17. The Question

"Hey, Ingrid?"

Ingrid pulled her gaze from out over the lake and the river and the stars. They weren't as awe-inspiring as the raw wilderness in the mountains in Montana, but they were…familiar. Hers. Below her, Andrew was allowing Chamomile to give him a half-braid with a Celtic flavor. He wore a black sweatshirt and the vial of Micah's blood dangled above his collar. Andrew tried to tilt his head back to look at Ingrid, but Chamomile slapped his temple. She sat with her knees on either side of his shoulders on the edge of a slab of limestone, and ignored him when he protested when she pulled the braid tight. She was dressed in a cropped white tank top and a loose flowing skirt Ingrid had given her that matched the cornflower blue of her eyes. Her hair was in two twin braids and she wore a crown of bright orange tiger lilies.

Watching the braiding with a trace of amusement crinkling her eyes, Ingrid said, "What is it, Andrew?"

Andrew said, "What if I have someone in mind I want to check on, in your glass? I haven't seen her in almost twenty years, but—"

Laying across Andrew's lap, Micah opened his eyes and looked up curiously.

"It's my mother," said Andrew after a moment. "She…honestly is kind of like Julian. Only…" Andrew paused. Chamomile's fingers briefly stilled at his scalp. "I guess I didn't stick around for her like Micah did."

"That's not the same thing," Micah said quickly. He sat up. Under the collar of his half-buttoned flannel, the tip of an antler was visible. Last month he'd gotten a large black tattoo on his chest depicting a bobcat skull and antlers decorated with nightshade and lilies. The skull had bright yellow points in the eye sockets.

Resting her chin on her palm, Ingrid looked sidelong at Andrew. "Of course. If you're sure you want to know."

Andrew looked away over the bluffs. Behind them the creek ran north to south and just past it most of their little village of Folk had gone to sleep in their treehouses. Syabira was softly playing a ukulele and humming, legs tucked up under her, sitting under an oak tree and beside a glowing jar of faerie lights. Andrew thought of Julian, who still didn't know what had happened in Washington was more than a recurring nightmare of the Redwood Queen, and who still didn't know that the taste of faerie food on his tongue was more than just a whisper of a craving he'd never forget. Julian was at peace, most days. He was teaching Andrew how to cook better and enjoyed watching the same familiar movies over and over, mostly British romantic comedies or eighties science fiction flicks. Maybe his mum could have turned out like Julian. Not unblemished or without nightmares, but…normal. Satisfied.

He thought of Sam, whose life had gone on marching since discovering that the Folk existed. Sam had moved into the second bedroom in the flat over Magic's Repair as soon as it became apparent that Andrew was spending more and more of his time down the street at Micah's brownstone.

Andrew looked away from the quiet interstate, which was dark and void of streetlights where it crossed over the wild marshland and the river. Micah's luminous violet gaze was already on Andrew, as it so often was. The attention warmed the pit of his stomach, as it so often did. He leaned forward and kissed the half-faerie prince, waiting as long as he could to let his eyes close, trying to get a glimpse of Micah's soft brown features for as long as he could.

When he pulled back, Micah stroked his cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Finally Andrew looked back at Ingrid. Chamomile resumed pulling his hair into a braid. She softly hummed a harmony with Syabira. With a faint shake of his head, Andrew Vidasche said, "Yeah. I guess I'm not sure yet."