October 28, 2013 by Lyn
Ceinwen had spent her first week home just sort of staring at her mother.
And her father, of course, but mostly her mother. Her dad hadn’t said all that much about the school; her mother had talked it up for almost a year.
She had an infant son and a head full of memories, two trunks of clothing she didn’t feel right wearing anymore and a bunch of orders that weren’t orders anymore. She had an empty spot where her Thor’s-bear was, even with their owl-bear at her breast.
And she didn’t know what to do about any of it, until her mother fussed at her over dinner one night.
“Eat your food.”
It was, it turned out, both the exactly wrong thing and the exactly right thing to say. Ceinwen’s stomach turned, and she found herself channeling an anger she’d forgotten about.
“It’s not your job to tell me what to do.” She found the words somewhere deep in herself. The words weren’t ones she would have used in September, but then again, nobody was expecting her to be the same, were they?
“Right now, that’s just my Mentor’s job.”
It was as if it had opened a dam. “You weren’t surprised. I came home from my first year in that place with an infant, and you weren’t at all surprised. You were a bit… something about it.” The words failed her for a moment. “I can see the shadows in your dreams. But it’s a lot more like guilt and a lot less like god-my-daughter-has-a-baby. You knew.”
She turned to her father. “Both of you knew. Did you know about the collars? Did you know about the mind control?” Her hand went to her throat, where Thorburn’s jewelry had rested all year. “Did you know about the lies?” She caught her breath. “The magic? Did you know about the fae?”
“Yes.” It was her father who spoke, although his voice was very soft. “Yes, we knew.”