Talia and I smiled at each other over their bickering. She reached under the bar to thread her fingers lightly through mine, my skin sparking to life at her touch like tinder. Apparently my abrupt-onset depression wasn’t so complete that it could muffle even this, the fire that flared between us so reliably.
“How stoked are you to be an only child right now?” she asked, a corner of her mouth tugging up. “I can’t imagine growing up all soft like that. Never even having to compete for resources.”
“To be fair, being an only child isn’t going to help me this time,” I said, trying to focus on her instead of the soft way her thumb was grazing the inside of my wrist. “I won’t be talking to my parents. My dad’s too honor forward to participate in something like this, even if it isn’t technically against the rules. And the two of them always close ranks, so trying my mom won’t be any use.”
“So who will you be talking to, then?”
“My nana Caro,” I said, giving her hand a little squeeze. “My favorite grandparent. And the one who was Arbiter before me.”
* * *
Nana Caro had the demanding social calendar of a Bridgerton debutante, which meant I hadn’t seen her for so much as a brunch since the gala at The Bitters. I didn’t take it personally; my grandmother had always been that way. Exuberantly loving with her grandchildren—a consummate confidante, and reliable smuggler of snack contraband—but also protective of the space she’d carved out for herself. It was her way, I guessed, of keeping her life hers, and I’d always respected her for marking out those boundaries.
But when I’d called to ask for her help, there must have been something extra in my voice, some granddaughter equivalent of a bat signal. She’d invited me for tea and sympathy the very same day.
“How are you bearing up, peep?” she asked, surveying me closely as I sipped a blistering cup of Mexican hot chocolate, which I should have known better than to accept. Despite the silly Harlow affinity for drinks at perfect temperatures, anything warm Nana served stayed dragon-breath scalding until it was gone—presumably because that was just the way she liked it.
“You’re looking a little peaky,” she added, flashing a quick smile to soften any sting. “The mantle doesn’t take it easy on anyone, but from where I’m sitting, you’ve had an even more exciting go of it than usual.”
“I think it is starting to wear on me,” I admitted. “I’m getting a little frayed around the edges, if that makes sense. More sensitive than I usually am, verging on morose? Very weird, not like me at all.”
“I know just what you mean,” she said, leaning across the coffee table to pat my knee. “Even for an adrenaline junkie like me, it got a bit much as it wore on. And I had your gramps to see me through the rougher patches. Steady as stone, that man was. Could weather just about anything.”
Though he hadn’t been born a Harlow, my grandfather Sebastian had been much closer to what I considered our classic family disposition: reserved, self-sufficient, with a pained distaste for any type of drama. But they’d had a love affair for the ages before he died, so there must have been something under all that deceptively still water. Or maybe it was the whole opposites attract thing, who knew.
For some reason that made me think of Talia; the twisty paradox of her, like some captivating Gordian knot I was still struggling to comprehend. The ferocious girl who growled at pumpkin fiends as she stalked her way into battle, and also baked babkas to show people she loved how much she cared. The girl who embraced darkness, tended and cared for the phantoms that lived within it, while shedding such a scintillating light that it was damn near impossible to look away from her.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Nana Caro said, one microbladed eyebrow arched. “I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s not just the mantle making you look so fraught.”
“No,” I admitted, with a gusting sigh. “There’s . . . someone. It’s really new, still, but it’s making my whole situation, you know. Another layer of complicated.”
“Ah.” She nodded, setting down her cup. “That’s another thing they don’t tell you about the mantle spell. It tends to clarify things, makes you sink more into yourself. And sometimes that can be a dicey proposition. Say, if you’re already at some kind of crossroads.”
I nodded a little shakily, beset by expanding tightness in my throat, the salty smart of tears. Striving for some chill, I took a breath and looked around my grandmother’s eclectic apartment. A cauldron hung in the granite fireplace and one of my mother’s handmade besom brooms was laid across the lintel, juxtaposed against modern furniture, framed prints of Yayoi Kusama installations Nana had likely seen in person, and a hanging spiral of Turkish mosaic lamps she’d probably bought at an actual souk. Unlike most founding family members, Nana traveled every year—taking adventure cruises with friends, jetting off on solo excursions, and generally being the type of person who may or may not be on a hot air balloon above a vineyard at any given time.