Tamsin spread files across her conference table. Morning light came through her windows cold and gray. “The problem is simple,” she said. “We need to prove supernatural elements in a human court without sounding insane.”
I sat across from her and sipped coffee that tasted like ash. Sleep had not come last night.
“Frame it as cultural practice,” Tamsin continued. “The Shadowbinding becomes a sanctioned ritual. The ward becomes historic preservation. Theo’s condition becomes a rare genetic disorder.”
“Alaric will bring his own experts,” I said.
“Let him. We have Bryony’s testimony, Jonah’s reports, and the financial records showing you funded lighthouse maintenance for years.”
She pushed a neat pile of papers toward me. Witness statements. Redacted medical records. Incident reports that called the blue fire an electrical malfunction.
“The judge will want proof of paternity,” she added. “Elias submitted to genetic testing yesterday. Results come this afternoon.”
By noon I left the office and drove to the construction site where Elias had taken Theo for a supervised visit. I found them near a stack of lumber. Theo wore a tiny yellow hard hat. Elias crouched beside him, blueprints spread across his knees.
“See this line?” Elias said. “That’s load bearing. It holds everything else up.”
Theo traced the pencil mark with his finger. “Like the lighthouse.”
“Exactly.”
I stood back and watched. They had the same posture when they concentrated, the same tilt of the head. Seven years alone, and now this sudden symmetry between them. The air shifted around it, heavier somehow.
Elias looked up and saw me. “We were just going over structural integrity.”
Theo ran to me, arms tight around my waist. “Elias says I can help measure next time.”
“If your mom says it’s safe,” Elias said, smiling.
We ate lunch later at the safehouse above Tamsin’s office. Reinforced doors. Bryony’s wards humming faintly along the seams. Theo ate grilled cheese and talked about angles. I made tea and tried to keep my hands from shaking.
After lunch, Theo settled on the couch with a book while Elias stood by the window.
“He asked me about choices today,” he said quietly.
I turned, dish towel in hand. “What kind of choices?”
“He wanted to know if you and I are choosing each other, or if the magic is making us. I told him we’re choosing. Not because we have to. Because we want to.”
My throat closed.
“Then he asked if I chose Katarine,” he went on. “I told him I thought I did, but she was making the choice for me with magic. Real choice is when you know everything and still choose anyway.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was like you choosing to have him even when it was scary.”
Something inside me cracked. I crossed the kitchen and touched his arm. “Thank you. For being real with him.”
He looked down at me. “He asked if I’m staying. I told him if you let me. If he wants me to.”
“And?”
“He wants me to.”
That evening, after Theo went to bed, Elias opened my laptop.
“Can I look at photos?”
“Go ahead.”
He clicked through the folders. A quiet fell over him. When I came back with tea, he sat frozen. The screen showed Theo at three days old—red face, tiny fists. Elias scrolled. First smile. First steps. First day of school. He reached a video: Theo at eighteen months, laughing as I chased him through the apartment. Elias’s shoulders shook.
“I missed everything,” he said, voice breaking.
I set the mugs down and wrapped my arms around him. He leaned into me and let the grief come, silent but raw. Seven years of absence pressing through skin and bone.
“You’re here now,” I whispered. “That’s what matters.”
“It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It has to be.”
We went through the photos together. I narrated seven years while he listened, eyes wet. Then his phone rang, slicing the quiet in half. He looked at the screen, jaw tightening, and declined the call.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“No one.”
The phone rang again. He declined it again.
“If someone’s calling twice—”
“I said it’s no one.” His tone snapped.
I felt my spine straighten. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. I asked a question. You snapped.”
He turned toward the window, pacing. “Because it’s not your business.”
Cold pooled in my stomach. “Not my business? We’re living together, raising a son, preparing for court tomorrow, but your phone calls aren’t my business?”
“It’s just my family, okay? They don’t matter.”
“So it was someone. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie—”
“You said no one. That’s a lie.”
Silence thickened between us.
“After everything—Katarine, the trial, all the doubts—I need to know you’re all in. No secrets. Not anymore.”
“It’s complicated—”
“Everything’s complicated. That’s not an excuse.”
“Fine. It’s my mother. Happy? She’s called three times this week. I’m not answering. End of story.”
“Why?”
“Because—” He stopped. “I can’t talk about this right now.”
“When, then? After trial? After ritual? When it’s convenient?”
“When I’m ready.”
“You’d rather lie than just say that?”
He exhaled hard. “Mara—”
“How can I trust you with big things when you lie about small ones?”
I walked away. Went to Theo’s room. He slept through the storm. His hair stuck to his forehead, breath even, unaware of the fault line spreading through the house.
At ten, I sat on the couch with tea. Elias came over slowly and left space when he sat down.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For lying or for snapping?”
“Both. All of it. You were right. I should’ve just said it was my mom.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Family’s painful. Not an excuse, but truth. My parents are complicated, demanding, judgmental. I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to be enough for them and failing. When they call, I already know what they’ll say. And I can’t defend myself right now—not when I’m barely holding it together.”
Something in me softened despite the anger. “You could’ve said that.”
“I should’ve. Next time I will. When I’m ready, you’ll be the first person I tell. But right now, with the trial tomorrow and Theo’s health fragile, I need that box closed a little longer.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. But the snapping, the defensiveness—it can’t happen again. If we turn on each other now—”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He reached for my hand. I let him take it, though hesitation lived in the touch.
“Are we okay?” he asked.
“We’ll be. But there’s distance now. You feel it?”
He nodded once.
“That’s what lies do,” I said. “Even small ones. They create space.”
We sat together, hands linked, forgiveness real but fragile. The silence between us no longer hostile, just tired. Eventually, we drifted to sleep on the couch, bodies tangled, hearts not yet steady.
My phone woke me at two in the morning. Unknown number. A message.
Anonymous report filed with child services. Dangerous living conditions. Unfit mother. Inspection scheduled for tomorrow, 8 AM.
Below that, another message appeared: Tick tock.