Illium felt his cheeks color. He hadn’t thought she knew about his tumbling heart, his desperate devotion. “Mother, you’re embarrassing me.”
Laughing, she rose from her seat, tucked her arm through his, and said, “Come, I have made you a cake. Where’s Aodhan? I made it for him, too.” The way she didn’t even glance at the chair told him that she’d forgotten her ghostly visitor.
“He’s in the Library, looking at copies of Gadriel’s early work.” The originals were held in Lumia, which Aodhan hoped to eventually get permission to visit.
“Oh yes, I did tell him to study the angelic masters. He will learn much by not forgetting the past. Every artist thinks he invents this brush stroke or that—but the good ones know that we build on the strokes of all those who came before us.”
At times like this, when she sounded so pragmatic and like herself, Illium allowed himself to believe that she’d never fractured, that she was still the mother to whom he could go with any problem and know it would be fixed. In these moments, he could be her son, carefree and reliant.
Today, he smiled and sat down at the kitchen table while she cut the cake, and made him a drink. They sat, talked, and he confessed to her about Kaia. “I know everyone thinks I’m too young to understand love, but they’re wrong. I love her until it’s hard to breathe without her.”
“I was young, too, with my first love,” she said with a tender smile. “My Raan. Such a kind man he was, Illium. I wish you could’ve known him.”
It was clear Raan was on her mind today, and he was grateful for it, for it was obvious the memories brought her joy. “Will you tell me about him?”
“Another day.” She leaned forward, her hands around her mug of tea. “Today, tell me about your pretty Kaia.”
So he did, pouring out his heart. Unlike so many others, she didn’t patronize him or dismiss his love as a fleeting infatuation. She listened, and she accepted that he knew his own heart.
Another kind of desperation choked at his throat: the need to have this woman as his mother always, rather than her fractured counterpart. He loved her in any guise, but to see who she could be . . .
His hate for his father burned even hotter.
After he’d finished his cake and talked his fill about Kaia, he told her about his continuing studies. “I keep thinking I’m done, but then I get hit with more. Today, Dmitri told me to follow around one of his junior assistants. At first, I thought it would be boring—Mirza isn’t a warrior, but a scribe.”
Shame heated his cheeks. “But, Ma, you should see all the things she handles. None of the warriors would even have their weapons if Mirza didn’t put in the orders for various materials. I think that’s what Dmitri wanted me to learn—that there’s a lot more to being part of an archangel’s court than just being able to command a squadron or strategize in battle.”
His mother’s eyes, such a light, bright color, were fuzzier than when they’d started, but she was still present. “He’s begun to teach you how to be an invaluable member of the senior court, rather than simply a sword hand. There are many of the latter, only a rare few of the former.”
Illium hadn’t thought of it that way, quickly saw her meaning. “When I’m older and more senior, I have to be able to step into any position, don’t I? I mean, even though Dmitri is Raphael’s second and I don’t want to be second, I have to be able to if they need me to.
“I suppose Dmitri must sometimes want to go do other things,” he said dubiously, unable to imagine the tough-eyed vampire away from his position at Raphael’s side.
“Yes, you are clever,” his mother said, and he could see her fighting to get the words out past the veil dropping across her mind. “They know you are clever. So they try to show you that life is far bigger and more complex than you understand at this time—and that to stand at Raphael’s side, you must be a man of many skills.”
Illium took his mother’s delicately-boned hand in his. “It’s all right, Ma,” he whispered gently. “You can let go. It’s all right.”
Tears shone in her eyes, the color an effervescence of palest gold. “My baby boy. No, this isn’t right.” But she was fading even as the last word left her lips, disappearing into the kaleidoscope.
Yet her hand, it remained tight on his, and the love that burned in her vague gaze, it wasn’t vague at all. It was for him. Her son. Her baby boy.