Nothing was concrete anymore. Time did not exist and neither did infinity. There were other dimensions, other planes, other people who could use them. Maybe Tristan was in love with Callum or Parisa or both or neither, maybe he actually hated them, maybe it meant something that he trusted them both so fucking little and they didn’t mind, having known it all along. Maybe the only parts Tristan couldn’t see were himself and his place in their game between each other.
What Tristan wanted was to believe in something; to stop staring at the pieces and finally grasp the whole. He wanted to revel in his magic, not wrestle with it. He wanted something, somewhere, that he could understand.
He was pacing while he postured. Movement didn’t help the blur of things half-seen, but sitting still was not an option. He closed his eyes and reached out for something solid, feeling strands in the air. Their wards were gridlike, difficult to disturb, like bars. He paused and tried something different: to be part of them, participant instead of observer.
He felt himself like a flicker of existence, both in place and not. It was meditation, in a sense. A focus on connectedness, and the more embedded in his own thoughts he became, the less he was able to place himself in any physical reality. In the absence of sight, sense and memory could tell him where he was: hard wooden floors, the smell of kindling burning in the furnace, the air of the Society mansion, occupied by magical contortions he himself had made—but in the interest of unlearning his preconceptions, he discarded them. He was nowhere, everywhere, everything and nothing. He abandoned the necessity of taking a form or a shape.
Bewilderingly, it was Parisa’s voice that spoke to him.
“You ought to have a talisman,” she said. “Find one and keep it with you, and you’ll never have to wonder what’s real.”
Tristan’s eyes snapped open, alarmed, but upon recalling himself in reality, he confirmed that he hadn’t moved from where he’d remembered himself last. He still sat on the floor of the painted room, surrounded by no one and nothing.
Where had he gone in that instant, or had he actually moved at all? Had Parisa been inside his head somehow, or had it been a memory? Was it her magic or his own?
So much for not wondering what was real.
In the end, Tristan shook himself, rising to his feet. After a pause to think, he took a small scrap of paper, scribbling something on it and tucking it into his pocket.
Callum looked up when he entered, bracing himself for a continuation of their prior argument, but Tristan shook his head.
“I’m not here to have a row,” he said. “You’re right, of course. I know you’re right.”
Callum looked warily unconvinced. “Is that supposed to be concession or a compliment?”
“Neither. A fact. Or rather, a white flag.”
“So this is a truce?”
“Or an apology,” Tristan said. “Whichever you prefer.”
Callum arched a brow. “I don’t suppose I need either.”
“Perhaps not.” Tristan folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the frame of the reading room. “Drink?”
Callum regarded him another moment, then nodded, shutting the book before him and rising uncomplicatedly to his feet.
The two of them walked in practiced cohesion to the painted room. Callum summoned a pair of glasses from the corner, glancing over his shoulder to Tristan. “Whisky?”
“Sure.”
Callum poured with a wave of his hand, leaking magic as he always did, and beside him, Tristan took his usual seat. Their motions were practiced, frequently rehearsed, and Callum set a glass in Tristan’s hand, taking hold of the other. For several moments they were silent, each savoring the drink. It was a smoky, hollow blend, silken with amber and caramel in the light, with the smooth finish they both tended to prefer.
“It doesn’t have to be Rhodes,” Callum said eventually. “But you have to admit she’s unpopular.”
Tristan sipped his whisky. “I know.”
“Unpopular doesn’t mean valueless.”
“I know.”
“And if your attachment to her is…”
“It isn’t.” Again, Tristan sipped his glass. “I don’t think.”
“Ah.” Callum turned his head, looking at him. “For the record, she has been trying to research her dead sister.”
Tristan blinked. “What?”
“Her sister died of a degenerative disease. I suppose I might have mentioned that before.”
He hadn’t, though Tristan remained undecided as to whether or not he should have.