“Don’t let them bother you, get you tied up in knots,” Phelan said after a moment of silence punctuated only by the sound of their boots in the snow. “They’re just a part of your existence.”
“Yeah, I accepted that piece,” Thom said quietly. He shook his head slowly and exhaled a sigh. “I don’t think I’d still be here if I hadn’t. Marin and I…” His voice trailed away as his throat tightened, tears suddenly threatening again. He forced them back, sucking in a breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted it. It’s part of my life—of our lives.” It’s going to be a part of our son’s life, too, I imagine. How could it not be?
God, what hell are we visiting on the child she’s carrying?
Phelan must have sensed his sudden discomfort because he reached out and squeezed Thom’s shoulder again. Thom just shook his head.
“I love her,” he said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”
They walked past the snow-covered Shakespeare garden, still in shambles since the camazotzi attacked months before. The garden’s former inhabitants—fae creatures that only Carolyn seemed to be able to see—had scattered, most of them taking up residence with their surviving human neighbors on the other side of the ravine bridge. Those little friends had warned them more than once of impending danger, but since the weather had turned cold, they’d stuck closer and closer to home. Thom couldn’t blame them. This winter had been harder than any he could remember.
As they crested the hill, the barrow came into sight, snow-covered and silent. Marin and J.T. stood near its edge, shoulder to shoulder, their heads tilted toward each other’s as if they were deep in conversation. The hairs on Thom’s arms and the back of his neck stirred. There were ghosts around.
There were always ghosts around, these days.
Phelan followed his gaze. “I almost hate to interrupt.”
“Me too,” Thom murmured. “But we have to. Come on.”
He jogged down the hill toward his wife and his best friend, bracing himself for the news he had to give them both.
This won’t be pleasant. Then again, these things never are.
