3. The Scrying

Micah leaned over the island in Andrew and Sam's small kitchen, clutching a half-finished cup of coffee in a maroon and gold mug. He sat near the yellow-leaved bromeliad he'd given Andrew at the co-op two years ago. It was barely alive.

When he came out of the bathroom, Andrew was wringing his hair dry with a small towel, wearing only the same pair of jeans he had on the night before.

It was unusual that Micah didn't join Andrew in the shower. It was a cue to Andrew that things were still quite wrong, and it set his teeth on edge. Andrew looked down at Micah as he came around the island, perching on the seat next to him. Micah stared seriously into his mug, hair pushed back off his forehead, knee bouncing restlessly against the stool.

"What's the matter?" Andrew asked.

Micah didn't look up. He took so long to reply that Andrew wasn't convinced he was going to. Finally Micah acknowledged him with a fleeting glance. "I feel weird about last night."

"Yeah, can't be great having to help your grown-ass boyfriend through a total mental breakdown." Andrew's voice was high and breathy with derision.

"Not that." Micah picked a black cat hair off the rim of his mug.

Andrew waited. When Micah remained silent, he stood up and clicked on his red electric kettle to boil some water. He scooped some fragrant tea leaves into an aluminum mesh tea ball, about to drop it into a mug he grabbed from his cabinet. But the mug had the little bubble tea and leaf logo for To a Tea on the side. He set it back on the shelf and picked up a red-glazed mug from a thrift store instead.

Micah shifted uneasily. "I meant when you wanted to have sex."

Andrew leaned against the counter, staring at Micah's hunched shoulders while a sharp waft of peppermint touched the tip of his tongue when he took a breath. It wasn't from his rooibos tea.

Uneasy with Andrew's silence, Micah turned around on the stool to face him. Andrew watched him with that infuriatingly blank expression again as if just waiting for Micah to elaborate.

Micah ground the inside of his cheek between his teeth, hard enough to feel a pinch and taste a quick burst of copper on his tongue. Hoping to break Andrew's silence, he added, "I mean that I wasn't confident that I wasn't still charming you, and…I don't think you know how disturbing I still find it that I charmed you into kissing me that first time in the bar. I know we worked out well and everything, but—"

Andrew blinked slowly with catlike indifference.

"Any thoughts on the matter?" Micah said impatiently.

Cool and formal, Andrew said, "I was in my right mind last night when we had sex." He picked up the boiling kettle and filled his cup with steaming water. He spread his hand across the porcelain mug; it was hot enough that he reflexively began to drop it, but he steeled himself and held tight. "And it seems like if you're concerned you still can't control those abilities, there's a fairly obvious solution."

Micah recoiled. Andrew's tone stung like he'd sliced Micah with his iron blade. And the implication that Micah wasn't doing what he had to do in order to master his Fae abilities was just as insulting.

Lifting and dropping the tea ball with his thumb and forefinger, Andrew avoided Micah's wounded gaze. His thighs clenched together as he endured his burning palm.

Finally, Micah said, "Yeah. You should put back on the blood ward I made you."

"No." Andrew's voice was flat. "That's not the answer."

"How I deal with being Fae is not up to you, Andrew," Micah told him sharply.

Andrew's eyes flashed. "You're not dealing with being Fae."

They were locked in a silent stare-down for several beats. Then Sam came out of his room, humming Taylor Swift as he pulled on a sweatshirt.

When his head popped out of the hood, he stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes growing wide. "Uh…am I interrupting?"

Micah ended the stare-down first. Of course. He gave Sam a weak smile. "Nah." He turned his back on Andrew and lifted his mug to his lips. He was embarrassed by how much the coffee rippled in his shaking hands.

"I'm being an asshole." Andrew's voice trembled, ambiguously talking to either Micah or Sam.

"What else is new?" Sam gave a hollow laugh. He poured himself some coffee from the pot and then picked up a fuchsia beanie from the counter next to Micah.

Scuffing his toe against the laminate in the kitchen, Andrew glanced up at Sam. "Hey, I need to go up to Lilydale this morning to talk to Ingrid. But I was going to come back down and work afterwards, if that's okay."

"Okay," said Sam, neutral as he ever was when they talked about Lilydale around him. He sipped his coffee and then pushed up his glasses. "You going up there for something in particular? You guys usually just go up on the weekends."

Andrew paused. "I'm finally going to ask Ingrid to use her scrying glass to look for my mum."

Sam looked away, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Surprised you didn't do that this summer after you started talking about her."

Micah straightened, looking at Andrew. Andrew was welcome to talk to Sam about whatever he liked, but hearing that he'd talked about his mother with Sam and not Micah…the sting was there, whether Micah wanted to care or not.

As if sensing his stare, Andrew looked down, picking at a cuticle. "Uh. Yeah. You know how it goes. I'd rather pretend I don't care. But my trauma has forced my hand, I guess."

Sam sucked his teeth. "So this is a very big deal. Take the rest of the day off then, goddamn it. What did you always tell me when I missed a day for school or called in sick?" He stepped into a pair of checkered flats by the door, kicking his left foot back to fix the heel.

"I don't know," Andrew lied.

Sam rolled his eyes. Then, with a halfway decent British accent, he said with a flourish, "The shop won't burn down, and the viruses won't win. Take a fucking break."

Andrew scowled. "You would need to take the day from my pay."

Sam snorted. "I would not."

"That's how running a business works." Andrew leaned down, fixing Sam with a stern look. "If I'm not working, then you make the money I would make."

"You know I'm doing programming projects on my own," Sam insisted. "And those I get to do in my pajamas on the couch."

"Moving up in the world." Micah directed a little two-finger salute at Sam.

"Thank you. Thank you." Sam gave a theatrical bow. He opened the front door and gave them a nervous smile. "Take the day off, Andy. If you show up to work, I'm locking you out."

All Andrew could manage was a tight smile as Sam left and shut the door softly behind him. A gust of frigid air rolled across the floor. Micah lifted his bare feet to the chair rung.

Goosebumps on his skin, Andrew lowered himself onto the other stool. Micah stared at his coffee.

"That day this summer?" Andrew nodded toward where Sam had just been. "When I was moving into the brownstone. I found this…" He spun the moonstone ring. "…Box of old stuff, and I… " He swallowed.

"You what?" pushed Micah, stomach clenching, blood pounding in his ears as his heartbeat doubled.

Andrew wetted his lips. "I've been thinking about suicide every single day since."

Micah remained motionless, tears pooling along his lower lashes. "I…" He swallowed thickly. I wish you would have told me, he wanted to say. But that was the wrong thing to say. Everything was the wrong thing. Micah had fallen for all the fake smiles, the warm embraces, the peaceful nights. It was hardly Andrew's fault that Micah had been so oblivious.

"Andrew, that must have felt terrible for you."

"If I don't…take care of this little brain meltdown of mine," whispered Andrew, "then there will be worse than a bathtub panic attack happening."

Hot prickles of terror crawled along Micah's shoulders as he put his forehead on his palm. "You shut me out," Micah murmured. "You made sure I had no way of knowing. Or did I miss it all?"

"I don't know." Andrew shrugged, twisting a damp strand of his hair around his finger. "I was trying to fool myself, too. There was nothing to admit to if I was convinced I was fine."

They sat with the space between them full of tension, where the only certainty was that everything was wrong.

"I'm sorry," said Andrew quietly. "For what I said about you. I got defensive. I got thrown off when you said you felt weird about sex. I really appreciated, needed, and enjoyed it. So I had no idea."

Micah couldn't bite his tongue fast enough. "I had no idea you thought I was doing a shit job as a faerie." He sighed coarsely and pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Sorry. I'm sorry. You're not wrong. It's just, uh…I guess you're not as honest as I thought."

Andrew hesitated. "It doesn't serve us for me to tell you what to do."

"How do you know?" Micah snapped "You haven't given us the chance. You've been visiting Lilydale with me for two years, Andrew, watching me around the Folk and thinking about how dumb I looked with them."

"Not at all," said Andrew quickly. "I just—I know you've spent a long time wanting to avoid magic, and maybe that's not the best strategy…Julian has seemed okay, and I mean, you could make it useful for yourself…"

"All right." Micah's tone suggesting that it very much was not.

Desperate to finish the thought, Andrew hurried on, "All the Folk—like Syabira, and Lina, and Chami obviously—they just seem so ready to help you, and if you—"

"All right," Micah interrupted, shooting Andrew a glare out of the corner of his eyes.

Andrew fell silent. Releasing his hand from his mug, he curled and uncurled his scalded fingers.

Micah caught Andrew's wrist and inspected the angry red skin of his palm, clicking his tongue. "Took one out of my book."

Andrew laid his hand on the counter, palm up, dropping his head between his shoulders. "I'm at rock bottom, Micah."

"Yeah." Micah sighed softly. "I'm getting that."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Andrew forced out the words. "I think…even…even if I…uh…don't go to find my mum…I might just spend a few nights here by myself." After all, if he was alone…maybe he could just end it.

Micah held his breath while he ordered his body to keep his emotions to himself. He held his breath until he thought he could easily pass out. Then he unclenched his jaw and managed flatly, "Whatever you need."

As they unloaded from Micah's car at the parking lot for Pickerel Lake, Andrew clipped his snowshoes on and asked again, "Are you sure you don't have something to say?"

"No. I'm just tired. Your bed sucks," answered Micah. If Andrew didn't know any better, he might have believed him.

Already snapped into his snowshoes, Micah locked his car and tromped off the flat paved lot and onto the frozen lake. He spotted the slight movement of Ingrid and Chamomile peeling off from their perch on a dead tree and started to wave, relieved—oh so relieved—for company besides Andrew.

Chamomile tore over the snow like a child possessed in a bright pink jacket and fluffy boots. Close behind her was Micah's tall half-sister, hips swinging as she approached in a sweater dress and knit tights.

"Ingrid," Micah called, accusatory. "The windchill is like, twenty below! Wear a jacket."

"I like this weather," remarked Ingrid.

"See? This weather's great." Andrew cast a sidelong look at Micah.

Though he was nothing like Ingrid, her half-brother was still more gifted with Fae talents than Ingrid could have anticipated, especially as she remembered him on the day he was born. Smaller and more fragile than Fae babies—the few Ingrid had seen—he had been held first by Ingrid after the human midwife cleaned him of the gore of childbirth. The Redwood Queen had frowned at the sight of him, sniffed, and gone to sleep. He'd cried for hours, but Ingrid didn't put him down until at last he'd settled.

Now, Micah looked unsettled once more, with shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched. He shivered under his winter layers, nightshade eyes splashed with a tinge of burgundy. Ingrid wanted to pinch his cheek or pull on his ear to see if she could pull back the shroud of sadness over him.

Andrew cleared his throat. His red hair stuck out from under his scarf like spikes of dead leaves. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, both gloves curled into fists. "Gifts."

Chamomile nearly ripped his arm off, screeching ferociously, "I love Andrew gifts!" She dropped a pocket watch down from a tarnished gold chain, her blue eyes round as saucers. Andrew winced, rubbing his shoulder before holding a gleaming bronze blade out for Ingrid. She took it and admired the gilded ivory handle with her eyebrows raised and a quirk of her scarlet lips. Andrew bent his knee in a slight bow, his eyelids crinkling slightly, but in a way that didn't bring any light to his hollow umber stare. Something was wrong with him, too. Not just Micah.

"Winters have been easier since Ingrid arrived," said Chamomile, "but easiest yet this year. And easier now today than yesterday."

"Linguistically oblique, but that's good. I think," Andrew said drily.

Chamomile sneered at him. Then she went on to both of them, "The Lady of the Bluffs was quite in her element during last night's storm. Wait till you see what she erected."

Before either of them agreed, Ingrid and Chamomile took their arms and slipped with them into the shadows made by the claws of the naked trees. Andrew had learned to close his eyes, as it helped lessen the nausea and the disconcerting impression that he was moving inside, rather than through, his surroundings. He and Micah instinctively clung to each other despite their circumstances, because they'd found it impossible to keep their footing any other way when in the shadows.

They emerged at the northern perimeter of Lilydale. It was different now, though. No longer was the faerie compound simply fenced in by a low cobblestone wall. It was like a terrarium now, only the glass sides were…ice. Mirror-bright, cloaking the compound from view with the reflection of the bluffs around them. Twenty feet tall, easily, with only a chink here and there where the Folk could pass through. A fortress, now, rather than a derelict brickyard.

Chamomile gestured toward an archway in the ice, eyes alight with excitement. "Feel." She stuck her arm inside. Micah followed suit, thrusting his arm out. Chamomile jumped and snatched his glove off. It was in the single digits—he should have felt the bite of the cold immediately.

But he didn't.

Bewildered, Micah stepped inside. He unzipped his jacket and unwound his scarf. "What the actual magic."

"I know!" squeaked Chamomile.

Andrew ducked inside after Ingrid, craning his neck back. You could still see the sky, but it didn't seem the same. Like a porthole into summertime. Wild but not. He gazed at the wall, reaching out and touching the slick ice that seemed almost to breathe like an ancient beast. "Ingrid, this is amazing. You've truly elevated what is already an impressive little patch of magic."

"More literally than you know." Ingrid's sly expression suggested she wasn't going to elaborate.

Lilydale spread over the bluffs with its eastward edge against a twelve-foot limestone cliff. It was the size of a modest provincial estate, maybe fifty yards in any direction. There was a grove of mismatched trees that grew tall and strong in the northeastern corner of the compound, where the majority of some two dozen Folk took up roost in hammocks or baskets. The center of the compound was an old brick kiln that now served as a modest throne with a seat Ingrid made herself with her uniquely magical artistry. Behind it was an evergreen garden plot growing fruits, vegetables, and flowers tenfold more splendid than the hothouses of the Arboretum.

In addition to the sweets Folk liked to bake for their own pleasure, the produce from the garden had an intoxicating effect on humans. It wasn't intentionally overwhelming to humans. Creatures made of magic like the Folk just naturally changed what they touched.

Since Andrew and Micah had gotten together, humans still showed up daily trying to get a taste of the magical food. Whether or not they got it depended on who they ran into outside Lilydale. Some Folk couldn't be bothered to refuse, while some couldn't be bothered to acknowledge them, and let the person get bored or frustrated and wander out. In the last two years, at least, the Folk had gotten less inclined to allow humans into their revelries. This winter, the human intruders had all but ceased, as if word had spread that Lilydale was closed.

The winter in Lilydale was less dead than beyond the walls, but less green than in the summer. The garden plot was spelled to withstand the brutal winter temperatures, to remain ever-green. But now, insulated by the ice walls, everything felt mild within the compound. The air was cool and still, not suffocatingly cold. There was still quite a bit of snow on the frozen ground, but it had melted off the limestone steps which ran in aisles near the north and south ends of Lilydale. Snow dripped from the trees. Several Folk behind the kiln throne were having a snowball fight.

"Dude, it's like, Hollywood-winter in here," exclaimed Micah.

"I know!" Chamomile bounced with delight.

Ingrid preened under the positive attention, tucking her hair behind her ear. "What brings you two out here?"

"Well, I wanted to check if you were okay," Micah said. "Clearly, undue worry."

"Indeed." Ingrid patted his back. "I always have things under control."

With his eyes steadfast on the wall, Micah's expression split with a humorless smile. "That must be nice."

She blinked at him.

Chamomile kicked off her winter boots straight up into a tree over their heads. Someone in the branches gave a yell. Unheeding, she wiggled her toes. "You know, before Ingrid got here, we used to hibernate with the garter snakes all winter," said Chamomile. "Now we get to celebrate Yule, and craft with spruce and pinecones. And also, now, I get to be barefoot."

Ingrid turned her uncanny scarlet gaze on Andrew. "Why else are you here?"

Andrew swallowed. He glanced at Micah, but as if on cue, Micah unclipped his snowshoes. He scooped up a handful of snow and then took off toward the Folk having the snowball fight. Chamomile hollered and tore after him.

Andrew rolled his eyes heavenward. "Cool."

"You're troubled," observed Ingrid. She turned and motioned toward her shelter, which stood alone on the highest eastern point of the compound, made of intact brick with a cast bronze door. A large winterberry bush grew outside her door, bursting with bright red fruits. Andrew unclipped from his snowshoes and picked his way after her, stepping in her footprints in hopes it would make him less likely to slip. At her door she glared at his winter boots until he bent and pulled them off, wiggling his numb toes. Only when he was in his stockings did she move and let him inside. The brick floor was warm and toasty, and when he crossed under her lintel, the candles circling the room whooshed into life. She pulled aside a crushed velvet curtain and allowed the clear winter daylight into the room.

Ingrid invited him to sit around her low round table on a pile of cushions. The candles filled her room with heat, so much so that he had to unzip from his jacket and slide off his snow pants. He set them aside on the bricks and unwound his scarf while she bent toward a heavy shelf next to the table. It held her Seeing glass, masked under a silk cloth, a stack of cups and mugs, and several lidded tins. She picked up one of the tins and popped back the lid, scooping leaves into an aluminum tea ball.

"What happened to you?" Ingrid asked. "You smell like cortisol."

Andrew blinked. "Um, how exactly do you know the name of the human stress hormone?"

She peered at him, waiting, not supplying an explanation.

Andrew peered back at her, waiting.

Scowling, she yielded. "I like science. It makes sense."

"Nerd." Andrew smirked and settled back on his cushions. It was ridiculous how much he enjoyed Ingrid, especially after they first met when he slashed her with an iron switchblade and he barely escaped with his life. For five years she'd haunted and stalked him. Truthfully, it had taken most of his first year dating Micah for him to fully believe Ingrid wasn't waiting for him to just let his guard down before she pounced. She gave him gifts, mostly antique books, but also a handsome seax much nicer than the one he'd bought off eBay. Her last gift before he'd told her he'd forgiven her had been a gilded iron dagger with a mahogany handle. She'd had to wrap it in a full bolt of silk and burlap to handle it. Even though he now came to Lilydale as a friend, he still wore the dagger in a holster on his ankle, even today. Most days, he also had his seax strapped to his back.

He watched as she struck a long-stemmed match, and then held it aloft underneath the kettle. The flame continued burning long past its natural lifespan, until the water in the kettle started to bubble and boil. Then she filled a red chinoiserie pot with the steaming water and dropped the tea ball inside.

"Ahem." She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh. Uh." If he'd learned anything about Ingrid in the past two years, it was that he could skip the niceties of conversation which humans expected. "I'm very depressed." He paused and shrugged, dismissive, when Ingrid gave him a silent look of alarm. "Last night I had a very bad panic attack. You know, tunnel vision. Think you're going to die. Hyperventilating. Micah had to pull me out of it." Andrew tapped the hollow of his throat where Micah's blood ward usually rested.

"By biting you?"

He coughed. "That was later."

She picked up a larger rectangular tin that said it was from Grain Belt Beer in Minneapolis. Her long, slender fingers were tipped in black nail polish, as they usually were, but she wore no rings today. She pulled out a slice of thick, grain-studded bread and set it on a small clay plate, and then pushed it toward him.

"Grain-heavy bread boosts serotonin," she explained when she noticed him staring at her. "I didn't make it. I bought it at a market."

Andrew nodded slightly. Sometimes, with Ingrid especially, Andrew forgot to be cautious about Fae-spelled foods anymore. So far, he left Lilydale in the same state he entered it. So far, he hadn't lost track of any time among the faeries. And at least with Ingrid—unlike Micah—if those words had come out of her mouth, then she couldn't be lying about it.

Ingrid cut herself a slice of bread. "How did Micah do, handling his power of influence without your ward on?"

He dropped his gaze, picking at the sleeve of his fleece. "I honestly expected to lose track of the whole night. I think I kind of hoped to. But as soon as he lowered my heart rate and got me back in my head, he stopped influencing me. He made it seem easy."

She nodded. "Good. He needs to be less afraid of that ability. Properly managing your ability to charm is quite feasible. I could encourage you to laugh, but I could stop you before you passed out."

Grimacing at the bleak example, Andrew tore a corner of the bread and popped it into his mouth. It was sweetened faintly with honey. "I think I'm having an identity crisis," he told her.

"Oddly, I can relate."

The remnants of his grimace turned into a smile.

Ingrid's eyes were lit with a dozen candle flames, turning her scarlet irises soft and rosy. "So I suppose you've been thinking of your mother." She brushed an invisible piece of dust from the silk over her Seeing orb, recalling when he asked about her on a summer night two years ago.

Rolling back his shoulders, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear, Andrew explained, "I just…when you walk away from someone, or someone walks away from you, or both…you know how you can't just help but think about them every day, wondering if they're thinking about you?"

Ingrid nodded, returning her gaze to stare at the candles, a faint frown on her slender lips.

"Or she's just dead. But that would…let me rest, too."

"It does," she agreed. "At least, it has worked that way for me." She picked up the teapot, filled two matching teacups, and pushed one of them toward Andrew.

The sting of lemon balm wafted forth, and Andrew picked it up and inhaled deeply. Lemon balm was his favorite. He was pretty sure Ingrid had caught onto that.

"What was her name?" she asked. She delicately lifted the orb down onto the center of the table.

"Liath," he told her softly, staring at the golden contents of his cup.

"Liath?" Ingrid repeated. Her tone drew Andrew's gaze; one slender dark eyebrow was raised over her forehead. "Is she a Druid?" The other brow went up. "You're named Andrew because you're actually Celtic?"

Andrew stared blankly at her for a moment. "Ah, yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "Nan and Pa, the Ryans, were from Leinster. But my dad's from Liverpool, and never let mum go back."

"I love Leinster." Ingrid's sigh was dreamy.

They let the common ground spread between them without speaking for a moment before they both began to laugh.

"What are the odds," laughed Andrew.

"I believe in fate," said Ingrid suddenly. "Don't you?" She didn't wait for an answer, pulling the silk cloth from her Seeing orb and folding it carefully into a square. As her reflection stretched around the crystal and danced with the candlelight, she glanced back up and asked, "Do you happen to have an item that belonged to her? When it's someone I know, I need less to Seek them, but when it's not—"

"Actually—" Andrew twisted the moonstone ring free from his finger. "I suspected I'd need this."

Ingrid reached across and plucked it from his palm. She turned the ring over in her fingers and nodded appreciatively. "Of course you did." She brushed the table clean and laid the glinting ring on the square of silk. Then she adjusted her long legs, sat on her knees, and released a long, measured breath.

Resting his hands on his knees, Andrew remained very still as Ingrid whispered like a trickling creek, her breath clouding the surface of the orb. In the seat of his belly, Ingrid's magic stirred. It made all the small hairs on Andrew's skin stand on end. He knew historically if an object meant to be Seen didn't exist, then the orb would stay dark. So when a cool white light flickered in its core, Andrew's stomach flipped. It could still be bones in a grave, he supposed.

But in the center of the crystal, a modest cabin flickered into view, situated at the foot of a cresting hill heavy with shrubs and conifers. Beyond the hill, a long dark shoreline stretched, with a barge slowly creeping across the water.

Andrew sucked in a breath. "Superior?"

Ingrid let the image go dark, panting slightly, scrunching her nose as she relaxed her shoulders. "Well, she's out there alive. But I didn't recognize where. You did?"

"Yeah. Haven't you been up to Duluth?" Mum had only brought him up there once, when he was sixteen, having organized a deal with a hospital orderly to get a large number of pain pills. She'd set Andrew up at a grubby coffee shop and tried to pretend like he didn't know what she was doing.

At least they'd gone to the lake while they were there. In the northern end of Minnesota, all the small cities were built along the shores of Lake Superior. It was the largest freshwater body of water in the world, deep and frigid year-round. The shores were rocky and littered with driftwood, and enormous barges drifted slowly across the waters carrying mass quantities of iron and limestone ore eastward.

"Is that in the Iron Range?" asked Ingrid.

"Yeah."

"Then no. You won't find Folk living comfortably up there."

Andrew made a quizzical face, and then the words settled in. "Oh," he breathed, realization dawning as he nodded. "I suppose the ground is filled with iron. Doesn't feel good up there, eh?"

"I tried to stay, once." Her gaze went distant and haunted. "Imagine a migraine so bad you feel like you're constantly going to vomit, but vomiting would be a relief, so you don't. But it never goes away, not until you leave."

He cringed. "Understood."

She shook herself in her wolf-like way and blinked at him. "Micah should be fine enough up there, though, being half-human."

Taking back the moonstone ring, Andrew looked down guiltily. "I'm not bringing him with me."

Ingrid gave Andrew a strange look. "Are you ending your relationship with him?"

Slowly shaking his head, Andrew said quietly, "No, not entirely. I just…need some time with myself."

"How do you ‘not entirely' end a relationship?" There was a sharp edge of protectiveness in her voice, but she remained still and calm as she lifted her tea cup and sipped from it, her long dark lashes veiling her gaze.

"I want…Micah to be sure that I'm who he wants to be with."

"Has he given you reason to believe you're not?" she asked quickly.

"N-no, he hasn't given me reason to doubt him."

"So he is sure about the relationship, but you are not." Ingrid set down her cup. "But you're making it seem like his problem. Am I understanding this?"

"Ingrid—"

She unfolded herself from the floor and glared down at him with finality. The smallest flicker of fear tickled his stomach as she fixed him with her scarlet eyes that had haunted his nightmares for years.

"Go on this trip by yourself." Ingrid shrugged one narrow shoulder. "I don't care. But don't pretend your reasons are something they're not. Come along, then. Now you've annoyed me."

Andrew sighed heavily and stood up, not shocked by the dismissal due to the number of times Ingrid had used that very specific sentence on him or Micah in the last two years. As he stuck his arms through the sleeves of his jacket then struggled into his snow pants, Ingrid went to her large pillowed bed on the floor in the corner and rummaged through a wooden trunk at its head.

"But here." She held out a twisting golden neck band. "This is something I brought home from Leinster. I'd like your mother to have it."

"That's so sweet of you." Andrew accepted it in his outstretched hand, strangely reverent.

Ingrid waved a hand dismissively. "It's pragmatic. It should be with a native, not me."

He smiled. "Decolonizing. I like it."

"You're a British man. You are the worst of all the colonists."

He snorted. "Rude."

"Quite."

"Thanks for doing this for me, Ingrid. I owe you more than a letter opener next time."

"Might I request an antique hand mirror?" She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, looking down at her crystal. "I want to see how easily the scrying practice translates. Oh. And some Oreos."

"Yes, your ladyship," laughed Andrew.

The top floor of Micah's brownstone was an open level with a master bathroom in the northwest corner and a row of windows on the eastern wall. Last year, Micah and Andrew had gotten a leather couch and coffee table to fit into the corner under the windows. They'd put a short bookshelf next to the couch that had slowly filled with a collection of Andrew's books.

There was an outlet beside the shelf where Andrew was currently charging his best laptop. He had tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, his hair tossed back in a bun, and a canned energy drink next to him. On the other end of the couch he had several sketches on printer paper of the cabin from Ingrid's glass. He should have taken a picture on his phone, but it was easy to forget about technology when surrounded by the magic in Lilydale. It was just as likely Ingrid would have sliced off one of his fingers if he'd tried.

Micah was at his computer desk, distractedly playing Stardew Valley. His shoulder blades tingled with the wrongness of not helping Andrew pore over a map of the North Shore. But he hadn't been asked, and he wasn't in a position to bother Andrew. He kept catching his knee bouncing, and was close to going to bother Julian instead of sitting in uncomfortable silence.

His heart kept forgetting his relationship was in such flux. With Andrew just on the couch across the room, any time he cleared his throat he drew Micah's eye. And then any time Micah saw his narrow face pinched with concentration, he wanted to go over and kiss him till he caused a distraction. And then any time he had the impulse before remembering that Andrew was leaving by himself soon, it was like someone was crushing his windpipes.

"Andrew," he blurted.

Andrew looked up at once, but it took a moment for his eyes to clear and focus. He raised his brows, and then picked up his can to take a drink.

Micah's resolve faltered. He turned back to his computer without saying anything.

"What's up?" Andrew pressed.

"Never mind."

Andrew frowned at Micah's back. Under his desk, Micah's leg was bouncing rapidly enough to make the wheels of his chair squeak. "Micah."

"You're busy." Micah didn't turn around, tapping his keyboard.

"Micah. Please, talk to me."

Micah's leg went still. He minimized his game so he was just staring at his desktop. The wallpaper was a picture of the two of them together. After a moment, Micah opened an empty browser tab and stared at that instead. "I was wondering if you could maybe go back to your place."

Andrew searched for something to say. But there wasn't anything—it made sense why Micah was uncomfortable with him here. Opting for silence, he closed his laptop and stacked the sketches of the cabin on top of them.

Micah turned his chair around at the sound of Andrew packing up. He picked at a hangnail. "I just feel confused. And I know you're busy trying to get ready to go. And I don't want to distract you with my nonsense."

"I get it. It's fine." Andrew spoke stiffly.

Micah's expression fell. He stared at his hands. "We're on a break, right?"

Andrew hesitated. They hadn't exactly put it in those terms yet. It felt…final. Stalling, Andrew leaned around the bookshelf to unplug his laptop. But he knocked his energy drink with his elbow; it tipped over and clattered across the wood panels. Fizzy liquid splashed over the floor.

Swearing, Andrew set aside his things and jumped to his feet, crossing the room quickly to Micah's bathroom. He pulled his red towel off the wall and hurried back to his spill. Micah was already on his knees with a handful of paper towels, mopping up the mess in silence.

Andrew knelt beside him and lamely held the towel on his lap. "Sorry."

Micah didn't say anything. He crumpled up the papers. Then he shifted his nightshade gaze to Andrew, expression guarded, raising his eyebrows with an unspoken prompt.

"Oh." Andrew had hoped he'd gotten out of answering. "I guess—I don't like calling it that. A ‘break.' That's not—I mean, my point is for you not to be stuck with me. I want you off the hook."

Micah's eyes grew colder and darker, almost ultraviolet.

Andrew was spouting the same bullshit that he had the night before, which meant he hadn't bothered to listen. Micah decided not to repeat himself.

Andrew insisted, "There's so many other people who would die to go on a date with you. Diana, for example."

As the rift between them widened, Micah simply stared at Andrew, unspeaking.

Andrew shifted uneasily. "I think you should see other people when I'm gone." If he had to keep repeating himself, he would. If he could only get Micah to agree…

Flatly, Micah said, "I'm going to ask you again." His voice betrayed the slightest tremble. "Are we on a break?"

Andrew grimaced.

Standing up from the floor, Micah pitched the wet paper towels across the room into an aluminum basket by his desk. It tipped off balance, spinning noisily before falling over and rolling in a circle. The paper towels tumbled back out.

Micah raked both hands through his hair as he paced in a tight line by his windows. Andrew stood slowly, picking up his laptop and papers, still not saying anything. Still not finding the courage to admit to himself and to Micah that he wanted a break. He hugged his things to his chest, searching the recesses of his brain for some other solution, some conviction that he could do all this and keep things as they were, without breaking Micah's heart. But his heart was a cold, barely beating stone behind his sternum, and Micah deserved better.

Micah curled his hands into fists. He stopped pacing and said in a strangled whisper, "For fuck's sake, Andrew. Just say it."

Sighing softly, Andrew looked at his feet. "I want us to take a break while I'm on this trip."

Micah tasted salt on the back of his tongue as he stubbornly swallowed his tears. He glared out the window, eyes burning.

Andrew couldn't look at him. "I don't know how to be a good partner right now. I've been trying to live in the moment while I'm with you, but I'm failing. My mum is haunting my thoughts. I'm exhausted. I-I don't know what will happen when I find my mum, but whatever it is, I swear I'll come back with more of myself to give you."

They were both silent for several uncomfortable minutes. Andrew couldn't so much as move. None of the previous night's emotions rolled off Micah, who was motionless and staring out the window. Absolutely nothing came off him. Somehow, that was much, much worse.

"Um, if you'd like, I can call you when I'm heading out."

Micah shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Whatever you need," he finally said in the voice he used with strangers.

Andrew nodded even though Micah wouldn't see. His throat tight and his eyes stinging, Andrew crossed to Micah's wardrobe and picked up the duffel bag he'd packed with all his warmest clothes. He stood by the door out of Micah's room, hoping—vainly—that Micah would turn back around. But he didn't, so to his back, Andrew promised, "I'll call you."

Several hours later, Julian climbed the stairs to Micah's room, Cinnamon trailing after him. He knocked on the door to the top landing, and when there was no response, he let himself in.

The room was dim in the twilight, and unusually silent. Julian made his way over to Micah's bed, where a lumpy, dormant shape rose among the pile of blankets. Julian bent and clicked on the lamp on the milk carton table. When the yellow light spilled over Micah's catatonic, nearly buried form, he hardly blinked. He was hugging a squishy pillow shaped like a cartoon bubble tea.

"Micah," said Julian, sitting by his knees and patting his hip. "I brought you a burger. You've been holed up in here all day, so I assume you haven't eaten anything."

"I'm not hungry." Micah's voice was barely a whisper.

Julian frowned. It was a bit unnerving seeing Micah out of sorts, he admitted privately. His son was a bastion of good spirits and relentless optimism. With Micah's mood falling, it was easy to feel like warm days and sunshine would be gone forever.

"Where's Andrew?" Julian asked.

"Getting ready to leave."

Cinnamon jumped up by Micah's face, found a gap in the blankets, and dove under them to nestle against his stomach. Micah appreciated the heat and the vibration against his body, stirring slightly to finally look at his father.

Julian had a crumpled paper fast food bag in one hand, and a large soda cup in the other. His thick black eyebrows raised hopefully when Micah looked at him. With a sigh, Micah pushed himself up to take the bag, digging inside for the wrapped burger. Cinnamon stuck his damp pink nose out from under the sheets, sniffing so aggressively his nostrils whistled.

Julian crossed his leg and asked, "Where's he going? He snuck out of here before I could ask him." It seemed far from a mutual choice that Andrew was leaving alone, thought Julian as he surveyed Micah's drooping shoulders and downturned lips, forlorn as a scolded puppy.

"I guess his mom is alive. She's up on the North Shore," Micah answered. He took a hearty bite of the loaded burger. It immediately made his stomach roll. Struggling to swallow, Micah set it aside on his nightstand despite Julian's accusatory glare.

Julian climbed up to sit against the pillows next to Micah, grunting with the effort of doing so. "Andrew didn't know whether or not his mom was alive?"

"Yeah. They haven't been in contact since he graduated high school. She got into Fae-spelled foods from Lilydale, and he ditched her."

Julian grimaced. "I'm glad you didn't ditch me."

Micah smiled faintly, leaning on Julian's shoulder.

"How come you aren't going up with him? Isn't that exactly the kind of adventure that you two like?" Julian pulled Micah's laptop onto the bed and clicked into the profile he'd made for himself on it.

As Micah watched Julian queue up their favorite K-drama, he said in a voice that quavered, "I think he's ditching me."