Page 63 of Threads That Bind Us

I step out into the hot summer afternoon, trying to find a relatively secluded area before picking up the call.

“Pa,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level.

“She’s coming home.” His voice is shaking, filled with raw relief. All the dread I was feeling disappears in an instant. “The physicians say she can come home. She’s healed enough, and she’s even started talking. She can come home.”

I slump against the window of the flower shop I’m in front of, scrubbing my eyes.She’s okay. She’s alive. She can come home.

“She’s coming home,” I repeat, though I don’t know if it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “You called Clara?”

“Yes, and Gia and Alessia,” he replies on a sob.

It takes him a moment to collect himself, and I’m thankful for it, because the relief I feel is overwhelming. The guilt, too, though I try to swallow that down.

“Okay, yes. My god, she’s okay.” I clear my throat, near tears for the second time today.

A bell rings softly, and when I look up, Gwen appears in the doorway to the cafe. She whips her head around, and when she spots me, she looks scared.

I genuinely smile at her this time, the tears I’ve been holding back finally falling. She moves through the crowd of afternoon shoppers, pushing her way through until I’m able to grab her around the waist and pull her to my side.

“She wants you here, Carlo,” my father says on the other end of the line, his voice cracking. “She’s asking for all of you—the entire council.”

I think Gwen can hear him through the receiver, but shedoesn’t ask questions, just wraps herself tighter around me. And I realize I want her here, that her presence makes the relief sweeter.

“Tell me when, and I’ll be there,” I say, leaning my head back against the window and staring at the sky.

“You should bring her.” He says it quietly, not a command but a request, an offer. “Guinevere. If she is really going to be your wife. She should come, too.”

I look down at Gwen, still clearly concerned for me, but no longer afraid. She nods. She doesn’t even completely know what’s being asked of her, but I can see the trust in her eyes.

“When?” I ask, pressing my lips to Gwen’s forehead.

“Be here by next Saturday.”

Chapter 22

Gwen

Dusk is settling in the sky, muted pinks and oranges fading quickly into blues and purples, color dancing along across the dashboard as we inch down the highway toward Dullas. I lean against the window, tilting my face into the fading warmth.

Charlie’s quiet as he drives, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. The past week has been a strange combination of stress and elation. We’ve spent most nights with his head in my lap on the couch, where he tells me about his mom—about her attack, but also just abouther. Stories of her when he was young and learning, picking up on her mannerisms and watching her analyze everything around her. Of how she commanded respect, how everyone trusted and feared her in equal spades.

I’ve felt nauseous with nerves all week, and even though I’ve tried not to be obvious about it, I think he knows. It means something that I’m coming with him, meeting the rest of his family, the council. Emily texted me a few times, giving me insight into the cousins and aunts, reminding me to listen morethan I speak, which shouldn’t be a problem, because I have no idea what I would say.

Honestly, I’m anxious about the flight itself. I’ve never been overseas, and the idea of getting on a plane that’s crossing an ocean is mildly horrifying. I would be more worried about being so far separated from Ana, but she’s absolutely thrilled to be spending the first weekend of summer vacation at her best friend’s.

“Are you thinking about the flight?” Charlie asks, clearly trying to rein in a laugh.

I shoot a glare at him.

“How could you tell?”

“You’re clawing at your arms again,” he says, and I realize he’s right. Such a shitty nervous habit.

“I don’t love flying, but I especially don’t love the idea of falling out of the sky only to crash and drown and for our bodies to never be discovered,” I say, slightly incredulous that he’s so comfortable with the concept. I suppose if you’ve flown hundreds of times in your life, you get used to it.

“You didn’t take many flights as a kid?” he asks, taking my hand in his.

“We took trains mostly. Or drove,” I admit, feeling a little splinter in my chest, a bittersweet memory finding its way to the surface of my mind. “I love road trips.”