It was at the cave of Thundercliff—now so familiar to us both, just about three months after the site of our first introduction, fated or not—that Theon deflated and his scales receded over his skin, allowing him the form of a man again. He dressed himself in clothes from the leather satchel, a woolen tunic and pants of some rigid, thick quality, similar to corduroy. I smiled at him. He made such a gorgeous human being.
“You don’t think the oracle will come approach us while we’re here, do you?” I asked with a hint of amusement to my voice. “Maybe remind you one last time of all the riches you’re sidestepping by rejecting Michelle Ballinger?”
“Oh, but she has approached us, darling,” Theon said, sidling up to me and grazing my cheek with a light kiss. “She’s been in my head from the moment we crossed that portal, doing exactly as you said. Moaning about how destiny has been skewed by my insolent harpoon, and luck will never walk the path of my heart again, and blah, blah, blah. Maybe you should be an oracle. You’re pretty good at divination too.” He winked and his warm palm braced my hand in his.
“Really?” I asked as he tugged me from the dry shelving of stone, onto the sand and through the rocks, toward the beach. “What is she saying to you, exactly?”
“Oh, bah,” Theon replied, smirking. “It’s really not worth repeating, my love.”
I hesitated just long enough to let the sweetness of my love for him spread through me, and then we set off across the chill stretch of beach, toward my father’s beach house. To know that he had silently withstood the oracle’s telepathic ramblings imbued me with strength in facing my parents, and we ascended the wooden staircase. We knocked at the front door. Three times. I took a deep breath and braced my fist to knock again, but it flew open and Mom was just standing there, gaping at me, her short black hair fretting in the breeze.
“Hi, Mom.” I broke the tension.
“Oh, my God!” she cried, throwing herself into my arms. I couldn’t remember a time I had seen her more emotional, even shortly before and during the divorce. That wasn’t the only surprise I was experiencing, either. Like… what was she doing still here? Didn’t she have her own practice to maintain—in DC? Wasn’t Zada going to eventually drive her insane? “Nell! You’re back!” she breathed into my neck. I felt my skin dampen where her tears fell. “What the hell happened? Are you all right?” She extracted me from her iron grip and beheld me at arm’s length, her scrutiny shrewd and maternal. “And what are you wearing?”
A blush crept into my cheeks and I cleared my throat. “It’s called a pelisse,” I explained, head nonetheless held high. “May we come in?”
Mom’s eyes panned to Theon for the first time since she’d opened the door. Her eyes were icy. She could’ve been a dragon for all the severity with which she gazed at Theon. “The man who kidnapped you,” she deduced coldly.
I shook my head and smiled, even though there was no real warmth to the expression. “He did not kidnap me,” I told her, and she hesitated, but moved for our passage.
Inside the beach house the living room was lit, and pictures of me adorned every table, every surface, as if I had died. I supposed that they had had no way of knowing whether or not I had. The decorations which were expected of Zada and Sage’s presence—posters of fairies and tie-dyed tapestries and pictures of celebrities beneath words—had disappeared from the beach house. I frowned and opened my mouth to ask Mom about this as we descended onto the couch, hardly warmer than outside, but she probably had more pressing questions on her mind.
“So,” Mom began, “where did he…” She glanced at Theon and cleared her throat, revising her question. “Where have you been? Was it the same place that Michelle went off to?”
At this, my brow furrowed. “Michelle is… talking about it?” That wasn’t like her. To tell the truth, in her mind, would be seen as weak.
“Michelle is not talking about anything yet. She refuses to conduct interviews on her disappearance, but she did hire a public relations agent who has been telling the papers that she’s writing a book about it this year.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course she was. If there was anyone who could make her gutless displays of self-service, her betrayal and subsequent rejection, into some harrowing tale of personal triumph over victimhood, it was her. Michelle Ballinger was victim and victor in one.
Theon squeezed my hand, and I glanced over at him. “Let’s not get distracted by her,” he whispered to me. “Michelle and whatever books she writes have nothing to do with us.”