"Come on, Ivy," she said. "When have I ever done you wrong?"


Ramona cleaned herself up as much as she could, but that meant it was late. The sun was down, the streets were busy, and the air was cold. In the morning, it bit, but at night it'd pierce you. Layering up only did so much when she was still growing.

The sky had just turned into a scroll of stars when Ramona stopped at Ivy's shed again.

In most circumstances, she would be eager to regale Ivy with her adventure. The story would be spilling off her tongue, and she'd know Ivy wanted to hear it. But something clipped her mouth shut when she knocked on the door, and all of those visions were pressed down and buried.

The putrid sweatshop. The hidden basement. The heat of the man's breath, and hiding her desperation. It would be one thing to make a deal over lumshade. She did that every day.

But the truth was that specialty items like copper wiring weren't so simple to find. Copper was in Morgan's smithy, but he made weapons and tools -- or used to. Silas was the one running the show, and he didn't do mechanical wiring.

The people who did that... well, they were a lot like Ivy. They didn't live in the sun.

In truth, Ramona cleaned up because she wanted to get rid of the feeling of grime, not the presence of it.

The knock on Ivy's workshop door was met with silence again, but less of a wait.

"Who's there?" Ivy's tone was wary, layered with some exhaustion. It was a late hour to be working at, but of course, she'd be here.

"A delivery for Ms. Ives," Ramona said sweetly. "From yours truly."

Hesitant footsteps sounded from inside, before the door opened to reveal Ivy. Candlelight flickered behind her friend, leaving most of her features in darkness, but Ramona could still see the hint of something obsessive in her eyes.

"You really got it," Ivy said, not as much a question as a realization.

Ramona held out the box, much bigger than the one she'd presented that morning. Since she didn't know how much Ivy needed, she got her ten spools. It seemed like a decent enough amount: only Ramona didn't know if it was.

Ivy accepted it, lifting the lid immediately to scan its contents. She unraveled a filament, pinching and rubbing it between her fingers for a moment. Evidently satisfied, she looked up again and met Ramona's eyes with a nod.

"This should do it," she confirmed, replacing the lid again. "Thanks."

And in that moment, Ramona's heart sank. She didn't know why, but she'd expected something more. Ivy wasn't even interested in what it took for Ramona to get it.

And maybe she wasn't supposed to be.

All of that... it'd stay with her.

"Yeah, of course," Ramona said, smiling warmly. "Anything for you."

Ivy smiled back, resting the box against her hip. "Get some sleep, alright?"

"Hey," Ramona said, lightly tapping Ivy's arm with her fist. "You too, you little firecracker."

"Sure, sure," Ivy said, waving her hand breezily before reaching for the doorknob. "I'll see you around, alright?"

Around.

No pumpkins.

Ramona waved back. "I'll see you."

And when the door shut, it was like Ivy was never there. Ramona stood still in the dark, staring at the faint crack of light under the door, but the distance between them felt far greater than the slab of wood between their bodies.

When Ramona pulled away, she felt the rope pull tighter. When she left the yard, it slackened even more.

It was a long walk home, and she only lived a few houses down.


Hoss was in the kitchen, and the house smelled like urine. The room felt smaller with everyone in it.

Smoke fogged the air. Something fatty was sizzling in the skillet, where Hoss was turned away, shirtless, by the wood-burning stove. Even from behind, the tattoo on the side of his neck was a stark blue on his pale, freckled skin. His wide shoulders filled the whole kitchen.

Ron sat at the table, hunched over a sketchbook, scratching away with charcoal and graphite. He was turned to the firelight, but he didn't look up when she entered.

The house wasn't warm enough when she stepped inside. Years of weather wore down the walls. The insulation was unsalvageable, the fire in the stove was meager compensation, and no one wanted to change it. While Hoss was burning up, Ramona pulled her coat tight around her shoulders, wondering why it felt colder inside than out.

She still wasn't used to seeing Hoss cooking.

Ramona snuck in.

"Mother needs a bath," Hoss announced, but he didn't turn his head.

Ron looked up. His shaggy, brown hair looked more like his mother's. So did his round cheeks.

"I'll get it," Ramona volunteered quickly, causing Hoss to cast a raised brow.

But neither of them said anything more as she turned into the bedroom.

One of her brothers had already prepared the tub in the corner of the room, but one dip of her finger confirmed it was lukewarm. That meant it'd feel cold, but at least bearable, and that was really all Ramona could hope for with her mother.

When she closed the door behind her, her mother didn't stir on the sleeping mat on the floor. Too many times, Ramona had thought to check her pulse from how still she was, and even still, she hoped for something. A response. A word. Even a grunt would do.

But silence was the new normal, and when Ramona gently lifted her mother up, stripped her clothes, and carried her to the bathtub, she couldn't help but think it wasn't many years ago when her mother did this for her, when she was a kid. Except, then, Ramona was at least... there.

Her mother stared blankly at the wall as Ramona massaged soap into her hair. Ramona stared blankly at her mother's back, and how spotted and wrinkled it'd become. Bruises and bedsores marked her hips and her sides, and she couldn't help but feel like her mother was twenty years older than she actually was.

People weren't supposed to deteriorate this young.

She dumped water over her mother's head and then brought her out. Dried her off. Wiped the crust from under her fingers and led her mother out to the table.

Nothing about family meals felt real anymore.

They sat, each facing each other, but no one looked the other's way. Ramona had to help her mother eat - and hope she'd swallow - the overcooked meat and vegetables Hoss had thrown into a pan.

By the time their plates were cleared, Hoss had already risen to his feet.

No goodbyes were said as he left.

With a sigh, Ramona helped her mother back out of her chair and led her back to the bedroom. For six feet of movement, the journey was painfully slow. Lying mother down was like releasing a burden that might not wake up tomorrow. Tucking her in felt empty.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and stopped.

Something about growing up was too heavy.

She watched her brother at the sink, with all of their plates stacked beside him. Hollow resignation wore his face. He didn't wear it. And yet, Ramona envied him, because of all of their siblings, Ron looked the most like their mother. It was like Simon's genes had passed over him, and all he got were their freckles.

He was bigger and stronger. Fourteen years old, and soft at every edge. He had none of their bony joints or gangly limbs. None of their towering heights or shocking hair.

Ron got to be normal. But he also carried the responsibility of taking care of their mother when Ramona and Hoss weren't around.

That ate away at her.

Ramona stepped into the kitchen and slid next to him, taking the clean plate from his hands.

He washed, she dried.

And with every plate that passed through her hands, she couldn't help but wonder if anything could've changed their lot in life. Maybe if Ramona had done something differently, circumstances would be easier. It was too much to expect any warmth these days: not in her walls, not in her home, not in her family. Not with her friends, not with the suns, not in the Sticks. Every time she tried to burn bright, she was smothered in a blanket.

Nothing. Just business, and detachment.

If comfort had to be earned, then maybe she had to do better. She could understand, now, why Hoss had worked so hard. She could see how much responsibility he bore and how much he'd taken care of their family, where no one else could.

He stepped up before their dad died. And for all his fighting words, he wasn't the one who left Simon for dead. She was. He gave mother money to keep food on the table, and he made sure she stayed alive when she fell apart. Ramona hadn't been present. Only now was she picking up the slack.

Too many ropes, tugging her in different directions.

Ivy, her family, the suns.

But she didn't want to be Hoss. All she could remember, after all, was hating him for so, so long.

Ramona took in a deep breath and stacked the last plate.

She couldn't see the end to that. Unless she'd just reached it.

The bolt groaned as Caelan turned the key in the lock. He withdrew the key and shoved it into his pocket. As he placed a hand on the dusty door handle, he let his eyes rove over the crumbling frame, the splintering wood that kept his childhood house shut tight. Had it always seemed so tired, so worn? Though he had never exactly seen it as a secure haven, it had been home.

Caelan tightened his grip on the handle and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath slowly in and out, he pushed the door open and took a step over the threshold.

Everything was exactly as he had left it. The chairs were pushed in neatly at the table. The blankets were straight, without a wrinkle, covering the beds and the small lump of pillows upon them. Only, everything was now all covered in a thick layer of dust. Whitish, like icy snow. Or pale gray, like ash in the pit of a dead fire.

Caelan shut the door and pressed his back against it. He swallowed hard as he felt a lump form in his throat. He placed a hand over his torso, feeling the tenderness of the spot where his third sun ray had been tattoed just a day ago. He tried to focus on the pain and not on the fact that he had reached greater heights than ever before and yet, there was no longer anyone for him to share in his success with.

He sighed and opened his bag, rifling through its contents to the bottom, and he pulled out a small pouch. He stepped towards his mother's bed and knelt next to it. He bent down and reached underneath it, prying some of the frame boards apart. Then he felt for the small hole in the bottom of the dried grass-filled mattress and stuffed the pouch inside. He hadn't known about this hiding spot until he had cleaned out the house and discovered that his mother had been stashing a small sum of money there. He wondered how many times over the years that she had had to dip into this reserve that she had accumulated from the meager earnings she made. Was the 'providing' that he was so proud of a few years ago really worth anything in comparison to what she had done for them?

Caelan pushed the bedframe boards back into place and stood. He dusted the knees of his pants off, and then he grabbed the broom from its corner of the kitchen and swept furiously. He sneezed as soon as his nose began to itch from the flying particles, and then he willed tears to gather in his eyes.

His eyes were red and tears were trickling down his cheeks as he opened the door and swept the dust outside. He coughed once and swiped his face with an arm. Next, he brought the blankets out one by one and shook them out. After that, he took them back inside and spread them over the beds again. He locked the door of the house and, with his hand still on the knob, he stood there in silence for a few minutes. Then he strode away, head lowered, still sniffling.

That ought to be enough of a show to fool whoever was spying on him on his true motive for returning to his childhood house and to conceal his secret hiding spot. No one was going to take anything from him anymore. Not if he could help it.


Almost as soon as he stepped foot back into the Suns' base, Darren jogged up to him. He was a junior runner who had clung to Caelan almost as soon as he had joined the Suns, becoming one of Caelan's many connections and valuable sources of information in the organization. The boy practically hopped into step next to Caelan and said, "Hey Caelan, Uriah's looking for you."

Caelan let out a "hmm," and he slung an arm around Darren's shoulders. "Did he say why?"

"Not actually sure this time," replied Darren. His face, which had lit up at Caelan's act of friendliness, began to take on a look of uncertainty and worry. He seemed to shrink down a little. "I'm really sorry, I couldn't read him. He didn't look mad at least--which he shouldn't be, because why would he be mad at you? But I'm sure it's got to be fine. Maybe he has a new . . ."

Caelan let him nervous-ramble for a few more seconds before he put on a reassuring grin. "Hey, don't worry about it. Whatever it is, I can handle it." He released Darren and stepped ahead of him. "You just focus on working hard. Let me know if you hear anything interesting." He put up a hand in a wave without looking back.

"Oh, yes! Yes, I will!" the runner called after him. But Caelan's mind was already turning to analyze every possible reason Uriah could have called for him and what moves he might have to make in a meeting with the Six.

Caelan willed his heartbeat to slow and he took a few prolonged, deep breaths as he neared Uriah's study. Then he squared his shoulders and pasted on his best nonchalant but ever-dutiful smile before knocking on the door.

The door opened with no wait.

"Caelan." Uriah smiled. "Come in."

He stretched out his arm towards the couches seated at the center of the room, circled around a chess board on a coffee table.

Caelan stepped past him and stood in front of one of the couches, the one that all of the guests in Uriah's study sat on. He watched the older man, waiting for him to make the first move.

Uriah motioned for Caelan to sit. So Caelan obliged, and Uriah sat across from him, perched on the end of his seat.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Tea?"

Caelan tilted his head slightly and after a moment, he said, "Only if you'll share it with me." He quirked a corner of his mouth up.

It was a smirk Uriah mirrored. "A fine deal."

"Coffee," said Caelan. He watched Uriah as he went to prepare the drinks.

Uriah set the cup of coffee in front of Caelan, then returned to his seat with his own. He crossed his legs and leaned back, letting his drink cool.

"I wanted to express my deepest condolences," Uriah said. "I heard about the passing of your mother. Losing a parent is a pain like no other."

Caelan took the cup of coffee in his hands. He stared into the black depths, at his distorted, wavy reflection within. Uriah's statement was not what he had expected. He didn't have to put on a complete act as he cleared his throat and cast a brief glance at the older man. "Thank you," he whispered. Then he lifted the drink to his lips and grimaced at both the nearly scalding temperature and the taste of the coffee.

Thankfully his mouth was hidden behind the cup.

"How are you faring?" Uriah asked.

Caelan shrugged. "I'm doing fine," he said. "It's getting better."

"It does. With time," Uriah hummed.

A pause.

"Are you finding any comfort among your friends?"

His friends?

Caelan looked at his hands. "I haven't seen most of them in a while," he said. He straightened. "Suns business keeping me busy."

Uriah's brows pinched together. "If that's an issue... I could lighten the load," Uriah said.

"No, no, I'm not asking you to give me less work," replied Caelan. "I like what I do, and, well, I think being busy is a good thing for me." He shot Uriah a look. "But don't use my words as an excuse to pile everyone else's jobs on me. I've got enough on my plate, thank you very much."

Uriah bowed his head. "Message recieved. I'll leave your workload alone."

"Thanks," said Caelan, and another smirk slid across his face. He was glad that it seemed that Uriah was fine with jokes or light needling. That way, maybe he could continue to get closer to him and further into his good graces by acting friendly.

"That said, it's important to find support in your friends," Uriah continued. "Is there anyone you're able to go to, to relieve your burdens?"

Everything else aside, Uriah was awfully interested in Caelan's personal life or friendships. That was odd for him to suddenly ask so many questions when he had never really done so in the past. But two could play this game.

"Everyone has been really kind and helpful recently," he said. "But I don't feel like I exactly have anything burdening me." He leaned back. "What do you do when you feel troubled, sir?"

"I've always leaned on those closest to me. For me, that's my closest friend - my wife," he answered. "She's my rock."

"I see." Caelan nodded. "You two have been together for a long time."

It did not make much sense to him, relying on someone else like that. But then, he had very little in his own life to go off of. He had never known his own father, who evidently had done nothing good for Caelan's mother. And Caelan just couldn't imagine being tied down by someone else like that, especially not while he was still stuck in Sticks.

"It's been 20 years," Uriah said wistfully. "Every moment worthwhile."

"That's truly admirable, sir," said Caelan. He felt the muscles in his face growing stiff as he kept his smile in place. "She must be such a source of support and strength to be a great leader."

"Indeed," Uriah said, but there was a glint in his eyes that told Caelan he was well aware of the game they were playing. Neither were being forthright, but it seemed like Uriah was about to.

"Well, there's no fishing with you, is there?" Uriah said. "I'll be plain. I do sincerely feel for your loss. That said, I have been on a painfully long search to console mine."

Finally. Caelan leaned forward, unable to hide a little pleased smirk even as his eyes were intent on Uriah.

"I have a son," Uriah said. "He should be about your age. But when he was just an infant, I was betrayed, and he was stolen from me. All these years, I've been trying to find him, but other forces have fought to hide him from me. But I know now, that he isn't far."

Uriah's eyes locked with Caelan's, intense and cutting.

"Do you know a girl named Saoirse?"

Saoirse . . . Did she have something to do with Uriah's son? She wasn't really close with anyone, especially not these days, except for--

"Hmm." Caelan straightened. "I imagine you know that I do know her."

"Bit of a weasel, that one," Uriah said with a bitter smile. But in his eyes, was wrath.

"I can certainly agree with you on that," replied Caelan. "We never got along well, but she spent a lot of time with our group of friends when we were young. She mostly stays away from us now."

Uriah's son was Silas. It made so much sense now. How had he not seen the resemblance between them?

"Then you, at least, ought to know the company she still keeps," Uriah said.

"I do," said Caelan. "In fact, I still keep his company as well." He rested his chin in one of his hands. "I was the one who taught him to read."

"And his name?"

"With all due respect, will I receive some sort of reward for telling you?" Caelan gave Uriah the most innocent doe-eyed look he could muster.

"Caelan, you have shown the most promise, the most fealty, and the most tact of all the suns I've seen in this generation," Uriah said. "And I respect you for your ambition. In this matter: whatever it is you'd have, name it. And it's yours."

"Thank you," Caelan answered. He began to feel a slight sense that he was at a loss as he tried to consider what he could possibly ask for. He really didn't know. He knew he wanted riches and power, but what was the best thing he could ask for? What would set him up for the best route to success in his goal? This was the opportunity of a lifetime, receiving 'anything' from the most powerful man in Sticks. He didn't want to mess up.

So he did the only thing that made sense to him at the moment. "I will have to consider what it is that I would like as my reward," he said. "For now, I would like a written agreement from you that reflects what we have discussed today."

"You've always been shrewd. Alright, then," he said, walking to his desk. "I'll honor it."

As soon as Uriah had signed the agreement and held it out, Caelan took it and scanned it over. A thrill ran through him. This was power, limitless potential. Hope.

"Thank you, boss," he said. He folded the paper and carefully put it in his pocket. "His name is Silas."

Uriah's gaze turned sharp. His smile turned wolfish as he extended his hand for a shake.

"A pleasure doing business, Caelan."

"Always," said Caelan, taking Uriah's hand. "I live to please."


"Caelan."

No one could say his name with more distaste than Mr. Lowe. Somehow, he managed to fill it with so much disgust and condescension, if it were fuel it'd set the Sticks on fire.

The man's stress-hardened face tilted back with a frown as he held the door open in reluctance. The room Caelan snuck into as a child was now one he was welcomed to with no reservations. The lab's sweet smell only grew stronger from years of exposure to lumshade's fumes.

"Everything he asked for," Mr. Lowe said. A script, on repeat.

Caelan looked over all of the items. Everything was right, as always. As infuriating as the man was, he was nothing if not thorough and precise with his work.

"I hope it meets your expectatations," Mr. Lowe continued in forced politeness.

"Of course," replied Caelan with equally false courtesy. "Only the best from the Suns' favorite lumshade chemist."

It brought Caelan pleasure to see Mr. Lowe's lip curl beneath his mustache in contempt. Age had not been kind to him, and lines creased deeply around his eyes when they narrowed.

"Anything for the six."

"And nothing less," said Caelan, smiling with exponentially more serenity than he truly felt inside. "After all, he is the reason you live in the lap of luxury while the rest of Sticks starves."

Heels clapped against the hardwood floor and stopped in front of the doorway. The white-haired woman stopped with rigid shoulders and a head held high.

"You," Mrs. Lowe sneered. "Conclude your business. We have our own to attend to."

Caelan sneered back as he lowered himself into an exaggerated flourish of a bow. "I could never have guessed that there would be something more important for you two than making money. I can certainly take my leave." He lifted the goods into his arms, and he brushed past Mrs. Lowe into the hallway.

Mrs. Lowe let out a small exclamation. "What a horrid little rat," she muttered to her husband.

Caelan's hands clenched around the box he was carrying.

He knew that they were following him out to the main hall. They never trusted him, always believing that he would steal something if they didn't keep him in their vision in any place other than the foyer.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned towards the couple again. He was taller than both of them, now. It enabled him to look down his nose at them, the way they had always looked at him when he was a child. "You two must be tired, what with your need to keep eyes on one horrid little rat all the time." He glanced at his hands and said, "No grubby paws free to smear all over your pure white walls or good carpets here."

"No class and no manners." Mrs. Lowe sniffed, and she turned away as if he no longer existed. She waved down a servant as she walked away. "You, is the young lady's room all ready for her return today?"

The servant dipped into a curtsy. "Of course, madam. Everything is in order."

"I'll be the judge of that," retorted Mrs. Lowe, and she stalked down the hall towards the part of the Lowe mansion that Caelan knew so well but hadn't stepped foot in for years. Meanwhile, Mr. Lowe made his way down the stairs and towards the door that led to the stables.

Caelan watched them disappear, then he let himself out of the front door without waiting for anyone to see him off. He walked slowly down the path, contemplating.

So Cassia was finally back. If he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't given her much thought over the last several years. He had been too busy surviving and hustling to spare any moment reminiscing about a spoiled, frilly, frivolous, bossy girl who had forced him to play pretend with her in ridiculous costumes when they were children.

He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. Well, it didn't stop him from being curious about how she had turned out after all that time.

Caelan spent the rest of his trek back into town deep in thought. He gave everyone who greeted him a perfunctory wave and smile, but his mind was racing with new ideas. And they might just change everything . . .

He was pulled back out of his head when something rammed into his chest. There was the loud sound of things--books--tumbling to the ground. And a horrified, "No!"

Caelan glanced down his nose at the figure in front of him who was now picking up several books and trying to brush the dirt off of them. At first, all he saw was the extravagant, bright pink dress, no doubt made almost impossibly large and poofy by layers and layers of petticoats and crinoline. He fought back the urge for his lip to curl back into a scowl. These empty-headed rich folks who treated Sticks like somewhere to tour and view exhibits of poverty. It did make him feel good, though, that the young woman was practically kneeling to him.

His gaze then flicked to the cover of the book on top of the growing stack in her arms. Our Passionate Embrace at Midnight. My Newlywed Cowboy Husband is Actually the Cold Duke of the North. I Accidentally Married the Enemy Emperor. Goodness, yet another person with questionable taste in reading material. Of course, Caelan had read those too--for research purposes. He often read popular romance stories to gain insight into what techniques he could possibly add to his arsenal of manipulation. After all, he could get away with nearly anything, no matter how ridiculous he felt that it was, because he was the most handsome man in Sticks.

Then he noticed the tendrils of long, curly dark hair escaping from a once-elegant updo, and next were the amber eyes meeting his and the mole on her left cheekbone. The features that he'd recognize anywhere, even if their owner had grown up.

He stared down at her, glad that he had mastered the art of an impassive face. She stared back at him with widening eyes and slightly parted lips. He knew that expression quite well. The seconds dragged on silently until he opened his mouth.

"Watch it," he said, and he stepped around her and kept walking without looking back.

Ivy wasn't sure what woke her up first-- the pain in her back or the soft but undeniable creak of the workshop door opening.

She almost fell out of her chair trying to sit up too quickly, pulling away from the hard surface of the workdesk. There was a line imprinted on her cheek from where she'd fallen asleep against the thread of wire, and she raised her hand to rub it as she stared blearily at the fierce morning light streaming in from outside, trying to make sense of the figure she saw standing in its path.

"You do have your own room, you know," Adonis remarked gently as he stepped inside, carefully manuevering around the tripwire in his way. "It's even got a pillow or two."

Whatever Ivy meant to say, it turned into a wordless grumble as she slumped back into her chair. Her spine ached in protest of the movement.

"You need sleep, Ivy," Adonis said, more seriously this time as he stopped to stand in front of her desk. His arms were folded over his chest, but she could still see that his hands were clean of ink-- he hadn't started his workday yet. The unfamiliarity of the sight startled her thoughts into alertness.

"I am sleeping," Ivy pointed out, gesturing at herself. It wasn't the best of retorts, but she hadn't exactly had much time to think of one.

"You're collapsing," Adonis corrected. "There is a difference."

Ivy rubbed her face again, staring at him as she waited for him to make his point. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been scolded by him. This didn't actually feel like scolding, but it was new in some way. What way, though? Was he... disappointed in her? Angry, somehow?

"I hardly see you anymore." Adonis's voice got quieter with each word, but the emotion behind it only became clearer.

Hurt. That was it.

Ivy straightened despite the soreness it brought her, inhaling deeply and meeting his eyes as she thought of what to say next. She couldn't use excuses with him the way she could with Ramona-- at least, not the same excuses. Adonis saw through false promises. Emotional appeals, though... Those still worked.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she murmured, because he always reacted better when she called him that. "I'm trying to make it back most nights. They're just asking so much of me, and I..."

She could have added more, but the look on Adonis's face was already softening, and she figured that was enough for now.

"I could talk to Uriah," he suggested, though he didn't sound sure of that idea. "If he knew how hard you were working--"

Ivy shook her head. "No. I don't want him thinking I can't do this." Not when she needed to prove to him that she could handle more.

Adonis hesitated, then nodded in silent understanding, his gaze lowering a bit. She didn't need to follow it to know he was looking at her arm. The patch of skin just below the crease of her left elbow was still pink, wrinkled and fleshy, and it would probably stay that way. The burn hadn't hurt. Not really. She'd just looked over at some part of the process and stared at the too-close flames that hadn't been there a moment ago, seeing without seeing. Everyone had been shocked when she'd told them she'd finished her test before seeking medical attention, but she still wasn't sure what the big deal was. She could take it. It was time everyone started acting like she could.

"I'm sure he doesn't think that," Adonis said. "Still... he might not be aware of all the effort you're investing. If he did, I'm sure you'd have at least one more ray by now."

Another ray. It was like there were strings pulling her focus back into place-- like the sleepy haze still hanging over her had been tugged away. The details and edges of the dim room sharpened in her vision. Even the air currents over her skin felt cooler. Ivy got to her feet, tilting her head thoughtfully as she swept tools aside on the desk.

"You think? Already?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest as she contemplated her setup. "I've only been on the force three years."

"You've done more in three years than many Suns do in ten," Adonis pointed out. "I could tell him about that. Your hours would probably decrease with a promotion, too-- you wouldn't need to overwork yourself like this."

This was practically falling into her lap. Ivy had been waiting for a chance like this: the jump from Two to Three was more pronounced than most others. At that point, she wouldn't be a rookie anymore. People wouldn't ask where she was going or what she was doing. She would be trusted to make her way around, accepted as a long-term member. And she was going to make sure they regretted ever giving her that trust.

"That'd be nice," Ivy said. "Maybe with the raise, I could even buy myself the luxury of a pillow. Another one, I mean."

Adonis chuckled, wearing a fond expression as he shook his head.

"I'll talk to him," he said. "On one condition."

"And what's that?"

"You start getting some actual sleep."

Ivy let out a laugh, although it sounded closer to a scoff than she'd meant. "Sure. Sure."

"No, kiddo, I mean it." The severe tone of Adonis's voice was at once sudden and yet reluctant-- like he knew what he had to say, but he didn't want to. "I'm worried about you. You can't keep this up forever."

"Can't I?" If she'd thought for even one heartbeat longer, she wouldn't have asked the question. She couldn't be saying the first thing that leapt into mind anymore. That was dangerous now.

Adonis wilted a bit. Wilted. There was a time she'd never seen him do that at all-- and even now, she still felt like she should be reacting with the same shock as she would have then.

"I knew someone like you in that aspect," he said softly. "Over two decades ago. She wasn't safe at home, so she was always out working. At first, it made sense-- she had something she wanted to get away from, and so she poured her time into other things. It was a good excuse until it was an obsession, and I don't know when it crossed the line. But once it did, I don't think there was any coming back." He paused. "I've seen what it looks like for a person to deteriorate, wearing themselves down into nothing for the sake of some pursuit. I don't want to see that with you."

A hundred faces, all of them from the people she saw trudging around Sticks, flashed through Ivy's mind. She knew that expression they always wore: that sunken, weary heaviness of someone who believed life was nothing more than a series of torments to limp through. No particular person came to mind, though. Certainly not herself.

She had purpose. She wasn't going to numb herself to the world.

Part of her was frustrated he was drawing this parallel; another part of her could only blame herself for not sufficiently avoiding his concern. But even still, she couldn't help but wonder who Adonis was picturing right now.

"But I've got a good home to return to," Ivy said. "I'm not avoiding anything. I'm just... doing what I like."

"I know," Adonis said gently. "Just don't lose yourself to it."

Ivy did think before speaking this time. He didn't get it, and really, she couldn't expect him to. He would have to be pacified, though, even if it meant doing what he wanted for a short while.

"Okay." She would've faked a yawn, but found herself sighing a real one, rolling back her shoulders in a stretch. "I'm going to take a nap in a few minutes, I guess." A beat passed. "At home."

Adonis patted her on the shoulder before stepping back, and she offered him a smile. He always trusted those from her. He returned it briefly before glancing around the workshop, then to the door.

"I've got some errands to run," he said. "But I'll be sure to find Uriah today. Make good choices, alright, kiddo?"

Ivy rolled her eyes playfully. "Hardly a kiddo anymore, but sure."

"Don't be silly. You'll always be my kid." Adonis smiled again, this time a little wider, before pointing a finger at her with mock sternness. "Sleep."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Also, consider taking a walk around afterwards," Adonis added. "Feel some sunlight. See some faces. Maybe Ossie's."

Ivy blinked. "...In particular?"

"Or anyone's face, really," Adonis said, almost too quickly. "Anyone will do. People have been asking where you are."

Well, 'people' were being stupid then. She could always be found in the same place. Nevertheless, she made a mental note of the request.

"Alright," she said agreeably. "Sleep, sunshine and faces. Will do."

With that, Adonis left, and the workshop was quiet once again. Ivy waited a few seconds to be sure anyway before walking over to a cabinet on the far side of the room. She pulled open the second drawer down, finding the notebook inside without looking. Its worn buckram cover was rough against her fingertips as she flipped it open. She didn't know what drove her to skip to a particular page, cypher after cypher in her handwriting flicking by, but she soon found herself staring at a diagram of the Blue Suns base that she'd drawn herself, detailed enough to practically be its blueprint. A string of small crosses marking ideal detonation locations wrapped around its perimeter rooms, but the large X in the center was the one impossible to miss.

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly raised, and for a moment, she was struck by the certain feeling that someone was reading over her shoulder. Even a paranoid glance behind her to find nothing there couldn't stop her from snapping the notebook shut and shoving it back into the drawer it had came from.

Ivy would need to return home. At the very least, she had to make it look like she'd slept there. Some pillows would need rearranging.



The summons came the next day. To say she'd been expecting it wasn't quite true-- for all her efforts into learning Uriah's schedule, Ivy had determined he wasn't predictable enough for her to know his every move. Some people could be mapped out like the diagrams for her assemblies, every motive and tendency plain and simple. But habit was dangerous for a man in Uriah's position, and Ivy knew by now he wasn't foolish enough to be bound in its chains.

The aspect that didn't surprise her as much was that Adonis had been swift with his recommendation. He was just as eager as her to see her promoted.

Ivy rolled back her shoulders as she stared down the door to Uriah's study, trying to conjure the cool calmness she'd need before she could walk in. The anger wasn't allowed to rear its head here, but she'd stopped thinking of it as ugly. It could be tamed, whispered to when no one was around to notice it. It listened to promises of how it could finally show its face one day.

With a deep breath, she put on a smile-- the one she'd rehearsed in the mirror to be equal parts clever and charming-- and knocked on the wooden door.

It opened promptly, and Uriah's smile was just as placid as her own.

"Come in," he said with a wave of his hand. "Take a seat."

"Thank you, sir," Ivy said pleasantly, stepping inside and rounding the coffee table to perch on the edge of one of the leather couches.

Despite having the best natural light of any room in the base, Uriah's study had a somber quality to it. The velvet curtains covered the edges of the windows, casting billowing shadows along the hardwood walls. Every color, even though there were many ones represented, seemed hand-picked to be the most subdued shade possible. Even the flowers on the desk felt more like the subject of a still-life than an attempt to add any vibrancy to the scene.

Uriah sat across from her, shoulders poised, ankles crossed. He rested an elbow on the armrest and let his hand hang, relaxed over his knee.

"I think you're ready for a challenge," he said, cutting to the chase before the air could fill with pleasantries.

Ivy allowed a faint grin to spread over her face, tilting her head to the side with true curiosity. "You sound like you have something in mind already."

"You've proven your skill and your determination, but I want proof of your mettle and your devotion," Uriah said. "You know full well we own the market on lumshade in the Sticks. Well, a new 'competitor' wants to try his hand, flooding an already dominated field. The best protection is prevention, and I'd like to see his budding fields burn."

Uriah lifted his hands, pointing his fingers out to her with a knowing smile.

"And there's no one more suited for the task than my favorite arsonist," he said.

Mettle. The room suddenly smelled like the smoke of a carriage on fire, the blood on a man's shirt. Ivy had to take a deep breath to drive it out.

Did someone's death not prove enough? The cost of her ambition was getting steeper. But that ambition ended with death, too. Much more of it than this.

The Suns had cost Juni everything. She didn't mind paying a little interest to get it back.

"All I need to know is how hot you want the flames to burn," Ivy said, her grin growing wider.

"Whatever is takes to make Mr. Creed stick to pumpkins," Uriah said. "I can trust you with that, can't I?"

Ivy hummed with a sly nod. "Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if he gives up farming entirely."

Uriah's eyes crinkled with a smile.

"That kind of ambition," he huffed. "I'd say it rivals Caelan's."

Ivy kept her expression light, raising her eyebrows in curious invitation even as something twisted in her chest. Caelan, Caelan, Caelan. When was anyone not talking about him?

"I'm sure you've noticed his rapid climb up the ladder," Uriah said. "But I've a mind to give him some motivation. What do you think about a little friendly competition?"

"You want me to spur him on?" Ivy chuckled.

"What I want," Uriah said. "Are options."

Ivy blinked, before his meaning sank in. For a moment, the study fell silent, save for the somehow even hum of her heartbeat. The air currents over her skin seemed to have stopped in the sudden stillness.

"I'm looking for a new Five I can trust," Uriah said. "But that rank is doled out sparingly. And I only intend to pick one. Do you think you have the potential to be the right hand that I need, Ivy?"

A smirk that she couldn't help pulled at the corner of her lips. The tattoo on her arm was about to get sore again.

"I think I can make the choice very easy for you, sir," she said.

"Then I suggest you pick up the pace," Uriah said, getting to his feet. "Because at this rate, he's likely to be a Four by the end of the week."

He pointed an open hand to the door.

"Musn't waste any time, should we?"

Ivy flashed him another grin as she got to her feet, hands already tingling with the urge to get working. This was better than anything she could have hoped for.

"Your study window faces the fields to the south, doesn't it?" she asked. "You might want to look out there tonight. It's going to be a good view."

Uriah's grin was pleased and self-satisfied.

"I look forward to the show."



Ivy felt all eyes on her as she made her way out of the base.

There were plenty of side hallways and exits she could have taken if she'd wanted to avoid the attention, ones she knew well, but she found herself enjoying the ways people's gazes lingered on her as she passed by, even when she didn't give them a glance in return. The curiosity in their eyes had a jealous hunger to it, and she wondered what they'd heard about her in her absence. Whatever the rumor was, Ivy didn't care to address it. The weight of their gazes only forced her head higher and her smile to pull wider.

So when she ran into Ossie at the main entrance, she was already nearly grinning by the time she saw him. He returned her smile, though he watched her with narrowed eyes. There was something going on in his head, and she didn't know what it was. He'd been that way the last few years now, always seeming like there was some great mystery to solve, and Ivy couldn't resist a puzzle. She'd also gotten quite good at them.

"Hey," Ossie said. He must be on guard duty, standing tall and strong, his eyes briefly flickering across the open landscape around them before returning once again to her face. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing big," Ivy said breezily. "Just getting promoted is all."

He raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Congratulations. What did you design this time?"

"Not a design, for once. I'm not sure what prompted it, honestly." It had definitely been Adonis, but for some reason, that felt better not to say as she shrugged. "Whatever it is, Uriah wants me to scorch a competitor's entire lumshade field to get the ray."

Ossie shifted back and forth on his feet, but gave no other indication of what he might be feeling. "When are you gonna do that?"

"At sunset," Ivy said. The sun was already lowering, its light gold and warm on the back of her neck, but she knew she could be prepared by then. The sooner she got it done, the more impressed Uriah would be.

Ossie nodded, then scratched the back of his neck. "I get off guard duty in just a bit. I could go with you, if you wanted." He paused, then added with a smile, "Just to make sure you don't blow yourself up or anything."

Ivy's reaction was delayed during the moment she found herself scanning his face, feeling like the next piece of that years-long puzzle was hidden there, somewhere just out of sight and reach. There was something in her that wanted to believe his words held a larger question, one he needed her to say yes to. But she couldn't ask it for him.

"What, you don't trust me?" she teased.

Ossie laughed, but his cheeks heated, and he glanced away sheepishly. "Well, if you don't want me there--"

"I do," Ivy blurted, and immediately had to fight the surprise from climbing to her expression. She couldn't remember making up her mind, couldn't tell where the certainty had come from. She knew it was honest because she hadn't hesitated, though, and that was dangerous.

But when she saw the relief spreading over Ossie's face, she decided that honesty was worth it. Just this once.

"Okay," he said, before breaking into another smile. It was as if some huge weight had lifted from his chest, like she could see the change in his posture, hidden behind his eyes. "It's a date then."

"Right it is," Ivy agreed. "Meet me at the south gate?"

Ossie nodded again with another brief, indescribable look flashing over his face before he squared his shoulders. "Yep, yeah," he said quickly. "South gate, sounds good."

"Don't be late," Ivy said, offering him a grin and a playful finger salute as she stepped back.

"I won't," Ossie promised. "I'll be there."

It took Ivy several more backward steps facing him for her to finally turn around, and even then, her grin didn't fade. Her mind was already spinning with an excitement she hadn't felt for her work in weeks.

She had an accomplice, then. She'd have an easier time covering her bases with a little assistance, even if Ossie got anxious about some aspects of the work. It'd only take an hour or so of preparation time before she'd be ready to meet him for the--

Date. It's a date.

Ivy's steps slowed to the point where she was barely walking at all. In the back of her mind, she was glad to be out of sight of the base, but most of her thoughts were concentrated in the newly gathered storm that was threatening to steal her focus away entirely.

So... He'd said that. Okay. She could work with that.

Another puzzle piece fell into place from the fragments in her head, and a smile settled with it.

The cold wind swooped in as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, whisking away all the meager warmth the autumn day had held. The strap of Ivy's messenger bag dug into her shoulder as she wove through the trees, keeping her eyes on the fading orange light to keep track of which way was west. It was the perfect day for a fire; the twigs and leaves crunched under her feet, dry from weeks of no rain.

She was just doing nature's work a little ahead of time, really. When the news-- and the smoke-- reached town, no one would even be surprised to hear the fields burned.

In the distance, Ossie stood where he'd said he'd be, at the South gate, in an old, white shirt that stretched around his chest, a brown bandana tied around his forehead pushing his hair up and softening the red that shone through his roots. One hand was empty, and in the other, he held a small, handwoven basket. Ivy watched from a distance as he slipped his free hand into his pocket, pulled out a small wooden object, then slid it back in again. A memory flickered into focus-- one where Adonis seemed much taller, where the lines in his face were from smiling rather than strain as he extended the figurine of a lyre-- and she felt herself recoil in the same moment that she was drawn to the person bathed in autumnal gold she saw now.

When had they both grown so old? Hadn't they always been small and running around trees just like these ones?

Pulling herself together was harder than she expected when she crept forward, careful not to disturb the forest floor, and lightly tapped Ossie's shoulder from behind. He hid it well, but she could feel it in his body as he jumped, turning his face back to look at her. He gave a nervous smile, and looked like he was trying to decide whether or not to say something important. "Hey," he said finally--so he had decided against it, then.

"Hey," Ivy echoed, smiling back. Like him, there was something unspoken tugging at her-- although she didn't know what her words would've been. Maybe it was fair that she didn't get to know what he could've said, then. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Not long," he said quickly. "I'm not even sure, actually. I basically just got here." He laughed, and Ivy watched as he slipped his hand into his pocket once more.

Ivy tilted her head at him, raising her eyebrows. "Really," she said with a laugh of her own, not quite convinced.

Ossie glanced away. "You didn't keep me waiting, really. You practically beat me here, I only just walked up." He scratched the back of his neck and chuckled again. "So, um... we've got a lumshade field to burn, right?"

"We sure do." Ivy lifted the flap of her bag, allowing him a glimpse inside. After a moment, she realized he likely had no idea what he was looking at, so she shook her head at herself and reached inside.

"I call this a daisy chain," she said, pulling out one end of the fuse so that he could see better. "It's a bunch of small explosives strung together that we'll lay out across the farmland. The fuse burns quickly-- it's soaked in alcohol-- so it'll only be ten seconds or so between the time we light one end and the time the fire reaches the last bomb. I could do this with larger charges, but I think this will be enough for the whole field." Ivy shrugged. "No need to waste the Suns' resources, right?"

"Right," Ossie said with a nod, shifting a bit from foot to foot. "No wasted resources."

Ivy's gaze flicked to the basket. "But enough about me. What'd you bring for show and tell?" she teased.

"Oh, it's nothing," Ossie dismissed. "I just, umm... well, it's probably silly, I just figured since it was sunset, you might be hungry, so I brought some food. I guess it's kind of wasteful though, which I hadn't really thought about before. I probably shouldn't have."

Ivy's smile waned, but not out of dissappointment. She'd expected supplies when she'd seen the basket, but food... Food was thoughtful. Had he known she'd barely eaten anything today? Or did he just want to share something with her?

"Can... can I see?" she asked, quieter than she meant to.

Ossie's smile dimmed. "Yeah, of course." He held the basket out, opening the lid to bare the contents to her. Inside was half a loaf of bread, a canteen of--presumably--water, a knife, and...

Dragons above, was that fresh goat cheese? And bread to go with it? Ivy stilled, at a loss for words as she stared into the basket. Of course Ossie knew just what she liked. He saw her. The awareness of being perceived that made her face warm was the same thing that sent a cold chill down her spine.

If he could read her this easily, what else did he know?

"Ossie," she started softly. "This is..."

Wonderful. Dangerous. Way more meaningful in either direction than it needs to be.

"Perfect," she finished. "I love it."

The worry on his face melted into a soft smile as he exhaled. "Okay," he said. "That's good. It's not too much, is it? I didn't mean to do too much, I just--"

"No. Not too much." Ivy shook her head. "Just right, even."

"Okay," he said again. "That's good."

Ivy slowly closed the lid, taking a step back to flick her gaze upwards and smile at Ossie again.

"That's incentive to get this done quickly if I've ever seen it," she said.

Ossie smiled back. "So what do we need to do?"

Ivy twirled the daisy chain fuse around her finger. "Oh, you get the fun part. You get to sit back and watch the show."



Dusting the soil off her hands, Ivy snuck a glance back at the farmhouse as she stamped the fuse into the dirt underfoot. No sign of anyone coming to stop her. Ossie was supposed to be on lookout, and he was an actual guard for the base, but there was only so much he could see from the edge of the forest where she'd left him in hiding. She was on the far side of the field now, with half of her daisy chain left, and she was preparing to wind it back around in the direction she'd came to cover more of the plot.

All she needed to do was not snap the fuse, avoid accidentally undoing her work by pulling the daisy chain back on herself, and not get shot at by some farmer who took offense to her plans of mass destruction.

Simple.

Ivy squinted at the threads of golden light just barely weaving over the horizon before pulling the coil all the way out of her bag, slipping the loop over her arm, and slowly beginning to walk backwards across the field. Every dozen feet or so, she'd stomp the daisy chain into the ground so it'd be anchored against the pulling motion her unraveling was causing. It felt wrong to crush the delicate purple flowers with it, somehow, but Ivy knew it wouldn't matter soon enough. There wouldn't be a single lumshade plant standing by the time twilight fell.

She found herself speeding up as she got closer to the edge, a fervent tremor humming in her hands with each motion of rolling out the daisy chain. The feeling was so much like fear that it took her a minute to realize it was excitement. When was the last time she could confidently say that each step she was taking in real life was actually getting her one step closer to laying waste to the Suns? That would make this display feel like a backyard campfire. When she finally reached the end of the field-- and the end of the fuse-- she was shaking so much that the motion of dropping the last of it was more like flinging on the ground.

Breathing heavily, Ivy stood up, scanning the tree line. From the looks of it, Ossie had found an even more secluded hiding spot, because she couldn't spot him at all now. She didn't want him to watch it from back there, though. Not daring to risk a whistle to grab his attention, she instead waved her arm, beckoning him to stand at the edge of the field with her.

Ossie's figure stilled in the distance, like a rabid dog did in the woods catching sight of movement, before it slowly grew bigger as he made his way towards her. His eyes scanned the horizon, the dimming light warming his skin and making his eyes look brighter than normal. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, more than okay." Ivy grinned, reaching in her bag for the matches and the rag she'd soaked in alcohol earlier. "You ready?"

He hesitated for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah."

Ivy struck the match and held it to the rag, which ignited in a blink. When the flames were just starting to creep to her fingertips, she took a breath and tossed it onto the front end of the daisy chain.

She felt the surge of heat over her skin next. Next was the flare in her vision as the fire shot over the fuse, like an underground comet trapped just below the dirt-- and then finally, she heard the charges detonate. It was an overwhelming roar of sound; they were each exploding individually, but by the time the last noise had started to die out, the next one was already bursting. Awestruck, Ivy watched as the trail of flame slashed over the field, reaching the end and looping back towards them. The last charge went off close enough that it would've been smart to flinch, but she found herself leaning forward, not quite believing the way orange fire licked at the purple blossoms and reduced it to gray ashes.

She'd always found fire to be beautiful, but it had never silenced her quite like this.

Next to her, Ossie stood, eyes trained on the fire, eyebrows pulled down in a knotted frown. She couldn't tell if he was disapproving, or just seriously contemplating something. He had that look in his eye like he was far away from his body, somewhere else entirely. Then, he seemed to notice her eyes on him and blinked a few times, before glancing her way.

"It's... hot," he said awkwardly, then scratched the back of his neck and turned his pinkened face away from her.

"Do you want to step back?" Ivy asked, though she knew she wouldn't be.

"No," he said quickly, then cleared his throat and added in a quieter voice, "No, I'll stay by you."

Ivy nodded, turning back to the field again. The fire had already begun to creep out to the sides, and she knew it was already past the point of no return for the field. There was no earthly way for the amount of water needed to put it out to make it in time, even if someone sounded the call right now--

"Hey!"

Ivy's head snapped towards the farmhouse. A man in dirt-stained overalls she didn't recognize was barging onto the porch, his jaw hanging open as he stared at the burning field. He was close enough that the shock in his eyes was brighter than the flames reflected in them.

It didn't take long for him to tear his gaze away and see the two young adults standing nearby-- and when he did, he bristled in visible fury. Ivy was so startled by the venom in his gaze that she didn't realize he'd stormed back to the door until it was already open again.

"My gun! Katie, toss me my gun!" the man shouted.

Ivy saw an outstretched hand holding something through the gap in a window's curtains, and the man's arm lunged towards it. Beside her, Ossie had grabbed her arm and started to pull her behind him-- but something finally clicked, and she remembered: her bag wasn't empty just yet.

Breaking away from Ossie, Ivy fished a hand into her bag, pulling out a canister by feel alone. Her gun wasn't with her, even though she heard Adonis's voice in her head-- telling her how to hold it like she meant it, how to pull the trigger without so much as a hand tremor that could throw off her aim. But she didn't need that here. This was no knife at a gunfight.

Only a heartbeat after the man's head started to emerge from behind the door, she was pulling the pin and throwing the canister to where his feet would land.

The reaction triggered so swiftly upon air contact that she didn't even get to see the farmer in his entirety before he was completely obscured by smoke so thick and dark it looked more indigo than black. Ivy heard him shout in mixed alarm and frustration, and she knew he must have been trying to sweep it away with his hand, but it was no use. The smoke seeped up to the porch cover, crawlhing through the open door and trickling down the wooden stairs. Ivy breathed a sigh of relief, lowering her hand to her side.

Ossie let out a noticeable sigh of relief. "Okay, time to go." Then, he startled as a loud, high-pitched bang! exploded across the field.

A bullet sang through the air, the note too bright and breezy for the violence behind it. Ivy's next breath got choked in her throat, before she realized it hadn't been near her. No, the shot had been a few feet to the right, only a few inches away from where Ossie was standing...

A glance at the pale shock on Ossie's face, and the way his hand hovered over his right temple like he'd been grazed, was enough to confirm her fears.

Her blood seemed to hiss to a furious boil in her veins instantly. A blind shot? You only took one of those if you were excruciatingly stupid or you didn't care who you killed. An inch difference and Ossie would've been frozen on his feet, that bullet hole staring back at her, his eyes demanding why she'd let him die in the same way that death had found Juni, on a beautiful evening just like this one--

Ivy's eyes pricked. No, that wasn't happening. Which meant she wasn't running away now.

A wood fire. She could almost smell it already, knew exactly which of the items in her bag would replicate it the best. She wasn't sure what was warmer on her skin, the flush of her fury or the heat from the field, as her fingers curled around it. Unlike the farmer, she didn't need to get lucky with where she was aiming. Any part of the structure would do. She'd made sure of it.

Every inch of the curved path her hand took as she swung her arm through the air to wind up was an inch she could not take back. None of them were ones she regretted.

The bomb shattered upon impact with the porch in a burst of intense golden light, scattering into flaming shards that started more fires where they landed. Even the smoke couldn't dull the glow as it roared its way up the wall, then up to the roof. Ivy knew she should've felt revulsion when the ceiling crumbled into the blaze, or when the woman's scream pierced the dusk sky, or when she didn't see anyone running out a back door, as if there was any escape from the inferno in front of her.

Instead, she felt soft relief, the kind that brought a smile to her lips.

"What did you just do?" Ossie whispered, and Ivy was reminded again of the stir-crazy feeling around him, like she could never quite break down those walls. But now, it felt like she had finally done it. Here was Ossie, her Ossie, standing whole and complete right next to her, as they watched the fire of their enemies burn like a scorching sunset.

Ivy blinked, waving smoke out of her eyes as she turned to face him. She could tell what wood the house had been made of just by the smell. It was cedar.

"...I saved your life?" she answered slowly.

She could see now, as the smoke disappated and curled farther away from them, that his skin, normally warm and bright, looked dull despite the shine of sweat. Pale. "You killed them," he said simply, his eyes not moving from the blazing display of ultimate sacrifice, of love, set before them.

Ivy furrowed her brow, frowning now as she glanced between the bonfire and him, failing to understand why he didn't understand. "They were going to kill you," she retorted. "What, was I-- was I supposed to just let that happen?"

Ossie swayed on his feet. She put a hand to his shoulder, hoping to hold him up, but he flinched away as if she'd shocked him. Ivy stared, dumbfounded, as a shiver rattled through him. She couldn't seem to pull her hand back.

"Because I wasn't," she said, desperation leaking into her voice. "I wasn't going to just stand there, Ossie!"

"We could've run," he said softly, hands trembling at his sides. "We could've run away. Nobody had to die."

"You don't know that!" Ivy insisted. "I wasn't taking that chance!"

Ossie looked at her, and the look sent another chill rippling through her. He looked... pained. Like he was looking at her, and what he saw hurt him. "I can't do this," he said, and the words seemed to shock even him, because he frowned and glanced away before repeating with more certainty, "I can't do this anymore."

"Do this?" Ivy surprised herself with a mirthless laugh, sweeping an arm out towards the burning house. "This is what the Suns do. Don't you know that?"

He shook his head, and she watched with surprise as he wiped the hints of tears away from his eyes. "No," he said unsteadily, with a gesture towards the field. "Not-- this. I can't... I can't do this anymore." And then, he gestured at the empty space between them. He gestured at them.

Ivy kept staring, slowly drawing her outstretched hand back to her stomach, where she cradled it as if she'd been scalded. He... He was having this talk now? Here? The fire was still crackling. There hadn't even been something to point to.

"And what is this anyway, Osmond?" she muttered, all the fight gone from her voice.

"I don't know," he murmured. "But you just murdered two people for the fun of it. I'm a Sun, but I want to make the Suns good. I want to be a good person, Ivy. And I thought that... I don't know what I thought. That you would change? That maybe it wouldn't always be this way? But it's gotten worse and worse and worse, and I know now that I was stupid. I can't make you be a good person because you don't want to be one." His breath caught in his throat. "I love you, but I can't be okay with this, and you are."

A dark chuckle that had escaped her lips while he had been speaking tapered off into something hollow and dead by his last sentence. Yeah. Fucking fun. Was that what he thought these last few years had been? Did he understand none of it? She hadn't told anyone what she was planning. Not Adonis, not Ramona. But she'd dared to think that maybe one day, he'd get it. Maybe she could have shared the fire that had been burning in her chest for the last six years with him.

Now she knew. The idea seemed so foolish now.

"I did this for you," she snapped, then repeated it louder. "I did this for you! Isn't that good enough for you? If it's not, then nothing I do ever will be! You don't get to just decide you don't want it, because if I hadn't, you wouldn't be alive to make that choice!"

He stood frozen, taking the words and anger in silence. She almost wished he would argue back. Fight. Maybe because then, it would feel like there was a chance of recovering from this. It could just be a minor setback in a pair of long and happy lives. Maybe one day they could look back and laugh at how he'd acted, laugh at how he hadn't understood yet, but he did now, and it was all going to be okay.

But he didn't argue back. And he didn't fight. And after a long pause had drawn itself through the air, he finally said, "I would rather die than be the cause of another innocent death."

"And what about what I want?" Ivy argued. "What if I would do this and more rather than lose you?"

"You can keep the bread," Ossie said finally. "And the goat cheese. I only got it because you liked it anyway." He turned back towards the treeline and started walking.

No. This couldn't be it. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Ossie," Ivy said lowly. "Don't do this. Please."

He paused for a moment. And then, another whisper, barely caught by the wind, full of emotion and sounding like it was forced past a lump in his throat: "I can't... do this." And then he kept walking.

She wasn't even worth turning around for. The ache in her chest seared into a pain that she had to get out in the only way she knew how.

"Is that what you want?" she shouted at his back. "Well, then I'll give you what you want! I'll cut off my own hand before I reach for you again!"

There was no reply. There was nothing. And this time, he didn't even pause to hear her: he kept walking.

Fine. She'd let him walk away. But not without making sure he'd never forget all that she'd wasted on him.

"Enjoy your goddamn life, Ossie!" Ivy hollered with all the rage she could hold, her voice carrying over the crackle and roar of the flames at her back. "It better be worth it!"

In the distance, his figure faded fully away into the trees, and just like that, he was gone. But she knew he would've heard it. He had to.

Breathing raggedly against the smoke, Ivy forced herself to turn around and face the fire again. The flames had fully spread to the edge of the field, leaving nothing behind. The job was done. That meant there was nothing here worth staying for. Not even her.

Head held high in an attempt to forget that her jaw was trembling with a cry she couldn't let out, Ivy closed the flap on her bag. Tears wouldn't put any fires out. She had to stand by the ones she'd started now.

She waited a few minutes longer before starting off through the woods on a path different from the one Ossie had taken-- and one that would lead her away from the basket and all its food. Let it rot. Let it rot along with everything else.

A knot, twisted and hardened, had lived and built since he'd brought himself to walk away from Ivy. It was several days later, and still, he felt the wooziness of breathing in the smoke, the surrealness of watching two people's lives go up in flames because Ivy seemed to have lost the last shred of her humanity. He didn't know how he hadn't seen it before.

Nausea rolled in his stomach. Ossie felt sick.

The glaives clashed together loudly in the center of the room. He had never been one to picture himself with a weapon, but it was required for guard duty, as was the training meant to accompany it. Across from him, Hoss stood holding the other glaive, completely unaware that the world had ended only a few days ago, when Ossie had walked into the woods and not looked back. Not like he could have looked back. If he had looked back, he would've run back to her. He would've caved. He still wanted to. He was fighting the itch even now, clenching his fists down harder on the wooden stick in his hands as he trembled and tried to decide on his next move.

He shoved the bladed spear forward with a harsh jab, and Hoss deflected it. Metal scraped against metal as his glaive was pushed aside. Why did Ivy think that what she wanted mattered more than what Ossie wanted? Why did she think what she wanted for Ossie mattered more than what he wanted? It felt almost--violating. His skin crawled across muscle, across bone. He wanted to peel it off and clean it from the inside-out.

"You want me dead?" Hoss asked, drawing Ossie's attention to his surroundings.

"What?" he asked in return, startled as he stepped to the side to evade the following strike.

Hoss sliced upward and stepped back. "You're fighting like you mean it, today."

"What do you mean?" "Don't do this. Please." The swell of knotted anxiety and hurt rose in his stomach as he struck against Hoss' blade hard.

"Intent to kill," Hoss said. The implication was: he knew it when he saw it.

"I'm not trying to kill you," Ossie said, panic leaping into his throat as he pulled the blade back sharply.

"But you're trying to kill something."

"I'm not trying to kill anything!" An image of the farmer, long and dirty white hair down to his shoulders and a hunched posture, flashed through his mind, and the taste of nausea made his stomach roll. What did the man look like now? What did his exploded body parts look like now? "I wouldn't kill anything," Ossie said.

"And yet, someday you might have to." Hoss came swinging again.

"I did this for you! I did this for YOU!" He stumbled on his feet. It wasn't for him! How could he prove it hadn't been for him? Desperation tore through him. He couldn't have more innocent deaths on his hands, he couldn't, he couldn't! He'd barely paid off the last one, barely made up for Beau, and now this? And now Ivy was saying it was for him?

"Focus," Hoss shouted as their blades glanced off one another. "Hone that anger. Don't just burn it."

"I'm not angry," Ossie said distressedly, gritting his teeth as he felt something dangerous spark inside his chest. He couldn't be angry. Being angry meant being like Ivy--and he could never be like Ivy.

The blunt side of Hoss' glaive smacked against the inside of Ossie's knees, folding them and sending him sprawling to the ground. A point in Hoss' favor, in the game they were playing. This wasn't a game though, Ossie's morality, his goodness, wasn't a game.

"Then act like it," Hoss said, pointing the tip of his blade to Ossie's chest. Then he drew it away, and offered Ossie a hand up. Ossie took it, pulling himself off the ground with the leverage against him.

"Angry people want to hurt people," Ossie said finally, breathing heavily as he set down his glaive and walked to wipe pooling sweat from his eyes. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Angry people want to protect people," Hoss barked. "Those who hurt to hurt are just insane. Why do you think any of us carries a weapon?"

Ossie blinked, before putting the towel down and reaching up to adjust his bandana, now soaked. He cringed, pulling it off and wringing it out before retying it to push his hair back. Insane, then. Ivy was... insane. Who was she protecting, blowing up the woman in that farmer's house? Katie. Ossie wasn't going to be able to forget that name. It would be burned in his brain forever now, spelled out in the ashes of Ivy's fires.

Hoss waved to the others sparring in the open field. "If someone hurts you, we hurt them, so they stop hurting you. Plain and simple."

Finally, Ossie nodded slowly, blinking a few times with a frown. Those farmers hadn't been hurting Ivy or him, not initially. They hadn't been doing anything but responding to someone hurting something of theirs. And that was where the problem was, wasn't it? If the farmers had come after them on their own, maybe it would be different, but they hadn't, not in a way that could have seriously hurt the two of them. They both could've run away in plenty of time to avoid the guns with her smoke cover in place. Instead, she'd... nausea again, this time stronger. He swallowed it back.

"I guess I never thought of it like that," he mumbled.

Hoss slapped a hand on Ossie's shoulder, and he held it there, firmly.

"Is this about a girl?" he asked.

The image came unbidden: her face, framed by the strands of loose hair that had fallen free of the long braid trailing behind her neck. Her bright eyes, narrowed in thought. Her smile, as she burned living people alive. Ossie swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. "Yes," he said.

"Thought so," Hoss huffed. He offered Ossie his glaive and pointed to the wooden dummy at the corner of the field.

Ossie took the glaive, then looked questioningly at the dummy.

"Whatever you're trying to kill," Hoss said. "Go kill it."

"But I'm not trying to--"

Hoss shoved Ossie towards the target.

"I'm not trying to kill anything," Ossie said again, but the beginnings of doubt were starting to creep in even as he said it. He wasn't trying to kill Ivy, but maybe he was trying to kill... something. The way he felt about her? The pain he felt, now that he knew he could never be close to her again, not in the same way? The part of him that wanted to give up all his morals, run to her and say that he hadn't meant any of it? He couldn't live with that voice inside him anymore--the one that cried to forgive her, that cried that she needed him. He needed to kill it.

The second shove from Hoss nearly sent Ossie to the ground, but he caught himself with one hand.

"Don't come back to me until it's dead," Hoss ordered.

Ossie looked back over his shoulder, then looked back at the dummy, feeling a determination build. Maybe he could get rid of his pain this way-- a way that hurt no one, but that got rid of it completely. Extinguish the urge inside to turn tail and beg for forgiveness for... for what? Speaking the truth? Pointing out the cruelty of her actions? Ossie would never have done something like that, and he couldn't send the message--outloud or otherwise--that it was okay to do something like what she did, especially not with his name on her tongue. It wasn't! It was horrible, and ugly, and wrong, and--

He stabbed the blade visciously through the dummy, feeling a surge rush through his body as his heart pounded. He couldn't let her make him into a bad person. No. He wouldn't do that, not even for Ivy. He stabbed again, and again, and again, and again. He stabbed until he was panting, the muscles in his arms trembling, his whole body trembling.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and again--

The thought looped through his head as he funneled all of his energy into destroying the once-humanoid figure in front of him. And then, finally, it was decimated. Decimated like the scattered body parts of the farmer and his wife. Like Beau, small buried body with soft angel voice. Like his father who he didn't want to be his father, the blue fingertips and everything was blue, EVERYTHING in his life was blue, and he wanted to stab his own EYES out to just stop seeing it everywhere he went--

Arms wrapped around him and pulled him back. Hoss arrived like an anchor, dragging him to the ground.

"That's enough," Hoss said quietly. Softer than he'd ever heard him.

Ossie froze at the contact, then fell backwards into the embrace. His glaive clattered to the floor as he turned around and folded himself into Hoss' body, hiding his face from the world in his chest, like that could calm the beating of his heart or the stinging at his eyes.

"Get it out," Hoss murmured. And suddenly, the tears were pouring, heart galloping relentlessly in his chest. Ossie had stopped crying because that was easier for everyone else, it made it so he could be the bigger person he knew he needed to be. It made him mature. He wasn't sure someone had ever told him to do it--as if it were okay. As if he could still be a good member of the Blue Suns, as if he could still be a big brother.

Time warped around him, and everything felt fuzzier now. Distant. Calm. The tears slowed gradually, after he didn't know how long, but Hoss never pulled away. Ossie had been too harsh towards him. Hoss was just doing what they all did, wasn't he? Protecting himself and those he loved. He wasn't at fault for that. He had been trying to be a good person. As an image of Juni flashed through Ossie's mind, a question he'd never even thought of did too: What danger had she posed to Hoss, to Ramona, that Hoss had to get rid of her? What had she done? He'd always taken Ivy's side, but in the new light, everything seemed different. Shifted, slightly.

Finally, Ossie withdrew--because somehow, something inside of him knew that Hoss wouldn't be the one to do it, and that filled him with a warm, syrupy feeling too. Love, he realized. Ossie had known for a long time that Hoss was his half-brother, but he'd been too blinded by the idea of him being a "bad person" to treat him the way he should be treating family. With love. It was family first, always. He'd do anything to protect his family. Why hadn't he realized until now that that included Hoss? And Hoss was doing the same thing. Protecting his family. Which meant... him. Hoss was protecting him..

"Thank you," he said softly.

Hoss patted the sun over Ossie's chest and let go.

"You needed it," Hoss said. "Plain and simple."



As he stepped through the doorway of his childhood home, Osmond realized how small it was. He had to hunch now, to slip through the doorway. He could touch the ceiling, if he wanted. And his sisters, Mabel and Grace, didn't rush to greet him like they had a few years ago. Mabel, now fourteen--when had she grown so much?--stood in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove with an old bandana of Ossie's tied in her hair to keep it from falling in her face. She'd grown into their biological father's features too--the angular face, and the bright red hair--but she didn't seem to make as much of an effort to hide it as Ossie did. Grace, now twelve and shooting up like a weed, appeared around the corner, then gave a big, goofy smile as she ran towards him, her bare feet padding across the floor until she barreled into his chest. Only a few years ago, the move might have knocked off his center of balance, but this time, he didn't shake at all.

Okay. So maybe they did still rush to greet him--or Grace did, at least. She pulled back from his chest and grinned up at him, then stood on her tip-toes to reach up and ruffle his hair. "It's mine now!" she said gleefully, pulling her hand back to reveal his bandana.

"Grace," he groaned, reaching for it, but she danced back.

From the kitchen, Mabel called, "Is that Ossie?"

"No," Ossie called back, then smiled a little when Grace giggled. "Give me that back!" he said to Grace, who was currently tying it around her face like a horse-rider.

"Hands in the air!" she exclaimed, holding her hands up as pretend weapons. "I'll hit you dead!"

"You'll what?" Mabel asked incredulously, before breaking into a round of laughter. "That is so stupid, what did you just say?"

Grace, though her cheeks started to redden, shook her head resolutely. "I said," she repeated, voice dropping into a low, raspy sound, "I'll hit you dead! Hands in the air."

Ossie sighed. With all the time he spent on guard duty for the Blue Suns, he'd been home less and less often. He even had a place to sleep on the base now, and sometimes, he just didn't have the energy to travel home. He missed his sisters, and he didn't want to think about the fact that maybe sometime soon, they'd start missing him less and less, with him being gone more.

It was all worth it, he reminded himself. He was keeping them safe. He was the reason Mabel was alive at all now, not sick anymore, though her voice now had a permanent scratchy quality, like there was something sitting at the back of her throat that she couldn't quite clear out. Still, better than being dead. Like Beau, he thought. Did Mabel even remember Beau? Did Grace?

Of course they did. He'd been alive eight years. But still... Mabel had only been eleven. Grace had only been nine. Where had the time gone, that they stood before him now, no longer looking little? He could probably still pick them up if he really wanted, but not as easily anymore.

"Who's there?" called a voice from the other room, who Ossie knew to be Kyle, and Grace's smile faded. She glanced uneasily at the doorway and called, "Nobody, Papa!" She turned back to Ossie. "He, um... They're not super happy 'bout the Suns right now, something about his work or something, so..."

In the kitchen, Mabel bit her lip and gave Ossie a wince. "Mom's been ranting about them for days. It might be better if..." she trailed off. Her eyes conveniently fell back to whatever she was stirring.

Ossie knew what they were saying, though. It might be better if he wasn't here.

After everything he'd given. The hours alone, caring for his three younger siblings, and then giving his life to the Blue Suns to help Mabel. He wanted to right all his wrongs--but would it ever be enough for his mother? Even his step-dad, who had comforted him occasionally when his mom was angry, wouldn't be pleased to see him now, apparently.

He toed a line, and it seemed like one that, apparently, he had to walk alone. Not good enough for home, too good for Ivy. No, that wasn't true. He wasn't too good for her, but... But she was too bad for him. She didn't care about hurting people. He did. That was that. But how could he show his mom that he did care about hurting people? She seemed to think that all Suns were monsters, and now that included him. But it didn't have to, did it? They could change it! They could make the Blue Suns good, wholly and completely, if they just put in a little bit of effort and work. If he just kept at it...

"Yeah," he heard himself say distantly. "Yeah, I just wanted to say hi anyways, wasn't planning on staying."

Grace extended her hand regretfully, holding out the bandana to him. "Sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head. No matter what was going on with their parents, he needed to be here for his sisters. If his parents wouldn't love him unconditionally--regardless of whether or not he was in the Suns-- then... then... then maybe they weren't family anymore. And that was okay. Because sometimes, family wasn't just blood, it was the people you chose. That meant his sisters at home, and Ramona, and all his other friends, and Hoss. He had to be there for them. He'd protect his family with his dying breath. And... and maybe, that didn't mean his mom and step-dad anymore.

"It's okay," he said as he took the bandana and retied it around his hair. He reached forward and ruffled Grace's. "I'll see you soon, crazy-head."

He left.

He'd lied. He had been planning to stay long. He'd been planning to stay the whole evening, to see his family again, his mother and step-dad--no, he reminded himself. Just his sisters--but now, he had an evening free and his plans had gone out the window.

When he'd been younger, he'd wandered aimlessly through streets, looping around the town square and back towards their house before starting again in a different direction, always with Beau in his arms, who was often snoozing. Now, as he wandered, his arms felt empty. Too light, without the weight of his brother to hold. As he headed towards the square, he heard the sounds of music echoing through the air, and paused. Instruments? His feet sped up on their own accord, and soon, he found himself at the back of a small crowd, gathered around three musicians, all playing ferociously to a local folk song as the crowd clapped and sang along to the lead musician's words.

"Then the mother said, 'Maiden, I could stay all day!'" The musician called out.

"I could stay all day!" the crowd echoed.

"I could stay all day," the singer agreed. "And the maiden said, 'But mother, oh, you mustn't stay.'"

"You mustn't stay!" the crowd echoed, and Ossie found himself mouthing the words.

"You mustn't stay," the singer said. Her eyes crinkled at the edges with a sort of mischieviousness. In her hands, she held a lute, which she steadily, without looking away from the crowd, began to pluck, faster and faster, taking the instrumental section of the song by storm. After a few beats, she started to sing over it, but there weren't words--it was feelings, raw and real. Ossie felt them in his bones. The knot in his stomach, when he'd torn the dummy to shreds, and the kick against his heart when he'd heard he shouldn't stay home. Resistance, bubbling and elbowing its way to his brain. The crowd's clapping grew faster and faster, until it almost felt like stomping, until he could feel it in his bones, and if he closed his eyes, he could see the bright explosions of color.

"Ohhhh," the singer growled, "The mother said, 'Maiden, you are mine to care for, you are mine to care for, you are MINE to care for!' And the maiden said, 'Mother, but I'm not anymore, I am not anymore, I'm not yours anymore!' And the maiden to her mother turned and slammed the door, turned and slammed the door, well, she sure showed her!"

Several people in the crowd let out hoots and stomped their feet against the ground. His mother didn't want to care for him anymore. That was fine. He wasn't hers anymore. The idea sent a thrill of anxious excitement down Ossie's spine. He wasn't hers anymore. He was his own. He began shouting out the lyrics to the rest of the song with the crowd, overcome with the frenzied energy of the people around him.

"The blue and the black, and the colors in-between, they’re all the same, in the washing, they all bleed!" the singer crowed, the sounds of the lute dampening the guitar and fiddle nearby as her hands raced across the strings. "Oh, the rich and the poor, and the children in-between, they’re all the same, in the end, they all leave. So little maiden, what’re you telling me? So little maiden, do you still love me?"

With a final strum, the three musicians ended the song, and the crowd exclaimed excitedly. A few small children wiggled their way through the tall bodies towards the front to get a closer look at them as they launched into their next song. Ossie's eyes stayed on the lute, and his hand crept into his pocket to clutch the wooden figure Adonis had given him so long ago, now near-faded beyond recognition. At that age, he'd dreamed about learning an instrument, and how exciting it would be, but he'd known it was an impossibility. Instruments were for people with money to get a teacher. They weren't for children who carried three other children around everywhere they went.

After several more songs, the singer called out, "We've best be on our way now!" The crowd whined. "What's that?" she called. "One more? Well, I bet we could do one more."

They started up again. Ossie's mouth felt dry suddenly, watching her fingers travel up and down the neck of the lute, over the various strings. As they finished their final song, he swallowed with wide eyes as he watched the crowd slowly disperse, with several approaching to leave spare bits of change and many more leaving the square and offering nothing for the performance. Finally, it was just him, watching the three musicians pack up their things. The lead musician, a woman who must've been in her early forties, with wiry brown hair and skin speckled with sunspots, nodded to him. "Blue and the black," she repeated with a half-smile, like she was letting him in on a secret. "They all bleed."

Spoiler

Song, "The Tale from the Wishing Well," with lyrics:
https://voca.ro/1d9POhKKhl7E

Well, a washer at a well stood to make a wish, stood to make a wish, stood to make a wish,
For her little baby boy to grow up to be rich, to grow up to be rich, to grow up to be rich,
She said, “I want him to stay close, never leave my side, never leave my side, never leave my side,
And with money, he’ll stay mine, he’ll stay mine, he’ll stay mine.

The red and the green, and the colors in-between,
They’re all the same, in the washing, they all bleed!
Oh, the rich and the poor, and the people in-between,
They’re all the same, could all use with a little less greed.

So the well said, “Washer, I’ve a story for you
‘Bout what’ll happen if I make all your dreams come true.”
And the washer woman sat down to listen well,
Listen to the tale of the wishing well. It said:


Oh, a mother and a maiden traveled ‘cross the sea,
For the maiden’s new betrothed was so far away,
And when it came time to leave, the mother couldn’t breathe,
Couldn’t bear her little baby to be so far away.

Then the mother said, “Maiden, I could stay all day! I could stay all day! I could stay all day.”
And the maiden said, “but mother, oh, you mustn’t stay, you mustn’t stay, you mustn’t stay!”

Ooooooohhhhhh, the mother said maiden you are mine to care for, MINE to care for, MINE to care for,
And the maiden said but mother I’m not anymore, I am not anymore, I’m not yours anymore,
And the maiden to her mother turned and slammed the door, turned and slammed the door, well she sure showed her!

The blue and the black, and the colors in-between,
They’re all the same, in the washing, they all bleed!
Oh, the rich and the poor, and the children in-between,
They’re all the same, in the end, they all leave
So little maiden, what’re you telling me?
So little maiden, do you still love me?

The very first thing Caelan had done upon meeting Cassia Lowe again after eight years was to be rude to her. He was still questioning whether that was the right opening move when a voice behind him called, "Wait!"

A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him around. It was Cassia. "Caelan? Is that you?"

She was still gripping his arm. He had made the right move after all, perhaps. Caelan looked down at her as if he were studying her face, trying to figure out how they knew each other. Then he slowly placed his hand over hers. She sucked in a small breath.

Caelan then pried her hand off of his arm and let go of it. "So you're back," he said.

"Y-yes," she said. She glanced at her hand and straightened, clutching her books tightly. She laughed uneasily. "I almost thought you, uh, didn't recognize me."

"I didn't." A lie, of course. There were few who could look so frivolous and rich around here.

"Oh."

"Cassia."

Caelan didn't even bother turning when he heard Mr. Lowe's stiff, stern voice. Instead, he dipped his head slightly and said, "Good day, Miss Lowe. Your parents are expecting you." He stepped around her.

"Caelan, wait--"

"Cassia, you know better than to fraternize with your inferiors," Caelan heard Mrs. Lowe chiding as he walked away.

He clenched a hand into a fist. Inferior. His mind began to work, bringing the inklings of barely formed ideas together until a plan began to grow from them.

Just they wait. They'd find out eventually that even a common weed could choke the life from a rose.

Caelan took one last look back at Cassia, who was being pulled away by her mother toward their carriage. All things considered, she really had turned out quite pretty after all those years. Maybe there would be something to enjoy through this process besides just dreaming about crushing the Lowes' pride beneath his heel.


Over the next few weeks, Caelan saw Cassia everywhere in town.

When he was at the grocer's perusing the carrots and potatoes, he found a spray of blue and red feathers poking out above the shelves and a blue silken skirt hem extending from the side. Frowning, he picked up his produce and walked quickly to the counter. But not without brushing past her with a side-eyed glance, as if she was beneath any more of his notice.

He could feel her presence hovering somewhere behind him as he counted out the coins to pay the shopkeeper, but he shoved his goods into his bag and breezed out the door and into the throng of people. He allowed himself to blend in with the crowd, thankful that these folk were far too occupied with their own lives and tasks to notice him like most people did. Caelan let the crowd carry him several yards until he could duck behind the corner of a building and watch the scene he'd left behind.

Cassia had run out of the store and was swinging her head left and right. Caelan didn't hold back a chuckle at the sight of the feathers on her headpiece waving in all directions like cattails in a windstorm. Then he kept walking--right past her carriage and out of the market, the way he knew she'd spot him too late.

And when he was checking the newest arrivals in the small bookstore, the brushing of a lace petticoat on his ankles pulled him out of his study of astronomy.

"Oh, hello, Caelan," Cassia said, two books already nestled in her arms, "what a surprise! You like reading too?"

. . . Really?

Caelan stared at her silently until she broke eye contact and laughed nervously.

"I was just joking," she said, waving a hand. "You did always have your nose stuck in one of my parents' books when we weren't playing. Ha ha. Good old times, right?" Her gaze looked as desperate as her vocal tone was awkward.

Snapping his book shut, Caelan glanced quickly at the titles of the ones she was holding. My Savage Romance. Even the Wolf Lord Falls in Love. What was with her vulgar taste in books? He had skimmed through those himself a couple of weeks ago and concluded the same thing he always did about this romance sub genre--it was trash in terms of intellectual enrichment, but a treasure trove of hints of what women might like in their own romantic lives.

"That was a long time ago," he said. His voice was quiet. "It's in the past now."

He turned away to pay for his book, but Cassia grabbed his arm. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Caelan met the bookseller's wide eyes, the man's nosy expression unmistakable, before he turned back to Cassia. He would sigh in exasperation if he didn't have a part to play. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since I came back, you've been acting like you don't know me or like I'm not there," she said.

Caelan broke free from Cassia's grip and handed the book to the seller behind the counter. "Reserve this for me, would you?" he said. "I'll be back to buy it another day." He stepped towards the door.

"You're doing it again." She came around to block his way to the exit. "But we're going to talk this time."

At that, Caelan acutally sighed. He leaned in closer to hiss into her ear, "If you want to talk, then fine. But not here. I'm not sure you realize this, but I'd prefer to not have my private matters aired to every person in this town. We'll meet in the field behind the mansion tonight." He straightened and glared into her wide eyes before pushing past her and out the door.

She let him go.

The rest of Caelan's day was occupied with strategizing how to approach the sudden meeting forced upon him by Cassia. Of course, he met with Darren and made his usual rounds to various stores he maintained a good relationship with, but his mind was racing with scenarios and how he could twist each one to his advantage.

The sun was setting behind the trees as he rounded the mansion with a wide berth and came to the edge of the field.

The wind rustled the grass and brushed softly against his skin. Caelan breathed deeply through his nose and closed his eyes. It was almost the moment of truth.

When he opened his eyes again, he caught a glimpse of white fluttering in the breeze. A small face peered out from behind one of the trees. When Cassia saw Caelan standing there, she scrambled to her feet and stepped out into the open.

She must have been waiting out there for quite a while, guessed Caelan. He noted the wrinkles in her skirt and the halo of frizz around her hair. Her hat and her shoes were dangling from her fingers. She looked about her, expression a little flustered.

Caelan took long strides through the path she had already flattened through the grass and was facing her in less than a minute. Cassia looked up at him, eyes as wide as a deer's.

"Hi, Caelan," she squeaked.

He kept his eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her. "So what did you want to say to me?"

Cassia wet her lips before saying, "Well . . ." She looked down at her hands and adjusted her grip.

"So you don't have anything to say?"

"No!" Cassia exclaimed. She threw up her hands. "I just--things changed around here. Everything was like a nightmare these past eight years that I hoped that at least I could come home to something that felt--"

"Everything was a nightmare?" repeated Caelan in a low voice. He crossed his arms. "What happened to you out there?"

Fine, he'd let her complain for a moment.

She looked away. She said, "I had no friends at school. From the moment I opened my mouth on that first day, it was all over. I was either ostracized and ridiculed by the other girls once they heard my accent and found out that I grew up here. I spent almost every day hiding or trying not to let my things get stolen or damaged." She let out a short laugh. "You'd be surprised how cruel a group of rich schoolgirls can be. So I just kept thinking to myself, it's only a little longer until I can go home to Mother and Father." Her eyes drifted to meet Caelan's. "And to my only friend. But I guess I was the only one who remembered."

She sighed and placed her hat on her head. It looked rather lopsided and sorry now, nestled upon her unruly hair. "Sorry for bothering you. I'll leave you alone."

As she walked past him, Caelan caught her wrist in his hand. It looked so small and delicate, like he could snap it in half with just a squeeze. "I didn't forget," he murmured. "Not once."

"Then why--"

"Because you should stay away from me," said Caelan. He pulled his hand back. "It wouldn't do you any good to associate yourself with a man like me."

Cassia drew her brows together. "A man like you? What do you mean?"

"I've grown up dirt poor," he replied drily, "no one but my mother ever knew who my father is, I never received a formal education, and I don't have a trade. I'm in the Blue Suns now, acting as a liaison with your parents."

Cassia's jaw dropped.

"At best, I'll be seen as a stain on your reputation," continued Caelan, "and at worst, you'd be put in harm's way because of me."

"I don't understand," said Cassia, putting her hands out. "There is no one here for my reputation to matter to, anyways. Why would anything happen to me?"

Caelan turned away. "I have enemies now. If they discovered that I had any weakness, they would exploit it in an instant to take the advantage over me." He paused. "After all these years, I thought I had put aside all weaknesses. Until now."

"You mean . . ."

He whirled back around. "I mean that someone will come and hurt you, or even try to kill you, because to me, you're--" He put a hand over his eyes and turned around again. He groaned. "I can't."

There was silence. Then, Cassia's skirts rustled among the blades of grass and Caelan heard her drop her hat and shoes on the ground. Her arms wrapped tightly around his waist and she pressed her forehead against the back of his neck.

"What if I said that I'm not afraid?" she whispered. "What if I said I want you to hold me, or that I want to run my hands through your hair and for you to kiss me--"

Caelan pulled out of her grasp and turned around. He stared into her eyes until she seemed to shrink down into herself.

"You know what, never mind," she said. "Forget I said anything."

Caelan held one of her hands in his. Then with the other, he reached behind his head and pulled on the tie holding his ponytail together. His hair tumbled down loose around his shoulders.

"You realize there's no going back from this," he murmured.

Without hesitation, Cassia practically leapt into his arms.


She was beautiful.

How starved was she for love? How quickly the girl's hands had traveled up the boy's body to cling to the back of his neck, to become tangled into his hair. How desperately she devoured his kisses, like they were the very air of life to fill her lungs.

How easy it was to get her to bare her soul to him in the lonely darkness of the night.

There were tears in her eyes that reflected the shine of the moon. She looked up at the boy like he was her whole world. The prince who had come to save her and whisk her away into her fairy tale happily ever after, beyond the pages of the storybook.

So soft, so sweet. So innocent.

To be vulnerable was all the girl knew. It was the privilege of someone who had lived in opulence beyond the boundaries of Sticks. Riches built upon the blood, sweat, and tears of the nightmares the boy had endured.

Poor Cassia.

Little did she know that she was the ugliest of them all.

Caelan woke to sunlight and a small hand brushing the hair away from his face. Keeping his eyes closed, he breathed in deeply and grasped the hand in his.

"Hey, princess," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. He drew Cassia's hand down to his lips. He felt a tremble travel through her as he softly kissed her palm. "It's too early to get up."

"Sorry," whispered Cassia. She nestled closer into Caelan's arms. "I just . . . I just can't believe this is all real." Her voice caught in her throat as she said, "I must be the luckiest woman in the world."

Caelan smiled, and he finally opened his eyes. "Well, I'm all real," he said, "and I'm all yours."

Cassia shot up in her bed, clutching her cheeks and turning away from Caelan. She wasn't fast enough to stop him from catching the burning red spreading all over her face to the tips of her ears. "When did you get so good at talking?" she grumbled.

Goodness, she was so weak to anything he did.

"You're taking all the blanket," whined Caelan, tugging on the edge of the blanket poking out from under Cassia's arm, then on a springy lock of her hair. "That's not fair."

She turned back toward him with a laugh. Her eyes traveled down his exposed chest to the three-rayed tattoo below his ribs. Leaning forward, she began to slowly trace circles over the sun with a finger.

"You know everything I've been doing for the past several years now," she said. Her eyes met Caelan's for a second before she focused on the tattoo again. "What about you? How did you start working with my parents?"

Caelan resisted the urge to swat her hand away and rub his skin to get rid of the growing itching sensation she was creating. Instead, he put an arm behind his head and stared up at the velevet canopy over her bed. "It's a long story," he replied.

When he didn't say anything more, Cassia pulled her hand away and tried again. "So what happened?"

He closed his eyes. What could he say to a girl who could never understand what he had been through, one who still didn't know that her parents hated him for his lowly origins? What was the best reply to evoke her sympathy and respect while holding his true pain and struggles close to his chest?

"If it's too much," Cassia blurted, "you don't have to say anything right now. I can wait--I can wait. That's no problem at all."

Caelan breathed out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, they were moist. "My mother was sick," he said. "I needed to take care of her. All of my other jobs weren't enough. So I joined the Suns three years ago. I was fifteen." He swallowed hard. "I worked so hard. It helped for a while, and I think she was comfortable. But--" he blinked, letting tears roll down from the corners of his eyes, "--nothing lasts forever, I guess. She died."

Cassia's hand flew to her mouth.

"It's been three months, now." He sat up and covered his eyes with a hand.

"What about your father? He must have been devastated too."

Caelan was glad his eyes were still hidden as he regulated his breathing and heart rate. "I never knew him. He abandoned my mother before I was born."

"Oh." Cassia bit her lip. "I'm sorry."

Sorry that his mother died, or that he had had a hard life? Or sorry that he had never known his father, or that the man had been a piece of scum who had failed his mother?

Sorry that she had even asked, many years too late?

Caelan leaned into Cassia from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist. He buried his face in the space between her collarbone and neck, and his hair mingled with hers like a curtain as he did so. He let his shoulders droop.

"Thank you," he mumbled against her skin.

She tensed for a second, then relaxed. Silence passed between them until she said, "I love you."

At that moment, Caelan heard the sound of the door opening. Cassia gasped and grasped at the blanket. Something shattered on the ground, and he looked up just as Mrs. Lowe screamed.

He let a slow, sly smile spread across his face, half hidden by Cassia's curls. But he knew that while Cassia didn't see it, Mrs. Lowe did.

"Mother, I--" Cassia began.

"Cassia Lowe!" Her mother screeched. Her eyes were bulging, and she was gasping like a fish out of water. "What in Nye are you--you! With him! In our house!" She pointed her finger at Caelan. "I always knew you were a rat, Caelan Rhett! How dare you--"

"Mother, enough!" snapped Cassia. It was enough to make her mother fall silent, mouth hanging open.

What in Nye, indeed. Caelan didn't know Cassia had it in her. "Cassia," he said softly, but she turned her head and briefly touched his cheek.

"Don't worry," she said, smiling as if to reassure him. "You didn't do anything wrong." She glared at Mrs. Lowe. "How dare you, Mother. It's Caelan. How could you call him something so rude? I won't let you disrespect the man I love and who loves me!"

Mrs. Lowe scoffed, but instead of firing back, she ran a hand over her face.

"For all my life, I've done what you wanted," Cassia continued, her voice growing more vehement with each word. "I grew up here without any friends except Caelan, and I almost never saw you and Father. And then you sent me away to that school for eight years!" Her voice cracked. "You know how hard it was for me all this time? None of the other girls liked me. I was just a joke to them. They called me a 'backwater bumpkin' because I'm from Sticks. Nobody wanted to be my friend. I wasn't good enough for any of them, so what choice did I have except to be a loner?"

Though her expression was still pinched, her mother's face paled at her words.

"So if you care at all about me being happy, leave Caelan alone. He's the only one who has ever understood me. Back then and now."

Mrs. Lowe's eyes narrowed again, but her voice was quiet as she replied, "Your father will be hearing about this."

"Get out," growled Cassia.

Her mother's gaze flicked to Caelan briefly. Her eyes were filled with loathing once again, and she turned on her heel and marched out, slamming the door behind her. The broken tableware and spilled food were still lying on the floor.

Cassia let out a shaky breath. "Sorry," she said, "I don't know what came over her." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Maybe I don't actually know her at all."

Caelan slipped out of the bed and pulled his clothing back on. He went over to the mess on the floor and began to make a pile out of the debris.

"Send for someone to clean this up," he told Cassia. "I don't want you cutting yourself on any shards."

"Okay," said Cassia. Her voice had grown quiet.

Caelan walked back over to Cassia and leaned in for a peck on the lips. "I've got to go, but keep your head up," he said, and he lifted her chin. "Don't listen to them. You said it yourself. What do they know about us?"

Cassia gave him a shaky smile. "You're right." She rested her hand on his cheek. "Where would I be without you?"

Caelan winked, and then he walked out the door without looking back.

As he made his way down the hall, Mrs. Lowe lunged at him and grabbed his collar. "Why you wicked little wretch! I ought to slap you right here and now."

Caelan raised his chin and looked down at her. "Go ahead," he said, tilting his head. "I'm sure that will thrill your daughter very much." He pried the stuttering woman's hands off his shirt and smoothed down the creased fabric before continuing on his way.

"Tell your husband that I wish to speak with you both this afternoon," he said over his shoulder. "Some business negotiations, for your daughter's happiness."

Both of them knew he was lying.

When Caelan left the Lowe mansion, he found his mind wandering again. As seasoned an actor as he felt that he was, putting on an act for such a long time was exhausting. As susceptible as Cassia was to his manipulation, she was extremely clingy and needed a lot of attention. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes with her, but it did take a toll on him to deal with both her and her mother in quick succession.

He finally slowed his steps when his mind began to register the scenery around him. He was back in his old neighborhood. The house where he had lived with his mother was within his sight, but he turned away from it. He had already visited it recently--and besides, there was no one left there to return to.

But there he was in front of Adonis's house. He hesitated, reaching out to grasp the doorknob. He hadn't visited Adonis in a while. But he let go of the knob and stepped back. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to see him right now. He turned and started to walk away.

"Caelan?"

The voice was soft, uncertain, and achingly familiar. Caelan stopped and slowly turned around.

At the side of the house, standing in the dusty road, Adonis stood only a few feet away. There were more wrinkles on his face now-- wrinkles in new places, ones that had nothing to do with smile lines. His ink-stained hands clutched a stack of papers, knuckles pale from the firmness of his grip, as he watched Caelan with a look that could be called... aghast. Afraid, even, but not of him.

He'd seen him approach and try to leave. He'd called Caelan's name like he didn't know whether or not he was talking to a stranger.

And Caelan hated it.

"Hi," he said.

Adonis opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers tensed around the papers further, like he was itching to do something, but he didn't.

"...Do you want to come in?" he asked at last.

It was a desperate grasp, and they both knew it.

Caelan's gaze focused on the papers. "Sure," he replied.

Slowly, and then rapidly, as if he feared Caelan would change his mind, Adonis reached for his keys to unlock the door. The hinges creaked the same way Caelan remembered as it swung open, but the air didn't smell of smoke like it used to anymore. Just wax and old paper. Adonis stepped inside, and when he looked back at Caelan, he dared to do it with a faint, trembling smile.

Something squirmed inside of Caelan's chest. He couldn't help but pause right at the threshold. It almost felt like he was about to intrude upon a sacred place. The last sanctuary of his childhood.

Maybe it was because the man that he had become was no longer the boy who had once come here almost every day to work on forgeries and study the books in Adonis's collection. He didn't belong here anymore. Something felt wrong about Adonis seeing him now, like this.

Just how many things had been forced to change over all these years?

Caelan released his breath and set his shoulders. He stepped into the house and made his way to the table. He sat in the same chair that he had always used when he came to work and to observe. The table was dustier than he remembered it, but only on one side-- the side across from him-- as if someone else had stopped coming by regularly.

Was it Ivy?

"You've grown taller," Adonis noted, hovering over the extinguished stove and reaching for a kettle. He said it as if it surprised him-- and as if he knew it shouldn't.

"Yeah," said Caelan. "No one can tease me for being short anymore."

Adonis huffed a quiet laugh. "Does anyone tease you for any reason nowadays?"

Caelan shrugged. "Not in earnest, at least. But ridiculing or looking down on me?" His gaze hardened, thinking of the Lowes. "There are some of those."

Adonis paused in the middle of lighting the stove, frowning and turning back to Caelan. "Who?" he asked, sounding genuinely offended on Caelan's behalf.

Caelan paused, then he let himself continue. It was Adonis, after all. "The Lowes," he said. "It isn't anything new, they've been doing it for years."

Adonis made a face. "That they have," he muttered, taking down a pair of teacups from a cupboard. "They've always been--" He paused again, then shook his head. "What the hell, you're an adult now. They've always been assholes. They've got no right to comment on you."

Caelan raised an eyebrow. After a moment of silence, he said, "Wow. I didn't know you had it in you, Adonis. But thanks." He shrugged again. "I guess they still think of me as a poor kid who will never amount to anything." He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Or a poor 'rat,' as Mrs. Lowe so loves to call me."

Anger flickered in Adonis's eyes, and it was so brief and unfamiliar that Caelan thought he'd imagined it for a moment. The older man pursed his lips together, his hard stare resting on the teacups.

"They're fools," he said finally. "And they don't know you. Which means they'll always be wrong about you."

Caelan felt a lump forming in his throat as Adonis's words circled in his head. He looked down at his hands, grown rough with hard work over the last few years, and he clenched them into fists.

"You're right," he said. "Let them discredit me all they want. I'll prove them wrong." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "Just watch me."

He'd be going places far beyond the confines of Sticks. Places too high even for the Lowes to reach.

And he would absolutely use their daughter--and by extension, them--as a stepping stone toward that goal.

"You know I will, kiddo." A thin smile pulled at the corner of Adonis's mouth as he held up the jar of teabags. "Is rosehip still your favorite?"

"Yeah." It was way better than coffee, by a million years.

And, he realized, he had first grown to like it through tea parties with Cassia when they were kids. That wasn't quite as pleasant a thought.

"Good, because I've got plenty." Adonis winked. "It's in need of someone to drink it."

With a sheepish chuckle, Caelan watched as Adonis let the rosehips steep in the boiled water and pour the tea into the cups. It was nice for once to just be taken care of by someone he could trust. Someone who never asked for anything in return.

"I haven't had tea in ages," he said. "It's . . . hard to justify now that I live on my own. Before that, when I was little, I guess I never had to think about where I got it from, since I could always get some from you or Cass--"

He clamped his mouth shut and mentally kicked himself. The one time he let himself go and not think about the words he was saying. He just had to be as bad as all the loose-tongued lip flappers he was surrounded by every day in town.

Adonis blinked, and it was as if Caelan could see the gears turning in his brain, filling in the gaps and ticking towards the inevitable conclusion. Of course that would be all it took. The mention of the Lowes earlier definitely hadn't helped his case either.

"...You go back with Cassia Lowe?" Adonis asked slowly. His tone was without judgment, but his voice held a note of confusion, like he half-expected Caelan to correct him.

Caelan fought back a grimace. "You could say that." No way was he going to tell Adonis about dressing up in frilly rabbit costumes or galavanting around the Lowes' courtyard like Princess Cassia's fawning retainer. Not in his worst nightmares. He sighed. "Her parents let me act as a companion to her. Because she was lonely, or something. Not that they ever really saw me as anything more than a tool to keep their daughter happy."

Adonis hummed softly after a moment, a bit solemnly. "Were you close? Or did you just... need a change of pace from the others?"

"Well, I don't think I would have chosen her for a change of pace," said Caelan, "but the food I got to eat while hanging out with her was good." He put up his hands. "I couldn't complain, at least. Getting to read her parents' library without them knowing was great, too."

Adonis let out a faint chuckle.

"From what little I've heard about her, she doesn't take too strongly after her parents," he said. "But she did not strike me as... your preferred company."

Caelan tilted his head. "No, of course not...?" What was Adonis trying to say?

Adonis held up his hands, taking the hint before passing Caelan his teacup. "Anyway. If it's tea you're after, you know you don't have to pretend to like some aristocrat for it. My door's always open."

It didn't really feel like Adonis was just talking about tea, though. His tone was just slightly too knowing for that.

"Have you heard something, by any chance?" asked Caelan. "About me and her?"

Just what ideas did the Suns and the rest of the town have about them? What had they been spreading around in such a short period of time?

Adonis squinted up at the ceiling in thought as he lifted his own teacup, but didn't drink from it yet. "No," he said. "You're the first to bring anything up." He paused, taking a slow sip. "...Is there anything to hear?"

All the events of the morning had really thrown Caelan off. He was making mistakes left and right with Adonis. What should he say?

"No," he replied. "Not really. She's been clinging to me a lot recently, though, ever since she came back to town. I guess she still thinks that we're friends. I'm the only one she knows around here besides her parents, so..." He shrugged. "I try to humor her a bit. Staying in her good graces couldn't be a bad thing."

Adonis nodded. "If nothing else, I'm sure it spites her parents. I don't imagine you having any qualms with that."

"I sure don't," said Caelan. A satisfied smirk spread across his face, and he added, "It's an easy way to make them squirm in their own house."

Adonis chuckled again, though he sobered quickly, and the small house fell quiet again. Caelan could almost hear the dust on the table falling to the floor.

"Where's your home these days?" Adonis asked gently after a moment.

"Mostly the Suns base," replied Caelan. He quickly added, "I still own my childhood home, though." He wasn't going to tell Adonis where he'd spent the previous night.

Adonis nodded, something hesitant and heavy spreading over his face. He drew his teacup a little closer, like he was trying to guard its warmth.

"I was devastated to hear about Sophie," he said quietly, like he wasn't sure he should express it. "I wanted to reach out to you when I learned. I don't know why I didn't. I'm so sorry."

Caelan took the teacup between his hands, letting the heat seep into them. He glanced at his reflection in the darkening water and shrugged. He took a sip of tea before saying, "The Suns have been keeping me busy. I'm sure you have been, too." He studied his hands and sighed. "My mother never had a bad thing to say about you. I think she was grateful you taught me so many skills and gave me a job when I couldn't really do much else at the time to make money."

His mother had also said that it was a shame that a man as skilled as Adonis was stuck working in Sticks, of course, followed by the sentiment that he would have made it far in a better place.

Adonis smiled faintly, though it was more sad than anything. "I'll sleep easier knowing that something I did along the way might have brought her some respite. She was a good woman. Too good for the hand she was dealt."

"She was," whispered Caelan. He didn't dare to use his full voice, afraid it would break if he tried.

She hadn't originally been from Sticks, that much he knew. To come here when she evidently hated it must have meant she was running from something so serious that she'd resort to going where no one would wish to go. From what, he'd probably never know, but it was true that she was dealt a bad hand. She was too clever, too charming to be consigned to wither away in Sticks, taking care of a son all on her own. And yet...

Caelan cleared his throat. "Is Ivy around often anymore?"

Adonis's face fell too quickly for him to recompose it before Caelan could notice. He watched as the man's gaze travelled, perhaps unwillingly, to the empty seat at the table.

"Her work's very important to her," he said carefully. "Which makes it important to me. But it is... harder to find her here in waking moments, much more so to keep her around."

"Now that's unfair to you, isn't it?" said Caelan. "She should at least spend some time with her father every now and then. Work or not." While she still had him. He wanted to add that Adonis deserved better than that, but he held his tongue. Somehow, he felt that the man wouldn't like hearing it.

Adonis frowned slightly. It seemed like he was struggling with how much to agree or not. "Fairness is... well, that's a luxury in short supply," he said finally. "I want what's best for her." He paused, before quietly adding, "If she's done the math to determine I haven't done well enough and the best thing for her is less of me, I can hardly deny her that."

"I think she's doing her math wrong if that's what she's come up with," muttered Caelan under his breath. "She's the only one who can say she has a good dad around here."

Adonis didn't say anything for a long heavy moment, finally taking another sip of tea from his cup. Finally, in what was barely a whisper, he breathed, "Could you even say that?"

"What?" Caelan frowned. Confusion filled his thoughts. "I know I don't have a father of my own, but I'd like to think I have enough discernment to tell." He was surprised to feel an almost physically painful twist in his chest as Adonis's words circled in his mind. Is that what Adonis thought of him all this time? Just a fatherless charity case?

The pained look Adonis gave him matched the feeling coiling in his chest. There was, he realized with faint surprise, a high degree of panic in there too. Like he knew he'd been misunderstood and was regretting saying anything.

"You have me," Adonis said faintly. "Could you really say that about me?"

Caelan stared at him. "Really?" he asked. "This whole time, you've . . . thought of yourself as a father figure to me?" He blinked hard and ran a hand over his hair.

Adonis looked away, visibly crushed and swallowing hard. The teacup wavered in his strong grasp.

"Only if you'd allow it," he murmured, barely audible. "Which you would have every right to refuse. I'm so sorry, I... shouldn't have assumed anything."

"That was an option?" asked Caelan. His own words sounded dumb in his ears, but they kept coming anyways. "I thought you were just being nice to me because--because . . ."

He found that he couldn't think of any reason why anyone without obligations to him would want to be nice to him unless they could get something from him. ". . . Because you thought I was smart and had potential . . . ?"

"Caelan." Adonis's voice broke, like it couldn't carry the weight of the devastated tenderness it carried. "How could I know you and not love you?"

Caelan swallowed hard and looked down at the table. He took a gulp of tea. When he set the cup down, he traced the edge with a finger. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Tears filled his eyes, and he swiped them away.

"You're too good for any of us around here," he murmured at last. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

Adonis shook his head-- ever so slightly at first, then with firm disagreement-- still not daring to look back. But Caelan could still spot the mist in his eyes as well.

"If I was," he said, "then I'd have done it right, and you wouldn't have cause to doubt that I care for you."

Caelan shook his head. "No, that's not it. I always liked being here, just the two of us. It felt special--I felt special."

"You are," Adonis insisted quietly. "You always have been. Ever since you wandered into my life."

Caelan forced a laugh and wiped his eyes again. "Well, I guess we can come to an agreement then? That you're a good dad."

It took a second, but the corner of Adonis's mouth raised in a faint, soft smile. "Only if you'll admit you've been wonderful to have as a kid."

Caelan smirked and answered, "That's easy--you don't have to ask me twice about that." But inside, his heart was racing. The feelings he had were hard to describe.

But it was enough to know that Adonis loved him. Just like his mother.

Daring to smile wider, Adonis finally joined him at the table, sitting opposite him. "Then you've got yourself a deal, kiddo."

What was Ramona to Caelan?

It was a fair question. What was she to anyone, these days? She was Ivy's best friend. She was Ossie's sister. She was Silas's dealer, and pal. She couldn't remember the last time she'd spent with Saoirse. It'd been years.

But Caelan? He was always busy. He was everyone's favorite. All of Sticks adored him. He was their sweetheart, Uriah's chosen pupil, and every lady's fiction. It was ridiculous because, to Ramona, he was still the bookish nerd who always had to be right.

That's who she wanted him to be.

But if that were true, that meant she was still the fool, and the punch-line to every joke. She might've been every lum-bum's favorite, but ingratiating yourself to addicts was different that ingratiating yourself to the 6 of the Sticks. It's why it felt like waiting on godsdamned royalty for Caelan to show up. Ever since he became the lumshade liason, life for her became more annoying.

Ramona tapped her foot and looked up at the half-crescent moon. A nuisance. That's what she was to Caelan, wasn't she?

It's what she was to everybody. But that was her fault. She couldn't stop acting like one. So, naturally, waiting in the shade at the edge of the forest at twilight was her portion. She rolled her head back with a groan when she finally saw Caelan step into the shadows.

Release.

Ramona dropped down from the tree, content to reveal herself prematurely. In this, she didn't have to be petty anymore. And Caelan was more aware than he let on.

Stronger than her, too. Not that she liked that.

"Hey, gingersnap," he said. "No sneak attack this time?"

"I'm feeling merciful," Ramona said with a tilt of her head.

Caelan matched her with a head tilt of his own. "How magnanimous of you. What did I ever do to deserve your favor?"

"Wouldn't look good if I beat up the favorite fix of the six of the sticks," Ramona said, tapping the tip of her foot between them with raised brows. "Reputation is protection, you know."

"That it is." Caelan shrugged the straps of the backpack he was wearing off his shoulders and held it in one hand. "The latest batch from our dear chemist."

"Ah, yes. Lowe and behold," Ramona said dryly, grabbing the strap, only to find his grip unrelenting. Her eyes narrowed when he didn't let go with one tug.

Great. She wasn't playing games this time, but he was. What gives? She pulled away.

"What?" she asked. "Is it glued to your hand or something?"

Caelan stepped closer until there was only a few inches of space left between them and there was the tree behind her back. He put a hand up to rest next to her head, against the tree. "I couldn't have you running away that quickly. You were planning to leave just like that?" His lower lip poked out slightly, as if he was almost pouting.

Ramona's stomach curled up into her chest, and heat rushed to her cheeks faster than she could stomp it out. Her brows twitched together, and she scoffed, leaning harder into the bark between her shoulder blades.

"Well now you're just making it weird," she muttered, trying to think of ways she could talk him out of whatever this was. She looked at the bag again, and tried not to meet Caelan's eyes. "It's just a drug deal."

Or it was supposed to be.

Something changed in Caelan's expression, and he lowered his gaze. His long, thick lashes hid his eyes, and he stepped back, turning away from her. "It's not to me." His voice was quiet. Hurt.

Ramona's heartrate was dangerously synonymous to the stampeding of horses. What am I to Caelan? cycled in the back of her head like a series of clanging gongs, putting the world on tilt. A nervous laugh trickled out of her. It was involuntary.

"Oh," she said, as apologetically and awkwardly as possible. But not on purpose. "Um."

She didn't know what to do with her hands. They were like useless meat claws hanging at her sides, and she was making things worse the longer she failed to say something funny to cut the tension.

"I didn't know," she managed. "I thought you were messing with me again."

Caelan let out a small scoff. "Is that all I am to you? Just someone who can't be taken seriously?" He turned back to her, jaw clenched. "Fine, then. Take the lumshade. See you next time." He shoved the backpack into her hands and turned to leave.

Ramona's words caught in her throat and instead came out as a helpless croak.

"Wait! -- No!" Ramona fumbled and dropped the bag to the ground. "That's--!"

What was happening? What was going on?

"That's all I thought I was to you!" she blurted.

Her words echoed back to her in the forest like daggers ripping away a shield she didn't know she had.

Caelan stopped and his shoulders seemed to sag as he sighed softly. He turned and came back, kneeling down next to Ramona and picking up the backpack. He opened it and scanned its contents quickly, then he closed it and slung one side over her arm and onto her shoulder. Then he reached around her other side and did the same with the other strap. "What am I going to do with you?" he murmured.

In one motion, he made her feel simultaneously like a little kid again. And... something else.

"I'm sorry," she said, not sure what she was apologizing for.

Seventeen years of being a pain in his side?

Caelan looked down at her in silence for an agonizing eternity. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her hair.

"You were just being yourself," he said. "None of us can help but just be who we are."

This man was speaking in code, and Ramona had no cypher. She didn't know whether to bat his hand away or give him a hug, and the latter felt like a betrayal of self. Instead, she just stood there, while a section of her brain fizzed. Somewhere deep inside her, she thought: she should tell Ivy.

But beneath that urge was another. One that told her: she wouldn't care.

Caelan jolted. His eyes widened, and he pulled his hand away. He cleared his throat. "Anyways, I didn't even ask how you're doing. It's been a while since we last saw each other."

Ramona's lashes fluttered too many times. She was beating away the nerves, was all. It had nothing to do with her eyes suddenly stinging. She planted her hands on her hips and nodded.

"Right," she said. "I feel like you've been living a whole 'nother life. I'm, uh -- well, the bummies really like me, these days, so." She shrugged the backpack and gripped the shoulder straps tightly. "I guess I'm staying busy too."

A small smile appeared on Caelan's face. "Too busy to get up to your old tricks?"

Ramona laughed, but without any mirth behind it. "Oh, you know how it is. Everyone's so busy these days. I feel like I hardly get to see anyone for fun anymore, you know? Gotta play the grown-up, now."

"I guess so." Caelan shrugged. "But surely you're not too busy to see Ivy? You two were the closest out of all of our friends."

Ramona's smile was held together by a thread.

"Oh, I -- sure. Yeah," she said. "I make a point to see her. You know Ivy, always locked away in her ivory tower."

"Does she make time for you, though?" asked Caelan. "Even I don't see her much, and we practically work together. You're putting in the effort to keep your friendship strong, so you deserve the same from her."

The thread snapped.

Ramona's eyes fell to the ground. "She's stressed. I understand it. It's all the projects, you know. She isn't even getting all the materials she needs. She has to do so much on her own."

Caelan sighed. "And so do you." He ran a hand through his silky, dark hair. "Look, I'm not trying to criticize her, I'm really not. But, it's just, I see what a caring person you are. It's hard not to. You're a really great friend to Ivy. I just wish that you would--that you could be happy."

Ramona lazily flitted her hands in the air as if it was a response.

"I mean -- I've already helped her find some once," she murmured. "I guess, maybe if I keep doing it, you know. I can take some of that pressure off, and she'll have more time...?"

Caelan brightened. He clapped his hands together. "What a great idea, 'Mona. Tell me how that goes. I want to keep Ivy accountable. If she doesn't spend more time with you after all this, I'll get back at her for you. Promise."

Ramona huffed, and looked at her feet. She didn't know why she felt guilty, all of a sudden. Like now, something was owed. Or she'd done something wrong. This whole misunderstanding was her fault, wasn't it? Now Caelan was just being nice.

Right?

"You don't have to do that," she said, knitting her fingers together.

He raised an eyebrow. "That's not like you to say something like that," he said, a teasing tone in his voice. He gently pried her hands apart and held them in his. "I'm doing it because I want to. All you have to do is just accept it."

Ramona's heart began to race again. Caelan's hands felt warm and steady over hers. It didn't hit her until now that she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt reassurance. For so long, her presence was merely tolerated.

But this...

"Okay," she said.

"Good." Caelan appeared satisfied. "I'm glad."

He glanced down at their hands and slowly let hers go. "I shouldn't keep you. It's quite late." But he hesitated, shifting in place on his feet.

"I shouldn't have been so mean to you when we were kids," Ramona confessed quietly.

Caelan shrugged. "It's all in the past, now."

Still. Even if he was being nice, now... it didn't matter. It was still mean. She had no right to bully him that way.

"But if you really feel bad about it . . ." said Caelan. His eyes wandered down. Before she could react, his hands were around her face, and his lips were on her lips. Then, as quick as it had happened, he was already taking steps back, a smirk on his face.

"I'll take that as payment," he called, and he disappeared through the trees.

Ramona was on fire.

Where she expected to feel anger, all she felt was pain. Her face burned, her hands were sweaty, and her lips went numb. Caelan was a ghost disappearing into the night through the forest of the forgotten, and everything was being eaten away. Everything she thought she knew, everything she thought she was, everything she wanted to be.

Her first kiss, and she hadn't seen it coming.

She didn't know how to feel. She didn't want it to count. She'd wanted to have leaned in, but the choir in her head told her the last thing she wanted to hear.

If Caelan was her father, she was just like her mother.

The worst part was, she couldn't even fight it. She'd wanted it. She'd all but asked for it, and Caelan did what neither of them had said aloud. She wasn't as dumb as she pretended to be. She knew from the moment he'd leaned in what it meant. It was something her mother always said when she was a kid. Men only want one thing.

And she knew even if Caelan didn't see her as more than a friend, he at least saw what every other man did. The only thing that made him different was that he'd listened.

Ramona rammed her forehead into the tree beside her. Humiliated, flattered, and burning to a crisp, she forced herself to become composed so she could make her rounds like she was supposed to. Because however much she'd rather crawl into a hole and die, nighttime was the best time to make deals, and she was burning money as much as she was burning pride.

The easiest place to start was at the smithy, but going there wasn't the same anymore. Not just because Morgan was sick. But because a little part of Silas was sick, too. That happened when he started using lumshade, and she hadn't noticed until it was too late.

Chills ran over her the whole walk to town, but it wasn't until she was standing in the shadow of the back door that she felt cold. The heat of embarassment died, and now all she felt was desperate, uncomfortable, and lonely. Ashamed, for wanting company. She didn't like that she was back in the yard they'd played in so much as children, occupied now by one goat, a bare tree, and leaves that Silas never raked away.

Somewhere inside, there was still fire in the stove, and Silas was caring for the dying man who hit him.

Well. Used to. It wasn't like Ramona didn't notice. She knew what it was like, too. Hoss just wasn't as freqeunt anymore.

She sighed and leaned against the door. The stars were brighter than she wished they'd be.

"Hey," she whispered through the door. "Si."

Even if Silas was asleep, he always heard her.

Sure enough, a minute later the door creaked open and her half-asleep friend emerged, holding a candle. There was an eager glint in his drowsy expression.

The pack on her shoulders felt heavier at the sight of him. When did Silas get so tall? When did she feels so small in comparison? And when did he become so pallid?

"Mona!" he said. "Come in."

The tone in his voice was so sleepy, Ramona felt torn. Something felt wrong, but she stepped inside anyway and looked him over when he turned away. He was moving slower. Stiffer. Something in his eyes was happy to see her, but not because it was her.

Her gut knotted, and she slowly shrugged her bag off onto the bench by the door. The house was warm, but the fire inside the stove was dying. The dark shadows felt harsher than usual.

"Thanks for coming," Silas said, placing the candle on the kitchen table. His hands were shaking, and it wasn't from the draft she'd brought in.

Ramona glanced at the bedroom door.

"He's asleep," Silas explained. "Like he almost always is, these days. We don't need to be quiet."

But quiet was what she was used to.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

"I'm fine." He wetted his lips. "It's not easy, but you of all people know how it is."

Her fingers rested on the bag's clasp, and Silas's eyes followed. He stared at her hands while she stared at his lips. Chapped, cracked, and hungry. The vials she offered him were taken faster than the stolen kiss, and Silas plopped down on the singular kitchen chair to inject it, with a speed and efficiency that startled her.

It had been a while, now, that they both understood the lumshade was for him. But this was her first time watching him take it.

His head rolled back and arms hanging loosely at his sides, he exhaled, eyes shut. Watching him melt in relief made her go numb.

"Much better," Silas said to the ceiling.

Ramona sat down on the bench and set the bag in her lap, slower than she needed to be. Now was when she was supposed to leave, but her feet wouldn't move her. The same tug and same distance she felt outside Ivy's shed door wrapped around her waist, and all she could find trapped behind her lips was a sentiment that didn't make sense anymore.

I miss you. But he was still there.

The house was quiet for long enough that Ramona thought Silas forgot she was there, lost in the high. But eventually he did get up, chair legs scraping the floorboards, and walked to the kitchen cupboard.

"Want any pottage?" he asked over his shoulder. "Made it earlier today."

Ramona hummed and shook her head.

After dusting off a questionably clean bowl with his shirt, Silas ladled a portion of stew from the pot on the stove and joined her on the bench. When he sat beside her, she drew closer - hip to hip - and let herself collapse into his side, head on his shoulder.

He smelled like smoke, and sweat, and salty-sweet flowers. The stew was lukewarm, and bland enough that she could taste the disappointment by looking at it. But she'd seen Silas settle for less.

He didn't seem to mind the closeness. "Long day?" he asked in between spoonfuls.

Another hum. "I wish it was over already."

His body tensed in surprise. "It's late! You have more deliveries to do?"

"Couldn't pick up the goods 'til late," she murmured. "Slave to the boss' schedule, not mine."

"Uriah's?" Silas asked.

"Caelan's."

"Ah. Are you and him... good?"

Ramona found herself unable to answer. Her face turned into Silas's shoulder, a little closer, a little tighter. And in the back of her mind she imagined what it would've been like if Silas were there, tall and broad shouldered, able to push Caelan away, or at least absorb the confusion. She wished she had his stature, and his strength. Even at her most disciplined, she couldn't overpower either of them. Not on the meager meals she ate.

"Would you hug me?" Ramona whispered.

Silas tensed again, but he put the bowl down and wrapped his arms around her. "Mona," he murmured, "what's going on?"

She leaned into his chest and hugged back tighter than she should've.

"I just feel safe like this, is all."

"Did he hurt you?"

Her throat caught, but she forced out a "No," because even if he had, it would've been her fault for entertaining it.

"I know you two've never gotten along, but I thought you were just messing around. Kid stuff." Silas patted her back softly. "It runs deeper than that, huh?"

Ramona shook her head into his shirt. She couldn't say it. She couldn't sound like every other girl in town. She couldn't sound like a fool again.

"If there's anything you want me to talk with him about, I can," Silas said.

Ramona pulled away quickly. "No!"

Her face flushed deeply when she realized how close her face was to Silas', and she turned away, crouching her head between her shoulders.

"Let's talk about something else," she whispered.

"That's fine," he said, unconvincingly.

"Are you -- um --" she grasped for straws. "You said Morgan's asleep most of the time and it's been hard?"

Silas picked up the bowl of stew again. "Never thought a bedsheet could be washed that many times."

A painful silence followed.

"Yeah," Ramona sighed in weary agreement. "I get it."

"How's your mom?" he asked.

"Honestly, I don't know how she's not dead yet," Ramona admitted. "I know it sounds cold to say, but..."

"No, I get it. Part of me can't believe Morgan's still holding on either."

"Do you know what you'll do?" Ramona asked. "When he's gone?"

Silas sighed and poked at a lump of boiled potato with his spoon. "No idea. There's that new blacksmith on the other side of town, and most folks would rather go to him. Maybe I'll sell this place. See if some other town needs me."

Ramona froze. "Leave Sticks?"

It never occured to her that anyone would try, but Silas said it like it was as normal as getting old.

He shrugged, putting the bowl back down. It was clear he'd lost his appetite. "I don't plan on living here forever. Do you?"

Ramona stared at him with sincere emptiness over something she was ashamed to have never considered. With no thoughts on the matter until that moment, Ramona didn't know what to imagine or dream.

"I guess I only thought of who I want to be around," she said slowly.

Like Ivy. Her family, even if they were depressing. And Silas, who... she wanted to be around for longer.

The corner of Silas' mouth twitched. There was something sad in his eyes, and for a moment, Ramona pictured him on a bed of leaves, hidden under a small pitched tent, with purple fingertips, just outside Sticks. Biting her lip, she reached across her legs and took his hand.

She wanted him around for a long time. She just didn't think he would be.

"Don't worry about paying, by the way," she said quietly. "It's part of my cut."

Silas stood up. "No it isn't!" he insisted.

Ramona stood up with him but he slipped from her hands. Once again, too strong against her resistance. He pulled open a drawer in the kitchen to fetch a small leather pouch. Shifting on her feet, she waited for him to hurry back to her, digging for the coins.

She tried a second time, and set her hand over his before he could pull out the money. He brushed her off.

"Hey," she said, softer. "Can't you let me give you a gift every once in a while?"

She owed him, anyway. She made him like this, she just wished she knew why. That was a secret he still wouldn't surrender.

Silas' shoulders sagged. "Then let me give you one." He glanced at the smithy door, thinking -- but he wasn't ready.

He didn't have something prepared. Dragons above, he was still looking around through half-lidded eyes, half asleep. Her chest ached with a pang of affection.

"It's enough that you're my favorite," she said.

As the words left her, she couldn't help but feel like she was betraying Ivy. But it was true.

Silas' brows lifted. "What do you mean?" he asked dumbly.

Ramona huffed through her nose and smiled small. She cast her eyes to the ground for a moment, wondering herself what she meant, and what she wanted it to mean. When she met Silas's eyes again, it was with wistful longing.

She leaned in slowly.

Silas had all the time in the world to move if he wanted, and she would've been at peace with that. Instead, he froze like an icicle while she shattered to pieces. Half determined to bail, she landed on the second to worst option.

Gently, and only for a small peck, she kissed his cheek and pulled away. Her face must have looked like his did when Caelan walked away. Stunned. Stuck somewhere else. She wished she felt guilty for springing it on him, as if she hadn't just done what Caelan did to her, but she'd at least give Silas the option.

"I don't have to be yours," she said, hoping he wasn't waiting for an apology.

She took a step back and shrugged her bag on her shoulders, all the while Silas just stood there. She thought that, by the time she made it to the door, he'd say something or move. But the door closed behind her without so much as a motion, and for all the comfort she'd recieved in Silas's arms, she couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't just all of her mother's worst parts put together.

Maybe she was all of the worst parts of her father, too.

Something was changing inside of her as she slinked through the shadows. The playwright inside her would say reinvention, the buisiness woman a rebrand. The memory that used to haunt her began taking on a new shape, and the cold dead body clutching liquid gold became a mirror of herself. Alive. Controlling it.Moving it. There was power in the hands of the distributor.

The suns would be bankrupt without hands like hers. Small, essential pieces fell into place with each trade. Slip the venom, take the money.

Maybe this was the precipice of adulthood. Finally on the edge of change, past the point of boyish lank, passing into womanhood. Whatever hurt she felt, whatever hurt she caused, she could at least take comfort in knowing that she was desirable for something. She saw it in men's eyes when her body had changed, filled out, and morphed into something foreign. New to her, but to everyone else, consumable. Just like her trade, just like the Suns.

Singe, burn, eat people up. Turn them into rays, reaching out to the world. For the first time, she saw herself in it, shining beyond Sticks' borders. Somewhere brighter. Better.

Somewhere no one knew her, where she could be anything. Where no one would see the fool.

It didn't matter where.

Back against a wall, Ramona slung her bag back to her chest, checking her inventory. So far, she'd hit all her regular clients, but half the bag still remained. End of the month, money was scarce, and Silas aside, those that couldn't pay didn't buy. That meant hitting the irregulars to hit her quota, but they were less reliable. She had two days to sort it out, but it was always better to sell and collect sooner than later. She didn't like worrying about holding so much money, and so much product.

Ramona needed to find another buyer before sundown. She'd already danced through the edge of town where the lumbums hid, and in some sick form of irony, they didn't worry her anymore. Going into the business district did.

It wasn't the same on that side of the Sticks. She knew the streets, but she didn't like the ones by Lilly's Spoon. It was the hub of night life, the heart of the town, and every child's forbidden space.

But that was changing.

Ramona was seventeen, now, and gods knew her mother wouldn't care anymore.

The air around the tavern was smoky. Burnt cigarettes and cigar butts filled a black pit by the fountain, and the walk in was on the town's only paved street. The pavers were uneven from years of wear, and dull, firelit candelabras and hanging lamps illuminated fogged out windows. In the middle of the night, the field of stars was hidden behind a blanket clouds, and people swarmed the Spoon like street cats begging for dinner.

When she walked inside and the overhead bell rang, she joined them.

There were some familiar faces, but only one she could bet on. At the back of the room through the smoke and the incense, she spotted the 30-year-old's curly black hair spilling over his forehead from the shaved sides. A scar cut through his tanned skin, denting his thin lips down to his chin. It was unusual to find him alone, but as fortune would have it, he sat solo. Three empty glasses shone on the table.

If was in that deep, this would be a breeze.

Ramona grabbed a beer from the bar and slid into the booth bench beside Jean: the four wanting more from life, stuck at mid-life and mid-rank. The only thing he had going for him was a nice face and enough wit to bounce off of hers. Honestly, it was the only thing that drew her to him in the first place.

Because gods did he stink of alcohol.

"Little miss fritz, looking for a drink?" Jean huffed.

"Looking for a hand, not much different than you think," Ramona sing-songed.

"Favors, then," he murmured.

He stole her glass and downed it in three gulps. Ramona shrugged innocently.

"Not favors," she said. "Back scratches! You scratch mine, I scratch yours."

"That's how people get lice."

"Only if we're mice!"

Jean raised smirked. "So, who's the cat?"

Interlacing her fingers, Ramona set her elbows on the table and leaned in.

"This cat," she said with her chin on her hands. "Is looking for mice."

That elicited a chuckle from him, but when he leaned back into his seat, he at least gave it consideration. He tilted his head towards her.

"I know a few rats, recently hooked on cheese," he said. "But they're a little skittish."

Ramona batted her eyelashes and tilted her head to the side. "Help me catch them?"

Jean took in a deep breath, then leaned forward, and mirrored her. With a teasing glint in his eye, he squinted and flicked her cheek. Ramona flinched, but he smiled.

"If you want to work with a dog, throw me a bone," he said.

"First, show me your teeth."

Jean leaned a little lower, and brought his hand to his forehead. His eyes remained on her, but lacked all focus.

"Nothing to bare, but everything to lose," Jean said. "I have an option, should you choose."

"I'll bite."

"Who's your top buyer?" Jean asked.

Ramona smirked. "Easy. You know Morgan's kid, Silas?"

"Blacksmith's son? Didn't strike me as a mouse."

"He's incredibly loyal," she said. "There are others, of course, but he gives the best business."

"And yet you still have more to sell," Jean grinned thinly.

"Not if you'll lead this cat to her next meal," Ramona said. "Or was that all you wanted to know about my business?"

"Here's the teeth," Jean grinned.

"Knew it."

"Smiths weigh you down. Bite the boy and expand the business. Work with me, and we'll make rounds to Banden. Get your name out there," Jean said. "Take this as a kindness from lessons learned: never treat clients like stone walls. They move, they die, they crumble. They go broke."

He jabbed a finger into her collar bone.

"This week's end," he said. "Join me, and I'll show you where the skittish ones burrow. You need to be smart enough to lure them on your own."

The invitation was a condition, and if she wanted clients, it would be stupid to pass on the opportunity. Ramona sat taller and held out her hand. Jean gripped it firmly in a bobbed shake, but something from his palm pressed into hers. It was thin, metallic, and long, like a pen.

When their hands dropped beneath the table, she caught a glimpse of the gift: a small, mettalic blow-gun quiver, with a pre-loaded dart.

"Rats are different than mice," he said. "Slink past the mason's hutch and find the home tucked behind the storefront."

Ramona nodded, but the warning was still sinking in. Jean raised his brows and stared at her, drunken and slow. His eyes wandered more than she cared to note.

"Rats," she said again, sliding out of the booth.

"Hey," Jean spoke up. Louder.

"What?" She stopped.

"Scratch my back," he said, twitching his brows up like a challenge. It was the look in his eyes that told her he was no longer metaphorical in meaning.

With a sigh through her nose, she rounded the table and scratched between his shoulder blades. Dog that he was, he closed his eyes and smiled in contentment. The man was too drunk for his own good.

After a few moments, Ramona drew away.

"Thanks, Jean," she said more sincerely.

Laid out on the table, Jean moaned a reply. With a spin, Ramona weaved her way into the streets again until she slinked along the wooden fence of the mason's yard.

The only way in was through the shop, unless you knew how to climb. Deftly, she found a stack of crates to scale and hopped into the dirt lot with ease.

For a backyard, it was mostly bare: but a mason only needed water, dirt, and clay. Some unlaid bricks were stacked in square-shaped columns, but apart from their shadows stretching across the ground, the small house -- that now, she could only really call a shed -- was all that sat in the corner.

Unlike the shop, a light was on. Faint and flickering, beyond the only window. Proof of life.

Ramona tossed a stone against the glass, and it clattered. Louder inside than out, she was sure, but the wait made her question her approach. Thirty seconds by the door felt too long. Longer than normal, or human, or safe. And still, she chewed the bone Jean fed her, even if she wasn't a dog.

Jean wouldn't lie.

She felt vindicated when the door finally opened, but that relief died the moment she met the man's eye's. He stared back with ravenous desperation: not that of a helpless lum-bum, but of a new addict who dove in too deep, too fast, and too far out.

Rats.

So where was the other one?

A smile commanded her features without her consent.

"I think I can help you," she said.

A reasonable man would've shut the door, full knowing what a targeted visit at this hour would entail. For better or worse, addicts weren't reasonable.

"I don't have money," the man said stiffly.

Ramona's brows twitched.

"Maybe you have something else worth my time," she said. "Anything you're willing to part with?"

The man's eyes slinked to the side, but she could hardly read his face. His expression was so dulled by lethargy that all she could get was a hint. Something scheming.

Her gut said to run.

"Come inside and I'll show you," the man said.

"Not exactly an answer to my question," she said. "But, if there's no business here, I'll go elsewhere--"

Ramona would say that was where it all went wrong, but she should've seen it earlier and read between the lines. Jean spoke in code, but she didn't know his cipher. When Jean said "rats" he didn't just mean big men, or a snitch. The blow-gun was meant to be used, but by the time she should've, it was too late.

Nothing was more humiliating than losing everything for a test. And when she said everything. She meant everything.

The money. The lumshade. The bag, the padding, her shoes, her jacket. She was left with little but her basest layers, and she couldn't remember why. When she woke up in the mud behind an outhouse on the far edge of town she had no memories beyond that door, the grip around her arm, and the pain in her skull.

The first thing she should've done was panic, but instead, she stared at the sun and shivered.

Her thin shirt was wet from the mud. Mud soaked her hair and caked the side of her face. She wished her pants were less absorbent, but they were glued to her skin.

A strange, empty hopelessness left her lying there, and in that moment, she understood her mother.

She understood her father.

She understood that the Sticks would never change. This place would always be like this, and the only way out of the mud was to claw her way out. Was that what she was meant to learn from all of this? That no one was going to fight for her but herself?

All she knew as that she'd failed. Losing half of the lumshade and all of her profits was going to put her in hot water. However freezing she was, the last thing she wanted was to find Caelan like this and answer to him. He could be tender, but she couldn't picture him being understanding, and she couldn't picture anyone who would help without throwing her to the dogs. That was, until she closed her eyes.

There was one person. The half-brother she seldom knew, but seldom forgot.

Ramona picked herself up, and her bare feet sunk into the puddle. A shiver ran up her spine, and the smell registered. It wasn't mud.

Here Lies Morgan, Blacksmith and Friend.

Morgan deserved more than that, but carving the letters into oak was slow, punishing work. Silas was careful to drive the blade extra deep, too, hoping the etchings would endure any storm that came their way. He'd seen too many indistinguishable grave markers to let Morgan's meet a similar fate.

When he was finished, Silas hammered the stake into the earth while Kyle watched from his pen. He went and found a few large rocks from around the shack to help support it.

It was nearly dusk and he'd been digging and carving all day, but still Silas felt restless, convinced that the grave was inadequate.

In truth, he just wasn't ready for the part that came after the burial.

Silas went inside to the kitchen table and pried off a stub of candle that was left. He lit it and carried it back outside, a drop of hot wax stinging his forearm, and nestled it on top of the fresh mound.

Muscles sore and clothes caked with mud, Silas slumped against a fencepost of the goat pen, a spot where he could watch the little flame, and sighed. Kyle nibbled harmlessly at his hair.

"Hope you're in a better place now," Silas told the candle. There was a lump in his throat, so he focused on picking at the dirt under his fingernails until it went away. "With working legs and all," he added.

Kyle broke the silence that followed with his own epitaph: a low-pitched bleat.

Silas sensed a familiar headache creeping in. He reached in his pocket and drew out a half-empty vial of lumshade.

As Morgan had gotten weaker, Silas was less and less careful about hiding his addiction. Morgan never said anything about it, but Silas could read his disapproving expressions just fine.

By now Silas could measure the dose by feel alone, but he held the purple liquid up to the candle to take stock of how much he had left. Rolling up his sleeve, he stuck the needle in his forearm and pressed the plunger until the last drop was gone. The sweet, floral sting surged through his blood, and within seconds the sharpness of the world softened to a comfortable fuzz.

Sitting there next to Morgan's grave, there was a pang of relief mixed in with the melancholy. Caring for a dying man had been exhausting, especially when the invalid had been resistant to help. Though Morgan's body had failed him, his mind was stubborn and cognizant, all the way up until the end.

The candle was nothing more than a puddle of wax, but its flame shivered on, clinging to whatever speck of wick was left, until a stray wind came and stole the light away.


A few days later, in the early hours of the bleary gray morning, Silas awoke to three heavy knocks on the back door.

From the old goose feather mattress in the corner by the stove, Silas lifted his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, emerging unwillingly from the depths of his dream about a cat chasing a possum.

His first thought was that he'd overslept, and a customer was angry. Dragging himself to his feet and combing his fingers through his hair, he saw how dark it was outside and realized that couldn't be the case.

The knocks hadn't sounded urgent. They hadn't been hesitant, either. If it was Ramona, why hadn't she just whispered his name like usual?

"Be right there," he said to the door, shuffling to the kitchen to light a candle and splash his face.

Danger didn't cross his mind, for some reason. Maybe it was the dulling effect of the drugs, maybe he was numb after all the years that had passed since Saoirse's mom had died.

In any case, he was wholly unprepared for what stood patiently outside.

Still half-asleep, Silas pulled the door open and the first thing he saw was . . . flowers.

He stared at the bouquet stupidly for a moment before lifting the candle to see who was behind it. All he could make out was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, a middle-aged man - and then the man tilted his head, as if in curiosity, allowing the meager candlelight to carve out the shadows of his handsome features: a strong jawline, a pair of lips parted slightly in a small smile, sharp cheekbones, and wistful, shining eyes.

Silas recognized him immediately. The man was Uriah.

In two seconds, he'd devised an escape plan. Hurl the hot wax, slam the door, and flee out the front, through the smithy, where he could grab a hammer to defend himself. He'd run into the forest, as far and as fast as he could, all the way to Lake Lily and beyond.

"Silas?" Uriah said, as if his name was familiar.

The tone of his voice, the mistiness in his eyes, and the flowers - all of it was so different from what Silas would have expected. This confusion, more than anything, kept him frozen in place, like when Ramona leaned in for a kiss.

"I heard about Morgan. I came by to pay my respects," Uriah said, extending the bouquet. "And... to offer an apology."

Silas did not accept the flowers.

An involuntary shiver tickled his spine. Without warning, the day he'd been dreading, more than any other, had arrived on his doorstep.

Had there been a warning? He wouldn't know. How had he grown so careless?

"I should have been there," Uriah said, drawing the bouquet back to his chest. "Long, long before this. And I know it provides little in reparations to say so now: but I have desperately sought to find you and restore you to our family again. I know you may not be able to call us that yet, but... you have never stopped being my son, and I your father. For however much you'll let me, I want to be for you what I've always been. And may the gods bless Morgan for what he was to you, when I could not."

Uriah offered the flowers again, and this time Silas let go of the doorknob to accept them.

For a long while, he only stared. It felt very much like he was in a dream. The flowers were beautiful, freshly picked: a mix of orange lilies, pink yarrow, and red poppies.

Silas wanted to believe Uriah more than anything. He wanted to believe he'd changed, somehow, in the years since Aunt Celia's murder, fashioned by remorse into someone he'd be proud to call his father.

This all-powerful six of the Blue Suns, however, had no capacity for redemption.

Silas swallowed and dared to meet his father's wistful gaze: a pair of dark eyes that glistened with genuine compassion, nearly shattering his conviction.

Silas shook his head. "I've made it this far," he said. "I don't need you."

The light dimmed in Uriah's eyes, and his smile faded.

"If that is your request," Uriah said faintly. "Then I will not impose on you any further."

Silas' stomach churned. He'd expected a monster, not someone reasonable and gentle and almost kind.

"You know where to find me, if you need me." Uriah bowed his head.

And in his parting words, he met Silas' eyes with wells of tears.

"I love you."

Silas flinched as if struck. He didn't know how to feel, hearing those words for the first time from . . . him.

Uriah turned and walked away without another word. The candle in one hand and the flowers in the other, Silas kicked the door shut and slumped against the wall, shivering.

"I have desperately sought to find you and restore you to our family again."

Family. A mother, a father, and a son. Hadn't he pined for that all his life, and felt the pang of envy whenever he saw Adonis smile at Ivy, or a random mother on the street embrace her child?

Morgan had certainly never told him he loved him. For a while it was easier to pretend like Morgan did love him, in his own way - teaching Silas everything he knew about smithing, giving him a place to sleep, and lending him extra money to buy clothes - but was that really paternal love, or just the relationship between a master and his apprentice?

Would Adonis raise his hand if Ivy made one too many mistakes? Would Caelan's mom have forgotten her son's birthday? Would Kyle - the human - speak to Ossie only in commands?

Silas began to cry.

He got up, leaving the bouquet on the floor, and dragged the straw mattress closer to the stove. He curled up under the blanket, his whole frame wracked with sobs.

"You have never stopped being my son, and I your father."

Silas pictured himself standing in the middle of a grand palace, like one of the castles in Caelan's books, dressed smartly in an ironed coat. There was a tattoo on his neck, three-rayed, and his black boots were so shiny they sparkled. Outside the window, the dreary Sticks was merely a smudge.

"Silas!"

He turned and saw a beautiful woman with dark hair striding toward him, arms outstretched. She embraced him and kissed him on the forehead.

"Your father asked for you," she said. "Hurry upstairs."

The large rooms echoed with Silas' footsteps as he dashed through them. When he reached Uriah's suite, Ossie was at the door, standing guard. He smiled warmly and bowed his head. Silas nodded in return and stepped inside.

"There he is!" Uriah proclaimed. He had a huge map of Nye spread before him, with little colored gems marking different points of interest. An exquisite candelabrum hung above, casting dancing golden lights on the ceiling.

"I wanted your opinion on this." Uriah swept his hand over the center of the map. "We have trade routes going to Ruddlan through Banden, and as of late the profits have been . . . scarce. We have reason to believe the people of Sticks are stealing from the shipments."

Silas stepped forward and peered at the map. A blue gemstone glittered on top of Sticks.

"We've gotten too lenient," Uriah said with a sigh.

Silas noticed there were little figurines of Blue Sun guards standing sentry on the edge of the table. He picked one up and placed it next to the Sticks. "The traders need escorts. Do we have men to spare?"

Uriah shrugged. "Caelan could rustle up a few more."

"It may not be enough," Silas said. "What if the traders resist?"

"Would they be that rash?"

"Desperation breeds recklessness." Silas hammered his fist on the table, scattering the stones covering the Moonlight Kingdom. "We must act before they do."

The Six grinned, and all his teeth were sharp. He came around the table and clapped Silas on the back. "Very true, my boy. Compassion dulls the senses, but you --" Uriah shook his head, laughing. "Your mind is sharper than ever."

Sparks skipped from the candelabrum, one by one, scorching the map with black craters. A flame sprang up in The Outlands, consuming Sticks, and Uriah's laughter only grew.

Silas awoke, covered in sweat.

The straw mattress was on fire.

Yelping in fright, Silas scrambled for the bucket of well water and doused the flames within seconds. He dragged the sopping mattress back to its corner, then collapsed onto the bench, panting. The discarded bouquet lay at his feet.


That evening, he told Saoirse everything.

Saoirse had gone pale as a sheet. Her hands began to shake, but her voice didn't waiver as she spoke. "You know I love you Silas, but he's full of crap."

They were huddled in an alleyway together near the Carter home. Saoirse was seated on an overturned crate and Silas was drawing shapes in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"I know he is," Silas replied, though he wasn't sure if that was true anymore.

It didn't look like Saoirse believed him. She didn't say anything.

"Look," Silas said, "I'm just . . . really confused right now. He didn't kill me. He didn't even kidnap me. I told him I didn't want him and he left."

"That's..." Saoirse gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "I'm glad you're okay but that's really weird."

"He seemed like he really wanted me, as a son."

Saoirse opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

"I know this sounds crazy," Silas said, "but what if he's changed?"

"What if he hasn't?"

He looked at her, then looked away again quickly. His ears burned with shame. Why was he telling her all this? Of all his friends, Saoirse hated Uriah the most.

The truth was, he needed someone to talk some sense into him. Dispell those clamoring doubts. Saoirse was the most apt for the job.

"You're right." He met her gaze again. "What should I do?"

Saoirse looked at the ground. It was a while before she answered. "I need to tell you something."

"I'm listening." The tone of her voice frightened Silas a little.

"I'm not asking for your help right now. And I wouldn't say anything unless I trusted you, but-- I'm going to kill Uriah."

Not I'm thinking about killing Uriah, or I'd like to kill Uriah. Gods, she really meant it.

Now it was Silas' turn to turn white as a sheet. "Saoirse!" he hissed. "What do you mean? That's a death wish."

"He killed my mom," Saoirse said. "He'll kill me too if he thinks I'm in the way."

"In the way of what? He's found me already. He's not gonna hurt you."

"Neither of us knows that. But he knows that I saw him when--" she cut herself off. "He knows what I saw, Silas. I'm not about to be spreading it around, but he's just gonna see me as another loose end. We both know what the Suns do to those."

She was right, of course. Saoirse was no friend to the Suns, which alone put her in harm's way.

Silas raked his hands through his hair, exasperated. "And how exactly are you planning to murder the local Six, Saoirse?"

"I'm still working on that."

"Even if you do kill him, and get away with your head, you'll have his goons hounding you for the rest of your life. It isn't worth it." He kicked up a cloud of dirt and then plopped down next to Saoirse on the old crate. "Let's just forget about all that and get out of here."

"I wish I could forget." Saoirse sighed. "But the Suns have eyes everywhere, Silas. I can't."

The anger festering inside her since Celia's murder had never subsided, it had only found more ways to hide. He saw now, as clear as the cloudless night sky, that she wanted vengeance more than anything else in the world.

He couldn't blame her. He also couldn't let it fester any longer. This was madness.

"We'll start fresh somewhere else," Silas insisted, escaping to a fantasy like he always did when the real world was too much to handle. "Like Ruddlan. I'll get a job with a blacksmith, and you'll sell pelts."

Saoirse just shook her head. “We’d never make it.” She said, voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t make you help, Silas, but I’m going to do this.” She sighed, brushed the dirt off her pants, and stood up. Her hands were still shaking like a leaf. “The coyotes will be out soon. I need to go check my traps.” A pause. “I’m sorry about Morgan. I'll bring some meat over as soon as I can.”

Silas watched her go. "Stay safe," he said, but she didn't hear him.

He was in no hurry to head back, where it was dark and cold and he'd be alone with his thoughts on a half-scorched straw mattress. When he did leave the alleyway, it was to take the long way home, past the fountain, just in case he ran into Ramona or Caelan on one of their jobs. He craved a distraction.

"As fate would have it, our paths cross again so soon."

Silas whirled around. He was next to the fountain, and for a moment he thought he'd imagined the voice in the bubbling of the water.

Uriah showed his palms. "I didn't mean to frighten you," he said.

Silas tried to swallow but his throat was dry. "What are you doing here?"

"No law prohibits me from an evening stroll, does it?"

"No. I thought you said you'd leave me alone."

"I did indeed. And should that remain your wish, I will respect it."

"It's still my wish," Silas stammered.

Uriah smiled and dipped his head. "Just tell me one thing before we part ways, Silas. Has anyone taught you about your shadow?"

"My shadow," Silas repeated uncertainly.

Uriah's chest rose with a deep breath, and visible restraint held him back from stepping any closer.

"Silas," Uriah said, with layered sorrow. "There is another way to control the parts of yourself that you fear most."

A wave of shame crashed over him. The wolf, the lumshade - Uriah knew about it all.

Of course he did.

"What's your secret, then?" Silas said. He couldn't keep the bitter inflection from creeping into his voice.

"There is so much I wish to tell you, Silas, but I cannot do it here," Uriah said with creased brows. "But I promise you this; if you have a change of heart, I will wholeheartedly devote the rest of my life to your mentorship. I long to repay all of the years we've lost. And most of all -- I will ensure with all of my power that every part of you is safe and valued. In the Suns... value is determined by the core of who you are. Any other perspective is unacceptable."

Safe.

No more running.

Or would he only end up running from something else?

Silas stepped to the side, distancing himself from Uriah. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go feed the goat now."

Uriah stood stiffly. "There is a package on your doorstep," he said quietly.

Silas froze. Gods, it made his skin crawl that Uriah knew exactly where he lived and could arrive whenever he wanted, unnanounced.

"From your mother," Uriah added, before dipping his head and striding away.


Clothes. Exceptional clothes, bundled in brown paper and folded in neat squares.

Brushing off Uriah's wilted petals from the kitchen table, Silas pulled out the clothes and spread them out one by one. He counted two pairs of pants, three beautiful tunics, and a polished pair of black boots.

Throwing off his shirt, he wiggled into the burnt orange tunic, silky smooth against his skin. Silas couldn't help but giggle. He'd never even seen clothes this wonderful, let alone danced around in them. The fabric moved against his skin like water, save for one hem that scratched at his wrist.

After pulling off the tunic, he brought it to candlelight to see if there was any errant thread he needed to mend in the inner sleeve. To his surprise, he found a tiny little pocket instead. Poking out was the corner of a tightly folded scrap of paper.

His heart beat faster as he unfolded it.

My Dear Silas,
I am so sorry. When you were born, I sent you away with my sister, fearful for your life. I must be brief. Your father watches me constantly.

I love you with all my heart and I have missed you every day, but do not trust Uriah. His words are chains. To this day, I cannot break free, not even to see you. And now, my greatest fears have come true. Everything I did to protect you is lost. I cannot even mourn Celia in his presence.

A wolf will always betray you. Your father deceived me from the start. I did not know he was a werewolf. It was not until I was pregnant with you that he revealed the inner beast and gloated over a child cursed to inherit it. I sent you away in hopes that the curse would pass over you.

Please. Take this money and flee from the Sticks. He doesn't want a son: he wants a marionette, and I cannot bear to see two of him in this world. Run as far as you can. Go anywhere else. Be your own man.

And if you suffer his same affliction, I beg you: let the wolf be damned.