Coveted

  Chapter 19

  My guilt was only compounded by the fact my mother treated me like I was home recovering from illness rather than suspended for assault. She even took a few days off work so that she could stay with me. Every time she doted on me, or insisted I just watch TV or play games, I wanted to scream. What kind of mother didn't take assault seriously?

  The only thing she did that remotely resembled a punishment was to ground me from all social interaction while I was suspended. The gnawing nearly ripped out of me to devour her. It scared me when my fingers flinched into a fist when she stipulated even Bran could not visit.

  Being grounded didn't stop him. That first night, after my mother had fallen asleep, I lay wide awake. I had been torturing myself with a mental replay of the assault when there was a scratch at the window. At first, I had dismissed it as the bush scraping against the glass. Then the gnawing erupted and, when the scratching had come a second time, I knew who it was. Peeking around the drape, I had seen Bran wedged between the bush and the window. Opening it, I had demanded in a harsh whisper what he thought he was doing.

  He had flashed me his crooked grin. "Can't let you go to bed without a goodnight kiss," he had teased.

  He repeated this procedure each night: scratching at my window, kissing me goodnight, and having the nerve to leave me in a horrid state only promising, "To the end of my life." It wasn't enough but the promise he would return the next night kept the gnawing from devouring me whole.

  So far, my suspension really had been punishment but only because I had spent my entire time lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and replaying the events in my head while trying to figure out why I had done it. I was no closer to an answer but the stress-induced nausea my obsession caused was the least I deserved.

  On Wednesday morning, I stayed in bed. Staring at the stippled ceiling seemed as good a past-time as any. My room glowed golden with sunlight. People were probably enjoying summer pursuits of yard work, walks, and sports. I remained alone on my bed.

  "Get up," my mother called from outside my door. "I've got chores for you."

  I rolled over, keeping my back to the door. Hugging my knees to my chest felt more fitting than housework. My mother was not so easily deterred. She banged on the door so that the hollow wood frame rattled against the casing.

  "Lucina, we'll be having company for dinner. I want the house looking presentable." She sounded more upset that I hadn't gotten up yet than she had about my altercation at the school.

  "I'm not allowed social visits, remember?" I called over my shoulder.

  "This isn't a social visit for you. Alistair is coming over at six."

  Alistair, the man with the second white dove. I jumped up and grabbed a pair of jeans to change into. I stumbled back and fell onto my bed when I tried to pull the first leg on. I just stayed there as I pulled on the other leg. Swapping my pajama top for an old stained t-shirt, I called out, "What do you need me to do?"

  "Clean," she said back.

  "What?"

  "Everything."

  Perhaps she had finally come up with a punishment for my transgression. I wasn't sure. Usually we worked together. Given why I was home from school, I kept my grumbling to myself.

  I started with the living room, picking up and putting away anything that was out of place. When I began to dust, I started noticing a strange odor. It was faint at first and so only a mild curiosity. As the smell increased and began to resemble more the scent of cooking metal pipes and dirty gym socks, I headed to the kitchen.

  My mother was stirring a large pot. Steam billowed from it, fogging up the microwave door above it.

  "What on earth are you cooking? A banishment stew?" I said as I pulled my t-shirt over my nose.

  She rolled her eyes. "It only stinks for a little while."

  "What is it and why the heck are you making it?"

  She glared at me. "It's dinner. We're having home cooked beans with fresh buns. It's my grandmother's recipe."

  "Was this recipe what killed her?"

  She returned to her stirring. "Have you finished cleaning?"

  In reply, I walked grumbling back to the living room to finish my chores. By the time afternoon came, I had sorted, vacuumed, dusted, and washed every inch of the house. Even my room no longer looked like a neglected laundry hamper.

  My mother's beans were now in the oven and I had to admit that the house smelled far more tantalizing now. Hints of molasses carried down the hall, expelling the last remnants of the sickening cloud from that morning.

  I had to admit that the sweetness in the air combined with having spent my day actually doing something had greatly improved my mood. Instead of heading back to my bedroom, I sat on the back step and watched Riley sniff every inch of the backyard. Occasionally, I threw his ball for him but it often took ten or more minutes for him to work up the desire to fetch it, though he was taking the occasional snap at flies that whizzed by his head. When I had been younger, we would wrestle in the grass together and play doggy tag: he would chase me with the ball until I threw it and I would chase him with it until he gave it back. He flopped onto his side in the shadow against the fence and let out a long sigh. What stressed dogs out? I couldn't imagine his problems being as crazy as mine but maybe I was just ignorant.

  Alistair would be over for dinner in a few hours. I wasn't afraid of him at dinner—he was a man very devoted to his pretense—but because of that, I wasn't sure how to ask him about his dove. My mother would not understand any of it and would likely think I had lost my mind. Keeping her in the dark still seemed the best but it meant I might miss an important opportunity.

  Riley left his spot in the shade to join me on the step. I scratched behind his ears as he leaned against me. "Still can't decide where to sleep?" I asked him. He panted. If only my problems were so easy.

  When the doorbell rang that evening, I ran to open it. I was hoping to have even a few seconds alone with Alistair to grill him. But my mother was already behind me to greet him after I opened the door. He must have just come from the school because he still had his beat up old satchel and was wearing his button-up shirt and tie. Though he had rolled up his sleeves like he had the last time I had seen him.

  "Monica!" He beamed when he took in my mother. "You look lovely."

  She was wearing a simple, blue knitted shirt and jeans but she blushed and muttered a thank you.

  "How are you holding up?" he asked me as I stepped aside to let him in. He seemed so much taller inside my house.

  I shrugged. "Ok, I guess."

  His smile was a bit too understanding. "Getting away for a few days helping with your perspective at all?" He asked as my mother took his satchel from him to set it behind the coat rack.

  "I've definitely been doing a lot of thinking."

  My mother huffed. "Too much thinking," she said. "She's been torturing herself constantly. She won't let it go." She forced a fake smile onto her face. "But tonight is about happy thoughts. I've made a salad and the beans should be ready in a few minutes." She turned and headed for the kitchen with the implied instruction to follow. "Want a glass of wine or a beer, Alistair?" she asked, heading towards the fridge.

  "Water's fine," he said as he took a seat at the table. "It smells wonderful."

  As I took the seat next to him, I could see my mother tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She was smiling and blushing.

  She served up dinner. I sat in silence as I ate. I could not figure out how to phrase anything I wanted to know while remaining undetected. I was getting aggravated.

  She spent the time asking Alistair about all the places he had been to teach: Ireland, Scotland, Japan, Spain, and at least a dozen other countries. "How do you find the time?" she marvelled.

  I choked on my bread.

  As my mother cleaned up our dessert plates and Alistair wiped cheesecake off his lips with his napkin, I had given up being able to ask him anything that night. I would just have to find another time. But then my moth
er said words that nearly shattered my composure.

  "Lucina, why don't you and Alistair go chat in the living room while I clean up. I'll only be a minute."

  "Sure," I said as I jumped to my feet and led him to the living room.

  He sat down on the couch. Pushing up his sleeves, he exposed the tail of the dove on his arm as he leaned back against the cushions.

  "How did you get it?" I asked.

  He smirked. "No finessing into it?"

  I glanced down the hall towards the kitchen. "Just tell me," I demanded.

  "It's the mark of a goddess," he said. "A pretty important one. The mark shows I am devoted to her in return for a gift. "

  "In return for immortality, you mean."

  He considered. "Not necessarily. I'm quite sure Bran wasn't immortal before Morrigan made him so."

  I thought back to the first vision of Bran, the vision of the dove on a man with another face. "Then what did Bran get?"

  He took a deep breath as he considered me. The clanking of dishes and jingling of silverware rung out from the kitchen. "What has the stone shown you?" He asked.

  I blinked back at him. "... you..."

  He nodded. "Yes, I gave it to you. But what has it shown you?"

  My heartbeat quickened. "Losing Bran, meeting you, losing you."

  His lips pressed together in a resigned gesture. "I can't tell you more."

  The dishwasher was slammed shut.

  "Why not?" I seethed in a whisper.

  He leaned in to speak more quietly. "Because I've had to do this enough times to know that if the stone hasn't shown you, you aren't ready. Laying it all out has never once worked out. I've come to learn that the stone knows better than I do what you are ready to accept. When you will listen to its knowledge, it will give it."

  "You're lying."

  His eyes locked onto mine. "If you want to know the truth, you need to be willing to accept anything, not just what makes you happy and trust me that what you want to know will not make you happy."

  My mother walked down the hall with a tray of coffees. I pulled away from Alistair. His concern faded into a bright smile as he turned to my mother and thanked her for the drink.