Page 23 of Anomalies

“How’d it go with the Dame?” Gemma asks as we pass the Banyan, finding our way through the herd of people making their way to the Tavern.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gemma winces, “That bad?”

“I think I hate magic.” Her baby-blue eyes widen as if I offended her. “Sorry, I just don’t get it. It’s painful and overwhelming and—it just sucks.”

“It doesn’t suck; you just don’t understand it yet. It takes time.”

We ascend the wide steps of the Tavern, hand-painted rocking chairs set out along the wrap-around porch of all different shades and patterns. The smell of pancake batter and fresh coffee fills the air, funneling through the large wooden doors that are propped open.

My eyes widen when we step through the doorway. “You eat your meals here?” I ask Gemma, and she grins.

“Mhm, pretty cool, isn’t it?”

That’s one way to put it.

Large stained-glass windows line the walls, sunlight glittering through them, and down on the long wooden tables. Panes of sun rays and swirling stars, the moon and the sea, and…. the Matrons.

The three largest panes along the back wall stretch from the floor to the tall vaulted ceiling.

On the left is Aura, her Elysian Fields, a vibrant green in the foreground, while the image of her has been made of the brightest pieces of golden glass. Her long waves of nearly white hair and pearl-colored eyes are piercing as the sun pours through them from behind the pane. A halo of stars rests upon her brow, and the white robes she wears billow out around her.

In the middle is Vita—the Matron of Man. She’s depicted as usual, with two faces: one vile and one pure. One set of yellow serpentine eyes, and one set that shimmers in a liquid silver, reminding me of Delia’s robes.

Or the Captain’s eyes.

The sinister side of Vita is made of colorless glass, and her virtuous twin is made of a warm bronze, like the sun-kissed skin of a Sol. Vita is life and death, dreams and nightmares. She is a shriveled flower and a dying tree, as much as she’s the bud that blooms beside it.

The third pane sends a shiver up my spine.

Pyra—the Matron of the Damned. The keeper of rotten souls. Her planet is home to the passing spirits that Aura doesn’t claim, souls that aren’t worthy of eternity in the Elysian fields. Pyra keeps the savage minds and cold hearts. She keeps the unredeemable.

The image of her is made of glass shards in the deepest grey, blacks, and purples. Her long sheet of raven hair frames her pale skin, nothing but darkness in the sky she stands in front of.

“Don’t stare at Pyra too long or she’ll mark your soul as wicked,” Gemma taunts in my ear, and I jump.

“What a horrible thing to say.” I follow her to the back of the breakfast line, and Devon plants himself right behind me. I pretend to ignore the lingering stares, wondering if I might always be a stranger here. How does one even fit in with a community like this? One that is war-torn and bonded through a shared trauma that I didn’t experience. I’m an outsider. I might always be.

“I had to pull you out of that trance; you were embarrassing me.”

I snort, inching forward with the line. Up ahead, people pile all kinds of food onto trays: eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, pastries…my stomach rumbles like thunder.

“So, I was thinking,” Gemma starts, handing me a tray as we near the start of the line. “You should wear that navy blue set I gave you to Selumira tonight. The top never stayed up on me, but I think you’ve got enough to fill it out⁠—”

“What’s Selumira?”

“Ugh, I forget you don’t know things,” she says with a huff, piling on a hefty serving of fruit. “We celebrate it every month, on the full moon. There’s a fire, a live band, the best moonshine you’ve ever had⁠—”

“Moonshine?”

“Yup, the Hearth witches make it.”

I ponder it for a moment, picking through the bacon in search of the burnt pieces. I just don’t think I’m in the mood to celebrate anything…I still don’t feel like I deserve it. “Will the Captain be there?” I ask, and when her brow arches knowingly, I wish I hadn’t. “It’s not like that,” I assure her.

Gemma’s eyes trail back to her food, our trays nearly full. “Sometimes he goes, sometimes he doesn’t. Just depends on what kind of mood he’s in.”

Mercifully, Devon makes no attempt to eat with us. He takes both of his trays over to his coven’s table instead, sitting stoically between the Captain and his second in command, Pax. As soon as Devon sits down, Callan slides a stack of paper over to him, and his grey eyes lift to mine. He takes a long sip of his coffee, not breaking his gaze until he swallows, and the mug hits the table again.