6. The Mother

Liath Ryan was more awkward than Andrew by far.

Mercifully, she had hot water and fresh tea to offer Andrew when he got inside her cabin. He was sitting next to the front window where, over the frost on the glass, the view from the hill crest was high enough to expose Superior over the toothy trees of Temperance National Forest. The couch she'd put him on was from the eighties, its patterned lime green upholstery faded to puce and sagging in the middle. He sat sideways with one knee up so he could look out the window, but he was still surveying the room.

A deerskin rug sprawled over the bulk of the living room floor. Animal bones and dried flowers decorated the driftwood mantle of the fireplace. Flames crackled and spat within it.

Next to the fireplace was an altar on a black cloth draped over a small plinth. The centerpiece was a stone disc bearing the tree of life, with bundles of herbs, an antler, a rabbit's foot, and unpolished agates circling around it. Andrew recognized the magical setup immediately. The stone and the antler had both been part of Liath's altar for as long as Andrew could remember, even if she had to keep them in a backpack when they got kicked out of an apartment or an ex's house.

Liath moved silently across the kitchen, which had a modest sink, a wood-burning stove, and a countertop partially obscured by full glass canning jars. A large alchemy setup with a bottle the size of Andrew's head and a narrow long mouth filled the other end of the counter, with a small bunsen burner under the bottle. Bundles of herbs hung to dry from strings tied around an exposed pipe over the western-facing kitchen window.

But once she sat down and picked up her own cup, Andrew thought she seemed very much at a loss for words. He used her speechless delay to recover from the cold, and to let it settle in that he'd really left Micah behind, driven up to the North Shore, and was sitting on a couch next to his mother.

Sixteen years ago, a freshly eighteen-year-old Andrew Vidasche walked in his high school graduation with no family clapping for him in the bleachers. His manager from Good Buy came, and a few of his co-workers, and Andrew kept telling himself that was good enough. Afterward, when everyone was returning gowns in the cafeteria, his favorite science teacher, Mr. Stewart, caught him in a bone-crunching hug.

"Didn't you have anyone come to cheer you on?" the bespectacled older man asked him.

Andrew waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, I'm all right. Onward, you know?"

The man fixed him with blue eyes and a serious furrow in his brow. "Is home safe?"

Andrew paused. He didn't have a home; he'd had a floor next to the couch his mum had been sleeping on. She had a boyfriend at the moment who was…at least kind enough not to chase Andrew out. On average, Andrew only had to sleep there once or twice a week. But he was sick of abusing the charity of his few friends and their parents to avoid staying with his mum, so he'd gotten a work-study job as a writing tutor that allowed him to move on campus early. "I'll be in the dorms soon."

"Here." Mr. Stewart handed him a torn corner of paper with an email address on it. "Tell me if you need anything before move-in at the U, okay?" Mr. Stewart smiled. "You're bound for great things, Mr. V."

"Sure." Andrew managed a limp smile.

He left school on a city bus that brought him to the shady apartments where his belongings were. Without a key to the apartment, Andrew waited for someone to come out through the locked outside door before he slipped inside, ignoring their halfhearted protest.

Andrew's heart was pounding as he let himself into the unlocked apartment unit. It was dim and stank of sweat and mildew inside.

On a stained red couch, Liath slumped with her forearms on her knees, hollow-eyed and frowning, her auburn hair dull and stringy where it exploded from a bun on top of her head.

Andrew went behind her to the folded blankets on the floor where he'd slept the night before. It brought flashes of Liath pacing haphazardly in the darkness, whispering about glaciers and piccolos. Crouching, he stuffed his three rumpled T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and his wool cardigan into his backpack, empty and light without any school books.

Liath picked up her head and looked back at him when he straightened, her eyes unfocused, unlike herself. The comedown from the enchanted foods wasn't over yet.

"So happy you made it," remarked Andrew, bitterness clinging to his words like handprints on a grimy mirror.

"To what?" Liath croaked.

"Are you fucking serious?" Despite himself, Andrew teared up. "I'm all you've got, and you don't deserve me."

Lips parting as she looked down at the graduation cap clutched in his hand, Liath rasped, "Ah, shit!" She jumped off the couch, raising her hands. Then, her legs wobbled and she swayed on her feet before collapsing back on the couch, gagging and covering her mouth with her wrist. As Andrew stalked back toward the door, she called after him, "Andrew—"

"You disastrous, self-absorbed druggie bitch," Andrew cried, yanking his backpack onto his shoulders. "Nobody will give a single fuck when you keel over and die. Good fucking riddance."

Liath stared at him, stunned or—she was too dazed, not yet returned to reality. It was one of the two states she was usually in. Drug-addled, or bawling.

He was done. This was the final tolling of the funeral bell. His relationship with her was dead.

"Andrew," she gasped, tears welling in her eyes as her latent processing caught up with her and she realized what he was doing. "No, please. Don't go."

"You sound like my father," snarled Andrew. "Same shit, isn't it? Don't give a shit about me till I'm walking away."

"I'm sorry." She was weeping now, hands trembling so violently it was like she was having a seizure.

"Too fucking late." He stepped into the hall and slammed the door behind him.

On the North Shore, a much more withered Liath stared at her cup, frowning until she got up the nerve to speak. She took a trembling breath, starting to look up but pausing as if she couldn't quite bear it. "I suppose you're quite mad at me."

"I'm not." Andrew waited to see if she would look back up at him. She didn't. He added, "I haven't bothered being angry at you in ten years." He hadn't been angry, true. But he'd hardly moved on from her. That was clear enough, since he'd spiraled enough about her to venture into the bluffs seven years ago, and he'd spiraled enough about her since this summer until she took over his brain and crowded out his ability to focus on anything else, even a relationship he thought made him quite happy.

He drummed his fingers on the back of the couch and looked out the window. "But you have taken up more of my thoughts than I'd like. I'm realizing it's got to be…" He trailed off. It was because of being around Lilydale so often, where he felt a complete absence of temptation to taste Fae-spelled foods. It was so easy for him not to want so much as a bite, for him to feel terrified of the thought of losing control. Part of that was because he'd seen their effects on Liath and on Julian, but part of it was because it just seemed so…stupid. He wanted to run from his feelings as often as anyone else, maybe more, but into oblivion?

"It's got to be what?" Liath prompted.

To touch the subject of Fae-spelled foods so immediately seemed like it would be to jump headfirst into Mount Doom before he'd received the One Ring. Pointless, and catastrophic.

Andrew shook his head slightly. "Never mind. It seemed I just had no choice but to hunt you down. Again."

"Again?" Liath straightened. "How often have you tried to look for me? I was around for quite a bit after you…" She trailed off. Couldn't say it.

"Never mind," Andrew repeated, slightly more forcefully.

Liath gazed at him for a long moment, her jaw working while she ground her teeth. She'd always done it when she needed a cigarette. But there was no cigarette smoke clinging to the room, just the sweet burning wood from the fireplace.

"You quit smoking," he ventured.

Liath nodded. "Aye." The single syllable made his eyes sting. Hearing it from her lips reminded him why he couldn't bear hearing anyone with a brogue since he left her. It was her thing. She added, "I'm completely sober. Caffeine, alcohol, over the counter medications, everything."

He paused. "Good for you."

"Twelve years." She looked down. "Should have been sooner. Should have tried to quit for you. Lord knows you asked."

Andrew rubbed his cheeks hard enough to make his skin burn. "Wasting no time, eh?"

"I've dreamt of having the opportunity to speak to you again for sixteen years, Andrew." Liath's piercing gaze was the color of iron ore. "I'm overwhelmed, and yes, I suppose a bit eager." She twisted a ring on her middle finger that had a chunk of banded agate in it.

"Mum…" Andrew sighed the word. "I've thought about what I'd say to you for years, too, but I'm just not ready to talk about your addiction yet. I don't know that I ever rehearsed a conversation with you where you were sober."

"Out of curiosity," she said carefully, her tone restrained and her eyebrows raised, "what did you rehearse for this? When you found me."

"I don't know." Tears welled his eyes. "I left an amazing man in the Cities because I just can't fucking get over everything you did. I need you out of my head. You need to fix me."

Liath's chest rose and made Andrew realize how thin she was now. She had always been puffy from pills in his teens. But now she looked wispy. Frail, almost. The shape of her sternum rose visibly through her shirt. Her shoulders, even under her bulky flannel, were too sharp at the slopes.

He added, "And I've done the therapy, and the bridge burning, and wrote the letters I never sent. But here we are. Obsessed with the woman who was so ready to do anything for me unless it meant getting sober."

She flinched. "Why?" She asked the question a little too loudly. "Why, if you wanted so badly to forget me, have you kept looking for me? If I'm nothing but a fuck-up to you?"

Andrew pointed with a finger swinging like a sword, sharp, with his brow creasing with his frustration. "No, no. That is not what I think." He slumped back, eyes slipping closed. "Maybe when I was eighteen I did. Maybe even during college. But when I got done, loneliness set in, and I realized how terrifying it is doing life by yourself. And that I didn't make it easier for you on your own by picking fights and calling you names. Which is what led me to look for you the first time."

Liath lifted her teacup, holding it near her lips at an angle that allowed Andrew to see the amber liquid rippling in her shaking hands. "What did you do?"

"Went to Lilydale," he told her with a humorless laugh. "Like an idiot."

Her tea sloshed, splashing her knee. "Why?"

"I thought maybe you'd be hiding out there or something." He shrugged. It sounded stupid now.

"What gave you the idea?" she demanded, sucking down a drink of tea and letting her breath out through her nostrils as if she would smoke like a dragon.

"Well, I found Kate," Andrew continued. "We live near each other and she works at a bar—"

"A bar!"

"—A few miles from my flat. And before you ask, no, she didn't tell me to go, but she did spill enough information to give me the idea." He tapped the rim of his cup, shaking his head slightly. "Honestly, at that time, I'd shifted so much away from how angry I'd been and hoped I could come up there and save you. That you'd just be waiting there for me to hear me say that I wanted you to be better and we could…" He gave a humorless laugh. "Have a do-over."

Liath sniffed, swiping her flannel sleeve over her nose. "When was that?"

"Seven years ago."

"I was already up here. And I never stepped foot in Lilydale, anyway. You know, as soon as you left, I started trying to get off the Fae-spelled foods. But that's partly why I ended up here. Rehab doesn't help that craving. I had to find a sponsor who understood that. This is her cabin."

"That's the part I don't understand," Andrew said forcefully. He clamped his mouth shut. Ten minutes in. He'd been on this couch for ten minutes. He didn't have a plan for once he got here, but he knew this wasn't it.

"Go on." Liath dropped her gaze. "No reason to avoid talking about it."

"I'm around Lilydale all the time." He ignored her jaw dropping. "I could have had Fae-spelled foods in the Redwoods. And I'm not interested in it, and I'm not curious about it, and I don't want to engage with magic in that way, by stealing and then letting it control me. So why the fuck, after years and years of teaching me to honor our place in nature, did you chuck all that in the bin and lose your fucking mind to foods that weren't even for you?"

"Wait, what do you mean?" Liath straightened, eyes growing round, leaning forward on the couch. "The Redwoods? Lilydale? What are you doing in those places, Andrew?"

"My boyfriend is the son of the Redwood Queen," he said with a stab of impatience. "It was the Ruby Daughter who used a scrying glass to help me find you. I am very tied up with the Folk, and it has been fairly mundane all things considered. And very substance-free."

Liath fell silent, her eyes still bulging as she blinked hard and ground her teeth again.

"And so I think that's why I've spiraled, because I just want to ask why you had to do it. Why you crossed that line and started to misuse foods from Lilydale." Andrew softened his voice. The question. That was the question which began to form twelve years ago after he finished at the University of Minnesota. That was the question that had slowly driven him mad since he was sixteen.

"I don't know," whispered Liath. "Desperation? You were already so bitter at that point. You had already given up on me. So I didn't have anything to lose."

He wanted to argue, but that was how he ended up in the bluffs where he ran into Ingrid. Desperate recklessness. Clearly that was a trait inherited from his mother.

"I'm so sorry I don't have a better answer," she went on. The skin around her moist eyes turned pink and puffy, dotted with welling tears she blinked rapidly to fight down. "The migraines were so bad and I kept failing and failing to find a way to get by the more jobs I lost because of attendance. It made you so independent so fast, and then you didn't need me anymore."

"That's ridiculous," Andrew retorted.

She nodded, silent, eyes downcast. A tear dripped off her chin and splashed into her tea.

"I've never stopped needing you." The words barely formed in the air like a single snowflake drifting from the heavens. It reverberated against a choked sob from Liath's throat as she hid her face in her collar to collect herself.

"But there just wasn't space for me," he continued. "What you were doing with Fae-spelled foods was so deeply dangerous, especially when you still had a child you were responsible for. I know I had jobs and everything after I turned sixteen, but technically speaking, you were endangering me. Frequently."

Sobered by his blunt accusation, Liath nodded again, drying her cheeks, giving her ring a spin. "I know. I'll never forgive myself, so I don't expect you to forgive me. But I'm sorry in a way I couldn't have been when I was using. So, so sorry."

He nodded, silent.

"And yet you say you're now involved with the Folk." She lifted her gaze. "How the devil did that happen?"

Andrew laughed, a bit sheepish, a bit lighter, like eighteen years of anger and frustration was a seroma that finally drained during this conversation. "The Ruby Daughter spent five years stalking me after I made her bleed on accident, but that's not really what got me involved."

"The—she what!"

"I think she was working through some of her own mommy issues," Andrew observed, rubbing his thumb on the torque in his sweatshirt pocket.

"As in, the Redwood Queen." Lines creased her brow, hardening her expression.

"Oh, you know her?"

"Everyone knows her." That's what Chamomile had said, too."She was infamous. Your nan told me stories of her cruelty toward humans."

"Aye, which is why Micah was very comfortable turning her into a tree." Andrew nodded.

Liath's face grew blank. She blinked hard again. "Beg pardon?"

"Micah's not much for killing," he explained. "So he grew the Redwood Queen into a redwood."

"The Redwood Queen is dead?" Her eyes went round.

"In a manner of speaking."

"And it was her half-human son…your boyfriend—?"

"That's gonna depend." The expression on Micah's face when Andrew was pulling out of Magic's parking lot wasn't going to leave his memory very quickly. Andrew had to come up with a strong argument for himself if he wanted to convince Micah that a break really was just a break.

"Andrew," breathed Liath. "You're more than involved with the Folk. You're dating the son of the Redwood Queen, and you're in Lilydale ‘all the time?' There's being involved, and then there's practically living like one of them."

He nodded. Over the last two years, being in Lilydale felt as commonplace as strolling through Cherokee Park or going to a brewery. He knew Micah felt more uncomfortable, as there was much more attention on him there than on Andrew, but that also meant Andrew could simply…relish the crisp enchanted air in the compound, and the music, and the view of the river basin. "I suppose so. Ingrid—the Ruby Daughter—and I have surprisingly quite a bit in common, temperamentally and psychologically. She sent a gift." He pulled out the torque and held it out.

Motionless, Liath stared at it. "The Ruby Daughter sent me a gift?"

"She goes by Lady of the Bluffs at the moment."

Liath carefully picked up the torque, turning it in her hands, running her thumb over the ornate knobbed end. "This is from Leinster."

"She said she loved it there."

She blinked, veering toward incredulous with the way her top lip curled like Andrew's did. "But you also said she stalked you for five years."

"Water under the bridge." Unable to resist a sly grin, he glanced at Liath, took a sip of his now room temperature tea, and told her pointedly, "I try not to hold grudges."

Warily, Liath inclined her head. "You are much less angry than when you were eighteen. Still acerbic, but milder." She slotted the torque over her wrist.

Andrew drained his cup and glanced out the window at the violet-tinged twilit sky. It did not look like Micah's eyes. "It's been a hell of a lot of work."

"Aye, I believe that." She looked at her own teacup and swilled the dredges left in the bottom with a slight frown before returning her dark eyes to Andrew. "Why didn't you bring your boyfriend with you?"

The question made him flinch. It was benign enough on its own, but it forced him to contrive an answer. An answer that seemed flimsy at best, on the surface. To really understand it, and own it, he had to look into that festering, decades-old wound in his heart. "I'm not proud of you and I." His voice broke. "I'm not proud of how I treated you or how I deal with all the hurt. I thought I could hide it from him. But I have a feeling he's always seen right through me."

"I can relate," Liath murmured thickly.

Andrew jolted as if struck. The connection had been right there all along, but he'd never thought about it like that. How easy it was to abandon the people you love because you're blinded by your own extraordinary wounds. When his throat tightened and his lips strained with the urge to cry, he didn't fight it. He quickly set down his teacup and saucer so he could curl up and hide his face in his palms. Liath's warm hand settled lightly on his knee while he stifled the sounds he made, crying but in control, at last able to grieve without going mad. He didn't stop until his eyes grew dry on their own and his body was an abandoned chrysalis.

At some point, Liath had gotten up and prepared more tea for them. She drank from her cup while gazing solemnly outside as darkness fell. The second teacup rested on her knee, steaming gently. With a trembling hand, he picked it up and soothed his sore throat with its floral warmth.

Neither of them rushed to fill the silence, but it was less fraught than when he'd arrive. Eventually, Liath asked the kinds of questions mothers did to catch up with their distant children, and Andrew was happy to share. She remarked on his accent, how he had scrubbed most of the Scouse out in favor of some hybrid of Minnesotan and Londoner. She fed him sharp cheese and crackers and a tin of shortbread cookies while they talked. Several more cups of tea were emptied and then refilled, and the fire died down and then climbed onto the fresh logs Liath fed to it.

"Bundle up." Liath stood up from the couch several hours later. "It gets cold in here overnight. Phone's on the table there next to you. Turn off that lamp when you're ready. I sleep like the dead, so talk as late as you want. Do you need some blankets or pillows?"

"I've got stuff," he assured her. In the trailer of the snowmobile, he'd separated what he only needed outside and what he would need while he wasn't traveling, and the larger bag with the latter he'd brought in with him. It happened to include the same sleeping bag he'd used in Montana, making it swollen with memories. At the moment, that hurt more than anything.

"Sure." Liath stood near a sturdy ladder which led to an open loft overhead where a faint light shone from a bulb in the ceiling. She slid her flannel off her shoulders and was left in an old tee that said GRANDMA'S SALOON.

He pulled out everything else he needed for the night and then looked back up to see her watching him with her dark, searching eyes. Uncomfortably, he stood with his bundle of belongings under his arm. "I'm not expecting to intrude here for long. If you were…paranoid, like I would be."

Liath hesitated. She held onto the rungs of the ladder. "You're not intruding, child. You never have." Awkwardly, she smiled at him across the room. "Stay as long as you like."

"Wait," he said suddenly as her foot curled around the lowest rung. "When I was coming in, the cabin appeared out of nowhere, like a cloak lifted. How does it do that?"

"Oh." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "The wolf decides."

Andrew stared at her, slack-jawed.

Offering no elaboration, she nodded determinedly and began a slow and careful climb up the ladder. He watched her ascend in silence until she disappeared into the loft, shaking his head before he switched off the stained-glass lamp next to the couch, sitting silently in the moonlight, listening to his mother rustling and the floor creaking under her feet. She clicked on some kind of sound machine that filled the cabin with the whooshing of ocean waves. He hugged his arms around his stomach, nauseous with the strangeness and the comfort of hearing her move around.

Next to the table lamp was the red corded phone, which he picked up off the receiver to tap in Micah's number. It rang a few times, which was unusual for him. When it stopped ringing, the phone crackled and shouted with the sound of a raucous crowd, clinking dinnerware, and music. Andrew winced, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment.

"Micah?" he asked loudly into the receiver. "Hey. Hello?"

"Oh! Oh. Wrong end. Okay, I got it. I got it! Don't touch, we're all good." Andrew recognized the sound of Micah clearing his throat. "Hey there, this is Micah Stillwater, and I am not drunk."

"Micah? It's Andrew."

"Oh my god. Babe! Babe?" The noise of the crowd intensified. "Guys!" Micah's voice was faint and faraway. "It's Andrew. He's alive! The area code confused me."

"Micah—" His throat constricted, making Micah's name sound strained in his mouth. Andrew tried to summon him back with the urgency in his voice and sheer desperation.

The phone clunked with feedback. "Hey, Andy, it's Sam. Micah's like, six shots deep."

"Sam? I'm so confused. Are you guys out drinking together? Micah hardly ever drinks."

"Yeah, well, he's really upset! What are you thinking? You dodo. Micah is a fricking golden retriever."

Andrew shut his eyes. He slumped onto his back on the couch with the receiver clutched so tightly in his fist that his knuckles ached. "Can you let me talk to him, please?"

"No, Chami says it's her turn."

Andrew groaned.

"Hey, asshole!" Chamomile yelled distantly.

"Come on, give me the thing. Hello? It's Ingrid. Don't worry, Andrew. I followed Micah all day. You might remember from when I was stalking you that I am quite skilled at that."

"Yes, you are," muttered Andrew. "Please, can I talk to Micah again?"

"Only if you swear to be kind." Ingrid sounded like an ornery mother. "I don't know if I can charm someone through a mobile communication device, but I am more than ready to try."

"I swear." The vow came through gritted teeth.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Andrew wondered if his mother was listening. It would be funny if she felt sorry for him.

"Hi." Micah breathed into the phone, sounding more like himself. "Sorry. I'm in the bathroom now."

"Micah," sighed Andrew, tearing up.

In the bathroom, Micah's eyes stung as he stared at his blurry reflection in the dirty mirror over the sink. He swallowed several times, set the phone down, and splashed cold water on his face. He used his shirt to dry himself off and then picked up his phone. "You made it."

"Are you all right?"

Micah's voice wobbled like a leaf hanging onto a tree branch in autumn. "No, not really, man! Diana's caveman boyfriend showed up at the tea shop and tried to fucking punch me."

Andrew covered his mouth. "Oh, my god. I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"

"Actually, no. I went a little nuts. Almost hurt him. Got a little Ingrid-y."

Andrew paused. "Maybe that's okay. He sounds like he deserved it. You didn't."

"I'm well wearing. A…aware. I'm well aware." Micah growled. "God damn it, you're killing my buzz!"

"Buzz? Sam said you've taken six shots."

"Just tequila—that's nothing. I could down it by the bottle in business school. I'm no lightweight."

"Please be careful, Micah."

"I'll do as I please." There was an unfamiliar, acerbic sneer in Micah's voice, and it settled in Andrew's stomach like bad curry. "That's what you wanted, right? Gotta set me free. Gotta make sure I can fuck whoever I want, or whatever. I told you I don't do that anymore, but what do I know? Clearly you know better. You always do."

"Micah…" Andrew winced, tears squeezing from his burning eyes. "I'm so sorry I left you down there. I don't know what I was thinking."

There was a long silence on Micah's end of the phone. Andrew thought the connection had been lost, but then, softly and sounding deeply sober, Micah murmured, "Neither do I."

On the edge of a nightmare, Andrew heard the haunting howl of a wolf.

He shivered in his sleep, the deep kind that makes your muscles vibrate, as if the temperature suddenly dropped.

Andrew groaned, blinking and trying to move to pull his sleeping bag up to his chin. But his body remained paralyzed. He sucked in a breath through his nose. Sleep paralysis had only hit him twice before in his life, both times terrifying. Steeling himself, he peeled open his eyes.

A round pair of golden eyes blinked at him; humid, sour breath puffed over his nose and mouth. He bit back a scream, jolting—not paralyzed, then—and the weight on his chest lifted with a whoosh and a thud. Heavy claws scratched away across the floor. Andrew shot upright, searching the dark for a glimpse of the creature. The front door thumped closed with a blast of frozen air in his face. He pulled himself up on the back of the couch to search outside, but there was nothing to see besides the dark slope of the hill and the distant slash of trees.

Andrew's heart hammered in his chest and goosebumps rose on his skin. He pulled his flannel sleeves down over his wrists and flipped the hood up on the sweatshirt he wore on top. Unsettled, loneliness fell heavily on his shoulders. Maybe he just needed to go home in the morning.

For a while, he stared out the window at the stars big as snowflakes, rolling the blood ward between his fingers while he tried not to cry.

When it became obvious to him that he wasn't going back to sleep, Andrew stood and padded silently across the room. He wanted to inspect the little alchemy station his mum had set up on her counter. He'd never seen something that looked so much like an actual potion bottle. Andrew picked it up and peered inside, but it was currently empty, with not so much as a speck of dust on it.

Beside it was a little chest of tiny square drawers. Andrew peeked inside a few of them. They were filled with herbs and oddities. One drawer had several bird beaks, and Andrew recoiled and made a face.

"Are you interested in naturopathic medicine?"

Andrew jumped, his head snapping up. With her loose hair messy from sleep, Liath peered over the loft at him while she shrugged into a plaid fleece robe.

"Sorry." It had been quite a while since Andrew felt sheepish like this. "I wasn't trying to snoop."

Liath climbed down the ladder, stoked the low fire and threw on another log, and then joined him at the kitchen island. "You don't snoop. You observe. When you were a boy you'd do the same thing. In the middle of the night you'd be rummaging through my things to see what you could find. You liked the shells and the pinecones." She gazed past him as if a memory played behind her eyes. "Your dad hated it. You always gave him a fright."

Andrew made a dismissive noise. "Dad hated most things about me."

Liath flipped on the single bulb over the kitchen and then touched the small of his back. "He loved you."

Andrew didn't give in to the petulant instinct to deny it.

She added, "He was very depressed."

"So that's where I get it from."

"Most men that are depressed turn to anger. I'm not saying laying hands on us was ever right. And he was a narrow-minded bigot. But it's a broken system, aye?"

"Sure, Mum."

She washed her hands under a quick burst of water from the sink, which wafted a tangy iron smell over toward Andrew. As she wiped them on a dish rag hanging off the ancient fridge in the corner of the kitchen, she scrutinized him over her shoulder. "How about for you?"

Andrew remained in uncertain silence.

"You're depressed?"

"Oh. Yes. I mean, significantly above baseline. As my therapist would say."

"And?" With a frown, Liath hugged her robe around herself. "Has it made you angry?"

Andrew looked up at the rafters, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. He'd gotten angry at Micah. He'd felt frightened and betrayed, and instead of moving closer, he'd…come here. With a steadying breath, he shook his head slightly. "I'm slow to anger. But I'm quick to run away."

Liath cringed. "You hold up a mirror to me with that sentiment." She gently moved him out of her way so she could reach the drawers. "Now. I'll make you a draught to help you sleep. Valerian root, passionflower, ginkgo biloba. Ground ginger for taste. Most of all passionflower, less so of valerian, and only a trace of ginkgo biloba. Not a recipe, but an instinct." She pinched dried leaves from three drawers and cast them into a crystal mortar. "Grind these." She passed it to him and held out an ebony pestle. He obeyed as she moved around the counter, lit her stove, and placed a kettle on the flames.

"As Druids, each time we encounter a problem, we must work with nature to determine how to make it better. We're asking for what we need, rather than telling it what to do," said Liath.

"It was actually difficult to parse apart what separates the Druids from other pagan spiritual practices." Andrew thought of his notebooks and tomes he used to carry around before he met Micah. "I tried to get most of my information on the Folk from Celtic sources, but it was hard."

She nodded. "That's because we only know of the most effective Druid practitioners because of their bountiful lives or their pacts and cooperation with the Folk. But we don't make the books, or meet as covens, because as I'm sure you know, when you gather too many people in a room, power and greed are more likely to triumph."

He grimaced. "Indeed."

She took a chunk of ginger root down from a hanging basket and started to grate it into a small clear ramekin. As she grated, she hummed and explained, "Sometimes I speak while I work, but there is no script in advance. No incantation already written is ready quite as well as what you decide in the moment to ask for." She glanced up. "And always ask. You are never manipulating nature. You are asking to touch its wealth of life as you shape your will to its offerings."

Even when Micah worked his magic against the Redwood Queen, he'd whispered a plea to the trees, and they'd chosen to hear him. Even when Ingrid used the Scrying glass, she was shaping her will into some ancient magic that was already there. Maybe all of it was already there, all the magic any of them could ever need, lying dormant until the need spoke to them.

"What's your greatest feat as a Druid?" asked Andrew.

Liath watched him with her dark eyes. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. "I asked for it to grow dark and stormy so we could escape from your father."

Andrew blinked.

He didn"t think about it as much anymore, twenty-some years removed. But when she mentioned it, the event began playing back in his memories like a reel of distorted film.

Twelve-year-old Andrew was dressed in his school uniform with his backpack slung on one shoulder. His freckles were more prominent then, and he had long bangs that made it easier to veil his eyes.

A few weeks earlier, he'd come out to his mum. He had a massive crush on his best mate, Ryan, and he simply had to talk to his mum about it. It felt better now, anyway, not keeping it to himself.

The weather that day was nice and mild for spring, with big cotton ball clouds showing plenty of blue beyond. He let himself in through the unlocked front door, but everything was quiet inside the small, single-story duplex. There was already the sharp tang of beer in the air, so his dad must not have gotten called in to work. Another day with no money always made Edward testy.

Andrew dropped his backpack on the couch by the front door and called, "Mum?"

When she didn't answer, he proceeded toward the back of the house where there were patio doors off the kitchen. The sliding door was open, and he caught his dad's voice on the breeze.

Not quite wound up yet, Edward Vidasche insisted, "You know something about your kid and you've been sitting on it for weeks. What is it, Liath? Don't fucking lie to me."

Peeking around the door frame, Andrew pressed himself against the fridge. His dad was right near the door standing over the folding chair where Liath sat with a cigarette between her fingers. When he was in a tank top, you could see all of Edward's Armed Forces tattoos on his right shoulder.

"If there's something you want to know about Andrew, you should ask him about it," replied Liath calmly, tapping the ash off her cigarette. "I'm not keeping secrets, but if he's not comfortable talking to you, that's up to him."

"What's he hiding?" Edward demanded. He stepped closer and leaned over Liath, and Andrew's heart started to pound. His mum's knee started bouncing. That meant, for both of them, that Edward was winding up.

"Ed, he's just a boy." Liath sounded weary. "He's not doing anything to hurt you."

"There's only one thing that would make you all dodgy like this." Suspicion slurred Edward's words.

Sweat rising on the back of his neck, Andrew fidgeted with the lapel of his school blazer.

"That boy's gay, isn't he?"

"Ed," sighed Liath.

"My son's a fag?" Edward asked again. "How long have you known?"

"I'm not engaging in this conversation." Liath's voice trembled despite how brave she tried to sound.

Clang. The paint bucket they used for cigarette butts went flying. It clattered across the back lawn and hit the clapboard siding hard enough to rattle the glass doors. Soggy paper rolls stuck to the glass and scattered over the small brick landing.

"Ed, you're drunk. Please just go to bed or something."

"It's your fault!" insisted Andrew's dad. "You coddled him and made him soft!"

"Nobody made him gay," Liath reminded him. She always tried to reason with Edward longer than she should. She always tried to keep peace. Andrew, on the other hand, was sweeping the kitchen with a scrutinizing gaze, looking for something to fight with.

"I won't have a faggot living under my roof!" Edward snarled.

Andrew cringed.

Liath said evenly, "Then you should find a different roof."

The aluminum chair scraped; Liath gasped. Her cigarette fell by her feet. Andrew leaned forward.

Edward had her by the throat. With wild blue eyes and sunken, reddened cheeks, he screamed in Liath's face, "You trying to kick me out of my own house, Liath?"

Liath's fingers curled around the arms of her chair. Andrew couldn't see her face from his hiding spot.

Edward choked, "Don't you love me?"

Silent, Liath shuffled her feet, picking up her hand from the chair to push at Edward's wrist in a vain attempt to get him off her neck.

"You really wanna keep protecting that little pansy?" Edward demanded. Andrew could see his knuckles blanch around Liath's throat.

"Always," she rasped.

Edward shoved her by the throat, toppling the chair with her in it. Her head knocked into the bricks. Stunned, she remained on her side, trying to get her elbow under her. As he looked down at Liath with tear-stained cheeks, Edward drew back his boot.

Andrew reached into the space between the fridge and the wall and grabbed a broom. He leapt out the patio doors and jammed the handle of the broom into Edward's gut with both hands.

Edward stumbled away from Liath, gagging and spitting onto the grass. He swung his shaggy head up and glared venom at Andrew.

Andrew held the broom out in front of him and yelled, "Don't touch her!"

"Is it true?" Edward demanded.

"Who cares?" cried Andrew. "So what if I'm gay? I'm still your kid, aren't I?"

Liath ordered, "Andrew, go inside."

"No son of mine can be a fag." Edward raised his hand with lightning speed and backhanded Andrew upside his head. Slight compared to his father's slim but muscular build, Andrew took the strike hard enough to make him stumble. He dug the broom into the grass to keep himself on his feet and then lunged, driving his shoulder into Edward's chest. Liath got up, yanking Andrew toward the patio doors to get him away from his father.

Edward screamed, "Don't do this to me, Andrew!"

"I'm not doing anything," Andrew exclaimed, his head ringing. "You're the one freaking out!"

Liath clutched Edward's forearms—she usually did that, and it occasionally calmed him down. But Edward's streaming eyes were on Andrew and he shoved Liath away. He grabbed his son's collar with both hands and slammed him into the side of the house.

Edward sobbed, "How could you? You're not my son anymore!" Spittle sprayed onto Andrew's cheeks.

Wincing, gagging on Edward's sour breath, Andrew yelled, "I don't care! You suck anyway!"

Edward hit him again; stars swam in Andrew's vision. The stars, and the smell of his dad, and the fact that this was all because of a stupid crush on a boy…Andrew went hot with anger. He threw an elbow, kicked a shin, grabbed a tuft of sideburn, and when Edward let go of his jacket, Andrew jumped on him and furiously pounded his small but bony fists into Edward's face.

Edward fell, and Andrew went down with him, clawing with one hand and punching with the other. Andrew was too small and quick for his drunken father to grab him. He relished drawing blood with his fingernails and pulling out chunks of blond hair.

Liath hooked her arms through Andrew's armpits and hauled him off Edward, who rolled off his back immediately.

"We're leaving." Liath's dark gaze smoldered like embers. "You're never going to touch us again."

"No," cried Edward, scrambling upright, reaching toward them. Blood oozed from scratches on his face and a crack in his lip. He took a step toward them, but stopped when Liath flinched. "You can't go. Please don't go."

"I fucking hate you," Andrew screamed as Liath held him back.

Liath lifted her eyes to the heavens and pleaded, "Rain and dark, I beg for your aid."

Unsure what his mum's characteristically oblique language would do for them, Andrew picked up the broom and flailed it at Edward. Liath pulled on Andrew's blazer, so Andrew pitched the broom at him. It cracked Edward across the chin. Then, it cracked open the heavens. The skies rumbled and split asunder, spilling forth sheets of rain. Heavy, black clouds crowded overhead, sweeping away the daylight, crushing the little backyard with darkness. The downpour soaked them all at once, and Edward slipped, and slipped again on the suddenly muddy grass. He fell, grunting, gasping in confusion, squinting blindly.

Liath ushered Andrew over the doorstop, their shoes squeaking on linoleum. In the yard, Edward crouched on his hands and knees, wiping his face but smearing mud across his eyes, choking on rivulets of rain and squinting in the darkness.

With a vice grip on Andrew's wrist, Liath grabbed her bag from the counter, hauling Andrew toward the front door and picking up his backpack on the way. Splashing into the flooding street under a midnight sky at midday, they escaped Edward Vidasche forever.

At thirty-four, in a cabin on the North Shore, Andrew looked gravely at Liath and told her, "We couldn't have gotten away otherwise."

She looked away, her eyes puffy as she swallowed thickly. "Aye. I am glad that until that moment, I kept in balance with nature. It was willing to hear me. I've spent the last eleven years trying to balance again." She paused, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "In your teens, I know that I abandoned you and chose to serve myself first. I ruined both of us."

Andrew looked down. He didn't bother denying it when they both knew it was true. An awkward silence hung between them. He didn't want to say anything to hurt her, but it was difficult not voicing his agreement. He often imagined a life for himself where Liath hadn't fallen to addiction.

"I can tell," added Liath, mercifully changing the subject, "that you're very much in balance. I doubt Folk would be ready to call you friend any other way."

He shrugged. "I guess. I try. Yeah."

Liath poured a small amount of water into the tincture and stirred it with a glass straw. "Do you think you feel magic? Around your boyfriend, for example. Or the Ruby Daughter."

He thought of Micah's perfumed emotions. Of the tingling when Ingrid used the scrying glass. Of all the faint feelings that got stronger when he stopped and felt the earth under the soles of bare feet, or spent time staring at the stars. Or Ingrid's ice wall, tingling with power like when feeling returned to a numb limb.

"I thought everyone could," said Andrew honestly.

Liath tsked. "Child, don't take that sense for granted. Like calls to like. Magic calls to magic." Pride flashed across her features. "You feel it because you have it."