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“Just had some business, páisde.” I laid the tray of cakes Mum had brought over this morning beside the wine at the edge of the table. Grabbing the tray of silverware, I said, “Could you help me with something?”

She nodded, opening her hands.

I passed her the tray. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, sinking her body forward. “Set one fork and one spoon in front of each plate. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Telekinetically, she pulled out a chair, set the tray on it, and grabbed a handful. “Mirobhail! Mummy said you have to help!”

That was not what I’d said, but I loved my bossy little lady.

“With what?” he asked, jogging from the corner where he’d been playing with a hand carved figurine. “Setting the table?”

“Please and thank you.” I roughed up his hair and headed toward the flowerpots beside the entrance.

A year ago, these had been in full bloom. Even if we weren’t here in the Elder’s Hall regularly for meetings, Nix and I came by with the children for basic maintenance. I handled the flowers, and he managed the insects and rodents that snuck in. The children dusted, and then we sat with a few books that lined the wall on the far left.

We’d brought them with us from our homelands. Between those pages lay stories of heroes and villains, some real, some not. We told them about the plants that didn’t grow on this mortal world, but flourished back home, showing them painting after painting, answering all their questions, keeping our cultures alive through reiterating any and everything we knew of the worlds we’d once called home.

Now, that was all there’d ever be of them.

The stories we told our children from those books were the only way Morduaine and Matriaza would live on.

A shudder rose up my spine.

I shook it off.

Now was not the time.

Today, I was celebrating the rebirth of my brother and sister in-law. Everyone had left to change and collect whatever goodie they whipped up for this, and before they came back, I wanted all my flowerpots returned to their former glory.

Kneeling, I lifted my fingers to the brittle branches. There had to have been seeds in the soil below somewhere.

Summoning water to my fingertips from the atmosphere, I funneled it to the dying twigs, watching condensation drip to the dirt below. A few ticks passed before greenery erupted from the now damp, brown soil. I smiled, watching the new growth rise from the dead, using the old to hold up the new.

There was something poetic in that, especially on a day like this.

Did I think the new growth was any better than the flowers that died here a year ago? No, not one bit. They were equally as vibrant, equally as glorious to behold.

But in their own right, they were stronger, if not only because they had those dead branches to hold them upright.

The new world we built, and were still building, would never be identical to the world I’d loved. It’d never be as night and day of a comparison as the reformation of Matriaza had been when I became its queen.

It would be like these new sprouts. It would stand stronger, higher, than the worlds before it because it was built on the support of death. Perhaps it sounded crude, but when life rises from death, it will always be stronger because it has something to hold onto, something to grow from.

“M—” A squeal.

A scream.

A gurgle.

I spun around.

Red.

Red everywhere.

Red spraying from my son’s throat.

Red puddling beneath my little girl.