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As we ate, I admitted to the table, “I always feel obligated to give the pilgrims a show after they ride all the way here.”

I supposed we should be happy that so many people revered the players. It made it easy to say things like Arcana have forever outlawed cannibalism!

If only our decrees worked on everyone. The tales trickling out of the Eastern Seaboard north of Port Edwin were harrowing. Unfortunately, in this New Dawn era, gangs, militias, and cannibals still reared their ugly heads.

Though we enjoyed unlimited natural resources, I believed our society felt the lack of women. Jack had once said we were a civilizing influence. I couldn’t argue with that.

Here, he was the de facto sheriff and mayor, keeping order and even setting up a postal service with Circe. He and his Potentials allies were putting plans into action to govern and unite large swaths of territories.

Jack slanted me a look. “No more dog and pony shows for the tourists, bébé. It’s not worth it.”

Tell me about it. Over the last few years whenever I used my plant abilities, I’d begun to feel the pain of old injuries.

My bicep amputation. The Alchemist’s acid splashed across my skin. Bagmen bites. Zara’s three bullets to my heart. Richter’s scalding palms around my neck.

We didn’t know why. So I’d trained myself not to use my powers. Well, all but the involuntary one. I’d worried my regeneration would keep me eternally young-looking, but it seemed to be aging me. I finally appeared to be in my late twenties. On my last pregnancy, I’d retained my duly earned stretch marks.

Like me, Circe and Sol aged and even sickened when using their gifts. Her take: “We are human, imbued with inhuman power, and we were never meant to be on this earth for so long.”

Unlike me, she and Sol hadn’t stopped using them. He continued putting on the world’s greatest light show for his followers, and she orchestrated the tides of her great port.

I told Jack, “Agreed. No more shows from me.”

He nodded, relieved. “I say we build a museum for them. You’ve been wanting to set the record straight on some things. That would help.”

Some people said I’d been hunted by the Hierophant’s cannibals because I’d been one. Others speculated I’d killed Lark. We still didn’t know how my cherished friend had passed, but I didn’t want people to believe I’d had anything to do with it. “Sounds like a plan.”

Tee rubbed his hands together with anticipation. “Let’s do it!” He turned to Clo and Kent. “You two in?”

“When am I ever not?” Clo snorted, flipping her jet-black hair off one shoulder. At fourteen, she was all glorious attitude. “A good thing too. One day you boys might be able to swing a hammer like me.”

“I can do the drafts!” Kent’s voice broke, my sweet twelve-year-old in that awkward preteen stage. “Maybe the pilgrims have paper to trade?” He’d inherited my ability to draw and loved to do architectural renderings, but paper was in short supply. His sketchbook was often a clay tablet.

Jack smiled with satisfaction. “Ouais. After dinner, we’ll start planning the build.”

I could see the scene now: Jack with his tool belt (mrowr!), our three oldest with their hammers, and our youngest pair wading in and out of the cane to set up various pranks. . . .

Bliss.

After we’d eaten, Clo stood and announced, “I’m going to go greet the newcomers.”

I arched a brow. “And flirt?” She was worse than my best friend Mel had ever been.

Jack said, “Bring a friend and the bow, ma cher.”

Clo stuck out her tongue at us and sashayed from the kitchen. But she did take her crossbow. Like her namesake, she was a crack shot.

All five of our kids were. Jack trained them constantly.

Kent hurried from his chair. “I’m going too. Be back before dinner.” All long legs, he scrambled after his big sister.

When Tee, Jack, and I remained, I caught Jack’s eye. “So about that thing . . . on Tee’s birthday.” It was time for him to read Aric’s chronicles and last letter, a loving missive filled with fatherly advice.

In another few years, I might give Tee my own chronicles—though I would probably snatch back the book before he’d made it through the first line: “What followeth is the trew and sworne chronikles of Our Lady of Thorns . . .”

Jack looked at Tee solemnly. “Your father wanted you to read his chronicles when you turned sixteen. Your mother and I think you’re ready.”

Tee leaned back in his chair, eyes lively. “I already read them. Like two years ago.”

My lips parted with surprise. “Okay. Um, do you want to . . . should we discuss them?”

He shrugged. Such a teenager. “It wasn’t as big a shock as I thought it would be. You guys talk about him a lot, so I feel like I know him.”