But the truth is, yes, I think about it. When we’re walking together and he naturally takes my hand. When he looks up at me across the table at dinner, laughing at a joke I’ve told, his green-gold eyes all bright. When we pass each other on the way to the bathroom, his hair wet from the shower, his tank top clinging to him damply, the smell of his shaving gel wafting off him. I think about how easy it would be to accept this life. To be with him.

I think about what it would be like to go into the same room at the end of the night. I do. I think about it. Even if that makes me feel like a bad person, because he’s not the only guy I think that way about.

“It’s clean,” he observes, and gently takes the dish I’ve been vigorously scrubbing.

“I think about it,” he says after a minute.

He’s not going to let it go.

“Do you think you would have done it all on your own?” I ask.

He stares at me, surprised at my question. “On my own?”

“Well, kissing me was part of your vision, so you knew what was going to happen. You said, ‘You’re not going to go,’ when I wanted to leave. Because you knew I would stay. You knew you would kiss me, and I would let you.”

Something works in his throat. He drops his head, a curl of hair falling into his eyes, and gazes into the sink like there’s some mysterious answer to be found in the soapy dishwater.

“Yes, I kissed you in a vision,” he says finally. “But it didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought …” I feel his disappointment then, his embarrassment, his wounded pride.

“You thought if we kissed, we’d be together,” I say for him.

“Yes. I thought we’d be together.” He shrugs. “Not my time, I guess.”

He’s waiting. He’s still waiting. He’s given up everything for me. His entire life. His future. Everything, because he wants to keep me safe. Because he believes, in his heart, that he’s my purpose and I’m his.

“For the record, it was on my own.” He tucks the dish towel into the handle of the refrigerator, then steps closer to me. “I wanted to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Me. Not because of some vision I saw. Because of you. Because of what I feel.”

The words hang between us for a second, and then he leans in, strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, and kisses me, gently, without pressure. He keeps his lips against mine for a long moment, brushing softly. Heat rises between us. Time slows. I see the future he imagines: always together, always there for each other. We are partners. Best friends. Lovers. We travel the world together. We build a life with each other, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. We raise Web as our own, and if trouble comes knocking, we face it. Together.

We belong together.

He pulls away. His eyes search mine, the flecks of gold like sparks, asking me a question.

“I …,” I start, but I have no idea how I’m going to answer. I want to say yes, but something’s stopping me.

My cell phone starts to ring.

He sighs. “Answer it,” he says. “Go on.”

I answer the phone.

“All right, kid,” Billy says, not even bothering with a greeting. “It’s time to come in. Can you be in the meadow by Friday night?”

I look at Christian. Should we go back to Wyoming? It’s safe here, where nobody knows where to find us. Web’s safe here. We could stay.

“Sure, why not?” he says, too lightly. “What have we got to lose?”

So much, I think then. There is still so very much to lose.

16

CLARA LUX IN OBSCURO

As far as I can tell, every single member of the congregation is gathered around the campfire by the time we arrive in the meadow on Friday night, and when we step into the circle, me cradling Web in my arms, everyone goes quiet.

I’ve never seen so many worried faces.

“Well,” says Stephen, after a minute. Apparently he’s the master of ceremonies at tonight’s event. “Have a seat, both of you.”

Great. No small talk, no good to see you in one piece—straight to the interrogation.

People scoot to make room for us at the front of the circle, and we hunker down in the grass. I pull the blanket more tightly around Web, like that will shield him from all the curious stares he’s getting. He reaches a tiny hand out in the direction of the fire, his golden eyes reflecting the light.

“Before we open this up for discussion,” Corbett Phibbs says, stepping forward, “we’d like to hear what happened, in your own words. That way we’ll all be sure to understand.”

I let Christian tell it. I struggle to keep my face passive as I listen to him relate the events without embellishment, the way we talked about on the drive over, without getting too much into the gritty details. Christian keeps it simple: We showed up. Asael wanted Angela’s baby. He told one of his minions to kill Anna Zerbino, then left, taking Angela, leaving the others to burn the place. We found where Angela had hidden Web, fought our way out of the Garter, and fled. The bare bones of what happened.

After that the congregation peppers us with some questions Christian doesn’t know how to answer. “How did Asael know about the baby?” and “How did Angela know to hide the baby before the Black Wings arrived?” and, finally, “How did you fight them off?”

“With a glory sword,” Christian replies, which makes them collectively gasp. I guess how to wield a glory sword isn’t common knowledge among them. “My uncle taught me.”

The first of the lies we plan to tell tonight.

It sucks not being wholly honest with the congregation, but if there’s anything that Christian and I have had ingrained in us by our parents, it’s that we should never admit to being Triplare. Not to anyone. We don’t even want to let on that we know the Triplare exist. That’s why Corbett asked us to tell our story this way, so we can spin it the way we need to, without revealing ourselves, or Web. Only Corbett and Billy know the truth.

“So the girl’s body they found in the Garter isn’t Angela,” someone confirms. I locate the source of the voice: Julia. The voice of dissent every time we had a meeting last year. Not my favorite person.

“No. Asael took Angela,” Christian answers.

“Why? What would he want with her?” Stephen asks.

“She’s his daughter,” Christian says. “At least, that’s the way he was talking. Like he’d been keeping tabs on her.”