Page 79 of Light

That our children can dream about.

The phrase feels so right in my head and more so in my heart. And it feels damn good to acknowledge them there, as the truth of my spirit and not just noble phrases spoken to Reece just because of the swoony feels he gave me yesterday afternoon. Okay, so maybe they were a little more than swoony at the time—but the swoon factor was definitely an ongoing theme for the evening, when we borrowed our “Steven and Sophie” getups to venture out with the kids for a few hours at Two-Bit Circus, followed by ramen at Daikokuya and dessert at Honeymee.

Ohhh, yes. Swoons were certainly this mom’s mood of choice while watching “Steve” go a few rounds of virtual tank battles with Lux, followed by midway games with the girls. More of the same as he slurped noodles at dinner, pretending to “accidentally” hit himself in the face with them in the name of distracting Mis and Ira from their trepidation at the bustling Little Tokyo traffic. The final match to my killed-by-swoons fever was his walk through the Village Plaza with both girls hoisted on his shoulders, protecting them from the “lava rock” bricks lining the plaza’s pretty pathways. Even Lux got into the act, pretending to be a marauding dragon with little “flights” aided by his unique new power, until one too many onlookers wondered if they were looking at reality or a product of their sake-soaked brains. Fortunately, it was easy to distract my son with a Yuzu Affogato, which he downed in roughly five and a half bites, before asking for extra corn flakes in his cup.

Needless to say, I spent part of the last two hours messaging Anya about stocking up on cornflakes at the ridge.

The ridge.

I exhale in contentment with just the thought of finally returning home. Our real home. Our little three-day stay in the city, first for simply hosting ’Dia and Sayer’s engagement party, became a week-long roller coaster of life-changing events. As of this morning, the Source is officially erased from the planet and the roll call of our family has grown by two special names. Two amazing little girls. Two spirits I can’t imagine our lives being without, even now.

Two special people who fill the penthouse with their sleepy giggles and voices…

Before appearing together in the doorway to the office. And making my morning even brighter with the joy beneath their impish smiles.

“Well hello, you two.” I set my coffee on the corner of the desk while crouching to their level and opening my arms. “And good morning!”

My bid for hugs is unsuccessful. Though they both scoot a little closer, their steps are timid and soft. I hide my slight letdown. It’s only the start of their fourth day in the real world—which they still don’t really understand as the real world. Hugs will come once their trust does. I have to be grateful for the little things, such as the fact that last night passed nightmare-free. Damn good thing too, since by the time we got home from our outing, Mama Richards was looking at Papa Richards with something far more than the swoons. The I-gotta-jump-yous had gotten their turn for attention after all.

“You girls hungry?” It’s much safer than asking how they slept and earns me an instant pair of eager nods.

“Pop Tarts,” Mis declares at once.

“Cornflakes,” Ira chimes in—and barely flinches when I send her a quizzical look. More progress. A couple of days ago, even a show of mild curiosity would spark the girl’s open panic. Slowly but surely, they’re both realizing that even if I fully scowl, that won’t equal their instant punishment. Though the girl’s shoulders hunch in a little, still programmed by her lifetime of degradation and shame, she makes a clear effort to roll them back and then jog up her head. “Cornflakes,” she repeats with bold ferocity, and I seriously crave to hug her again. “Like Luxie.” And even more now.

“Well, okay,” I chirp, adding in a cute little dance. “Cornflakes it is.” And then make up a little cornflakes song—kind of a Pasek and Paul-meets-classic Madonna thing—to go with my dorky moves. But their fairylike laughs are all I need for encouragement, along with the fact that I’ve somehow rhymed “best cereal” with “stellar material” to keep up the schtick all the way out into the hall.

Where the twins have definitely not followed me.

I rush back into the office, most likely overreacting, but I can’t help being freaked that they might be the same. The distant booms, courtesy of the demolition teams that are turning the Source into a solid maze of destruction, have continued for the better part of an hour. Most of the city assumes the muffled noise is Water and Power Department servicing issues, but a few of us know the difference, and I’m damn sure that legion includes Ira and Mis. Oh, damn. Are they affected by the destruction? Are parts of their hearts mourning for the only place they’ve ever known as home, despite Faline’s sick and twisted version of the word? Or are they afraid we’re preparing to shove them back down into that darkness, even after wrecking it all?

I hit the entrance to the office at damn near full sprint.

And then hit my full stop lever, my feet chirping on the wood floor from the abruptness.

The silence I sensed from the girls is just as palpable now.

Except they’re not using it to dissolve into tears.

They’re strolling along the side of the room that overlooks the desk. More specifically, they’re peering at the knickknacks and framed photos arranged on the built-in shelves along that wall.

My heart aches, watching them study the images of memories great and small for Reece and me. A snap of us kissing on the beach, with the sunset in the background. Another picture of Reece and the whole Team Bolt crew before they even called themselves that. To the right in the shot, Kane is cuddling Mitch from behind, his rugged face taking up a good chunk of Mitch’s shoulder. There are a few fun pictures of Lydia in her slick advertising shots for tennis rackets and athletic shoes and another one of us in formal gowns for one of her awards ceremonies. Concurrently, there’s a long set of shots featuring Reece and his siblings: one big oval with the three handsome Richards dudes together, grouped with small circles containing solo shots. It’s one of my favorite pieces because the guys are all in stunning bespoke suits and ties—from the waist up. But since the shoot was a Mother’s Day surprise for Trixie, they mixed things up with wild Hawaiian shorts on the bottoms.

A smile warms my lips when I observe Mis and Ira taking a liking to the shots too—though it wavers when watching their interest turn into obsessed stares and then perplexed glances at each other. By the time they pivot around to fix me with the same puzzled looks, I’m back to crunching a full bewildered frown at them both.

“Girls?” I query, taking care to keep my steps soft and my voice considerate. “What is it? Is there something troubling—”

“Father.”

I’m not surprised when it’s Ira issuing the interruption. Despite Mis busting out of her comfort zone for the Pop Tarts request, Ira’s usually the one who speaks for both of them, especially when it’s a matter seemingly this dire. I quickly nod her way, though include Miseria in my regard as well. “Yes,” I ensure. “That’s right. Father is in there. Right there.” My stomach knots in a strange way as I tap at Reece’s solo photo. I should consider it a good thing that they recognize the ties, but I feel a little like the new stepmother, wondering what kind of trash the ex-wife has already been spilling about my husband. And probably me.

“No.”

Ira’s declaration jerks my focus back up at her. “No?” I shake my head and lower my brows, attempting to convey my confusion. “No what, sweetie?”

“No Father.”

“Huh?” I demand.