He kept his handwriting close enough to his grandmother’s careful hand that it would be hard to tell the difference. It felt ridiculous at first, but writing it in this book was like turning it into a design or a spell. He couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t say it wasn’t true. And he could remember it on those days when his parents’ voices were too loud.
He stared down at the empty patches of paper and thought of Viv and Sasha. He didn’t know if the twisting, burning feeling in his stomach was love, but he did know he wanted to do something for them. Viv hated being helpless—Micah could relate to that. And just because she fell sick didn’t mean she should isolateherself, either. It hadn’t escaped his notice how much time she spent at home. Maybe he could help with that.
He found a slate in the weaving room. As in all of Lukos, paper was something precious here, used for preserving finished words, not practice. Most people used birch bark or slate for that, and slate could be washed clean. So Micah started sketching, scribbling furiously while laundry steamed in front of the fire and tea sachets cooled in the basin by the kitchen.
Viv’s fever broke the next morning. She was grumpy, kicking Sasha out of bed again and complaining about the way the mattress made her back ache, but she was able to keep down more broth and tea, and she let Sasha dress her so he could take her into the living room. She saw the slate on the table, and Micah grabbed it before she could look too closely.
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “I think.”
“What’s a surprise is how quick this fever eased,” Viv said. She was wrapped in half a dozen blankets, and she looked too thin and too pale, but at least she was sitting up and giving him a wry smile. “I’m usually out for weeks. Thanks for the help, witch boy.”
Micah could feel the blush on his face. “Oh. Well. I mean.”
“I said thank you. Don’t be rude.” Viv poked him with a foot.
“You’re welcome.”
“Therewe go.” Viv lay her head back on the pillows. “Maybe tomorrow I can go outside. Lie in the sun. I feel like I need it.”
“I can carry you out now if you want, baby,” Sasha called from the stove, where he was heating up one of Micah’s tarts. Viv made a face, and Micah guessed what she meant: she didn’t want to have to be carried. He thought of the scribbled sketches on the slate, half-formed ideas of a moving chair, and blushed deeper.
“Thanks for settling him last night, by the way,” Viv said, poking him again. “I should’ve told you it’s not a problem. I trust you with him.”
But I’m not you,Micah thought. “He’s. Um. Very enthusiastic.”
Viv smiled, shifting in her blankets until she was half leaning against Micah. “I know. Doesn’t he take pain well? Free up your lap, Micah. I want to sleep on you.”
“Bossy,” Micah muttered, moving the slate. But he didn’t mind, not when Viv settled down with her head on his thighs.
“Mm. Pet my hair.”
Micah gently stroked her hair, and Viv fell asleep almost immediately, curled up like a snow cat in a tree. Micah glanced at Sasha, who was watching them fondly, and then looked away.
Sasha was just setting plates of tart on the table when the knock came on the door. It was light, more like someone was brushing the surface than tapping it with their knuckles, but the voice was loud enough that it echoed.
“Vivian? Vivian, it’s your mother.”
“Oh gods, it’s a nightmare,” Viv murmured, and curled in tighter. Micah looked from Viv to Sasha, who was staring at the door.
“Vivian, let me in. Please.”
Vivian covered her ears, and Micah lay a hand over hers. “Sh-she isn’t well. She doesn’t want visitors today.”
“She needs her mother,” the voice said, and Sasha’s face, usually so amicable, closed up tight like a trap. “Please. Open the door.”
“Not a chance,” Sasha said. He got up and locked the door. “She’ll talk to you when she wants to. Don’t push this on her.”
“I’m hermother.”
“You want her to say she forgives you, because you don’t wanna feel bad anymore. She can’t handle that shit right now. Go away.”
There was a breathless silence and then a rustling sound, which gradually faded. Micah sighed and looked down at Viv, whose face was pink.
“Why does she always have the worst timing?” she whispered.
Micah stroked her hair again, and Sasha stomped away from the door, coming to sit next to Micah. He picked up Viv’s legs so he could drape them across his lap, and Viv rolled to the side, her pale hair falling over her cheek. Even wan and weak from fever, she was beautiful.
“You’re kinder than me,” she said. “I would have cursed more.” Sasha huffed.
