An image of Alban wrestling with Janx against a backdrop of fire flashed through her mind and Margrit curled a lip. That would have been infinitely worse. Even she’d been frightened and angry. “I would’ve told you,” she said with a sigh, pulling her thoughts back to what had actually happened instead of dwelling on more dreadful might-have-beens. “You guys are my best friends. I didn’t want to keep secrets.”
“But you did.”
“Biding time isn’t quite the same as keeping them.” Margrit brushed away the cautious suggestion. “No points for lawyering my way out, huh? Sorry.”
“It’s not that I don’t understand, Grit…”
“I know. It’s just that with things as they are, there’s no real way out. I don’t think it’s anybody’s fault.” Optimism crept into her voice, but faded before she was finished speaking. “I hope Cole can forgive me. That you both can.”
“What if he can’t?”
Margrit looked away, regret knifing through her gut and cutting into her lungs. Janx’s insistence that she hadn’t yet crossed an irrevocable line, that she could still return to the world and life she’d known, rang in her ears. “I know I’m supposed to say I’d choose my friends, Cam. That I’d choose my life. But I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Cameron pushed off the doorjamb, sorrow in her face and voice. “Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to say it out loud because you don’t want to hurt my feelings, and maybe because you’re not quite ready to make it real. But you said it the other night, didn’t you. Alban lets you fly.” She spread her hands, then let them drop as she shrugged. “If he turns out to have wings of wax, I’ll try to be there to help catch you when you fall.”
At least her headache had faded. Margrit leaned against the train window as it left the station, grateful for the few minutes of dark before it climbed up to ground level, and for the cool, fresh air that blew in from somewhere. Her mind still felt awash with static, though that, too, was less distracting than it had been. Cam’s promise, full of friendship and concern, had followed Margrit out of the apartment and still haunted her now. Cole’s anger had heavily tempered Cameron’s enthusiasm, and Margrit had few illusions as to whose side, ultimately, Cameron would stand on.
Not that she blamed her friend; she, too, was finding herself choosing sides, and leaning toward the one that inevitably cut her off from most of the world she’d known. That her old friendships might not survive cut deeply, but Cam was right: it seemed to be a sacrifice Margrit was willing to make.
As was her job. Margrit turned her wrist up to glance at her watch. It was creeping past seven. If meeting with the twins went extraordinarily well, she might make it back into the city by nine. In hopes of doing so, she had dressed professionally. Even a brief appearance at work was better than nothing. Her coworkers had planned a going-away party for her that night. Margrit wondered if it would still be held if she’d failed to come into work at all for her final two days at Legal Aid. The calendar would read eight hours left, if anyone had bothered to tear off pages while she wasn’t there.
The train’s automated voice announced her stop and she got off mechanically, glad to hail a taxi and let someone else worry about getting her to the specific address. It seemed as though it had been a noticeable portion of forever since she’d last gone for a run, though careful counting told her it had only been two days. Maybe at lunch, if she had a period of time as defined as lunch that afternoon.
The cabbie pulled over at a well-kept brownstone. Margrit studied it out the window for a few seconds, as if she could learn something about the women who lived inside by doing so, then paid the driver and climbed out, hesitating at the walkway for another moment.
Not much could be deduced from their front yard: it was neatly mowed, with a scattering of just-blooming snapdragons and tiger lilies against the house, their scent carried by a brief twist of breeze. There was no evidence of children, something Margrit wouldn’t have thought of had there not been tricycles and play sets in other yards. The idea of locating not only a dragon or vampire heir, but an entire litter of grandchildren and great-grandchildren brought a smile to Margrit’s lips, and, buoyed, she opened the gate and made her way to the front door. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was still far too early to arrive unannounced on a stranger’s doorstep.
Her other choice was to stand there waiting for the hour to grow later. Margrit set her jaw and pressed the doorbell firmly, then took a step back to wait out its ring.
It opened much more quickly than she expected, revealing a snow-haired woman hobbled with age. Margrit blinked in astonishment, realizing she hadn’t asked Alban how old the twins appeared to be. She’d assumed they’d be like their Old Races parent: unaging. “Well?” the woman demanded irascibly.
Margrit pulled herself to attention, feeling a blush mount her cheeks. “Hi, sorry. My name’s Margrit Knight. I’m a friend of Alban Korund’s, and I’m looking for Kate or Ursula Hopkins…?”
“Never heard of ’em.” The woman began closing the door.
In a fit of surprised panic, Margrit slapped her palm against it, crying, “Wait!”
The woman stopped, clearly more annoyed than alarmed, and glowered at Margrit, whose blush intensified. “I’m really sorry. I might’ve gotten the names wrong, but I’m looking for two sisters who used to live here. Maybe you bought the house from them…?”
“I’ve lived here since 1962,” the woman snapped. “Now go away.”
“Oh.” Margrit fell back another step, confusion and concern bubbling within her. “I’m really sorry. I must’ve been given the wrong address.” She looked at her watch a third time, as though the hour might deny the already-risen sun. There would be no calling Alban for an explanation until nightfall. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Thanks for the information.” Bewildered, she retraced her steps to the sidewalk and found herself looking both ways, as though a clue might lie within sight. The old woman closed the door with a resounding click, making Margrit jump.
Bad enough that the twins weren’t there. Worse, this was a residential neighborhood, one taxis didn’t run through every few minutes as a matter of course. Margrit sighed, wishing she’d worn shoes more meant for walking, and pulled her cell phone out as she struck back the way she’d come. At least if she called a cab and was picked up, she could make it to work on time.
An auburn-haired young woman in a bathrobe came out of the house at the end of the row to retrieve a newspaper. Margrit nodded a hello and shook her phone, as if doing so would cause someone to pick up. “Come on, c’mon, why aren’t you answering?”
The woman’s voice followed her in response: “Sometimes we don’t want everything answered.”
Margrit twisted around in surprise to see the woman’s smile as she added, “Never could resist a rhetorical question.”
“You may as well come in,” she continued. “Crank your jaw up first. Wouldn’t want you to trip on it.”
Margrit snapped her mouth shut and said, “Never mind” as the cab company finally answered. She hung up, still staring at the woman. “I saw you a couple days ago in the city.”
“Yesterday, actually. Yesterday afternoon.”
“Is that all?” Margrit thought back, realized the woman was right, and shook herself. She was losing time badly enough to wonder how the Old Races, effectively immortal, dealt with the slip of one day into another. It seemed possible that the woman standing before her might be able to answer that question, but another one surfaced first: “Were you looking for me?”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Should I have been?”
“No.” Margrit pressed a hand to her forehead, then let it fall. “No, it’s just that it never rains but it pours, so in retrospect I thought you might be. You are Kate or Ursula Hopkins, right?”