“Miss Noavek,” his mom said. There was a little catch in her throat. She tilted her head to see the silverskin on Cyra’s neck.
“Oracle,” Cyra said, inclining her head. He’d never seen Cyra bow to anyone like she meant it before.
One of the shadows bloomed over Cyra’s cheek and then spread into three lines of inky dark that ran down her throat like a swallow. He set his fingers on her elbow so she could shake his mother’s hand when she offered it, and his mom watched the light touch with interest.
“Mom, Cyra made sure I got home last week,” he said. He wasn’t sure what else to say about her. Or what else to say, period. The blush that had chased him through childhood came creeping back; he felt it behind his ears, and tried to stifle it. “At great cost to herself, as you can see.”
His mom looked Cyra over again. “Thank you, Miss Noavek, for what you’ve done for my son. I look forward, later, to finding out why.”
With a strange smile, Sifa turned away, linking arms with Cisi. Cyra hung back with Akos, eyebrows raised.
“That’s my mother,” he said.
“I realize that,” she said. “You’re . . .” She brushed her fingers over the back of his ear, where his skin was heating. “You’re blushing.”
So much for trying to stifle it. The heat spread to Akos’s face, and he was sure he was bright red. Shouldn’t he have grown out of this by now?
“You don’t know how to explain me. You only flush when you don’t know what words to use, I’ve noticed,” she said, her finger moving down to his jaw. “It’s all right. I wouldn’t know how to explain me to your mother, either.”
He didn’t know what he’d expected. Teasing, maybe? Cyra wasn’t above teasing him, but she seemed to know, somehow, that this was off-limits. The simple, quiet understanding softened his insides. He covered her hand. Hooked his finger around hers, so they were linked.
“Maybe now isn’t the time to tell you that I’m probably not going to be any good at charming her,” she said.
“So don’t be charming,” he said. “She certainly isn’t.”
“Careful. You don’t know how not-charming I can be.” Cyra brought their joined fingers to her mouth, and bit down, lightly.
Akos settled into a place at the metal table next to Sifa. If there was a Hessa uniform, she was wearing it: her pants were a sturdy material, probably lined with something to keep her warm, and her boots had small hooks in the soles to grip ice. Her hair was tied back with red ribbon. Cisi’s, he was sure. There were new lines in her forehead, and around her eyes, like the seasons had taken something from her. And of course, they had.
All around them the renegades sat, passing bowls of food and empty plates and utensils. Across from them were Teka, with a floral-patterned eye patch this time, Jorek, his curly hair damp from a bath, and Jyo, with his lap instrument on its head, his chin resting on top of it.
“Food first,” Sifa said, when she realized the renegades were waiting for her. “Prophecy later.”
“Of course,” Jorek said with a smile. “Akos, I wonder if you can make us all some tea to loosen us up a little?”
As predicted. Akos didn’t even bother to act annoyed at being given a job when his mom had just burst through the ceiling in a Thuvhesit floater. He wanted something to do with his hands.
“I can.”
He filled the water kettle and hung it from a hook in the little stove, then stood at the other end of the patchwork of tables, mixing tea blends for as many mugs as he could find. Most were the standard inhibition-releasing formulas, meant to raise spirits and ease conversation. But he made a painkiller for Cyra, and something calming for himself. As he stood with his fingers in the iceflower bowls, he heard his mom and Cyra talking.
“My son was eager for me to meet you, I could tell,” his mom said. “You must be a good friend.”
“Um . . . yes,” Cyra said. “I think so, yes.”
You think so, Akos thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d given her clear enough labels, back in the stairwell, but she still couldn’t quite believe it. That was the problem with being so convinced of your own awfulness—you thought other people were lying when they didn’t agree with you.
“I have heard that you have a talent for death,” his mom said. At least Akos had warned Cyra about Sifa’s lack of charm.
He glanced at Cyra. She held her armored wrist against her gut.
“I suppose I do,” she said. “But I don’t have a passion for it.”
Vapor slipped from the nose of the water kettle, not yet thick enough for Akos to pour. Water had never boiled so slowly.
“You two have spent a lot of time together,” his mom said.
“Yes.”
“Are you to blame for his survival these past few seasons?”
“No,” Cyra said. “Your son survives because of his own will.”
His mom smiled. “You sound defensive.”
“I don’t take credit for other people’s strength,” Cyra said. “Only my own.”
His mom’s smile got even bigger. “And a little cocky.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
The vapor was thick enough. Akos grabbed the hook with the wooden handle that hung next to the stove, and attached it to the kettle. It caught, and locked in place as he poured water in each of the mugs. Isae came forward for one, standing on tiptoe so she could whisper in his ear.