Page 135 of Tracking Snow

No answer.

I limp across the lawn until I’m standing in front of Mother. She doesn’t look up from pouring her coffee, though she knows we’re here. She doesn’t ask about why my hoodie is soaked in blood, why we look like death.

The men who shot me left me there on her orders. I wonder if they know about my connection to her, or if they just view me as a separate mercenary she hired. One expected to fend for himself. Not the son of Queenie Fairchild.

"Well, my morning has been a nightmare so far," she starts, her lips thin and tight. "Please tell me at least that dream walker has gone to visit Judge Trainor." She picks up her tea and holds it without drinking. "I need him to sign the temporary closure order for Poison Apple as soon as possible."

"Yes, Mother. He visited the judge last night."

Though she hasn’t invited me to sit, I take the chair across from her. The cold iron bites into my thighs despite my trousers. Somewhere behind the house a sprinkler ticks through its arc.

Her words slide in one ear and out the other without being taken in as we stare down at the plate of neatly arranged pastries.

We wonder what she would do if we reached forward and took the jelly donut. If we took a big bite, exploding powdered sugar everywhere, as if we belonged at this table. Before Snow, we never noticed all these lines and boundaries that we could cross if we wanted to.

It’s just there. I could just take it. I could just act like I belong. Like nothing is wrong with me.

"Are you even listening to me, The Seven?" Her cup clicks down onto the saucer. I straighten, putting all my attention back on her. It’s only then she looks up, her lips twisting with disgust. "You are in quite a state."

It’s not a question. It’s an implicit command to do better than I am because she is inconvenienced by what I am.

"Yes, Mother. I’m listening."

The Seven. It’s what she calls us. Not by our given name, and not by our individualized numbers.

Snow always knows exactly which part of me she is talking to and gives each of us special individual treatment. She matches our energy no matter who we are. I've come to realize it's a luxury I never want to lose. Even her friends and co-workers seem to do the same. In that moment of betrayal, Ariel still knew it was Six before her.

Pain burrows into me, and it feels as though I’ve been shot all over again.

We’re doing the right thing, I tell all of us.

But it feels wrong. Snow said it. A recording on a broken record, someone put the words in our mouth. We all feel like a puppet. And for the first time, we are aware of our own limbs and the strength we have in them. It’s weak, atrophied, but there.

"How many times must I tell you to call me Queenie?" She exhales through her nose and smooths the napkin across her lap in one pass.

"You said that only matters in public," I say quietly. Not that I ever talk to her in front of other people. It's not necessary when I live across town and keep out of sight.

Mother...Queenie pinches the bridge of her nose. Something pinches under my sternum. The gesture is exactly how I do it. Such a familial resemblance, and yet we aren't even allowed to call her Mother.

"Yes...well…" She trails off.

She doesn't have a good answer for the correction. I've never noticed that before. I've always found her word to be good enough, but now I'm on edge, wanting her to give me more. I've been spoiled by attention and explanations. From Snow.

"On top of that," Queenie continues, "two weeks after I’ve announced it, and suddenly the mayor can't be photographed at our rally with so many radicals present. I reminded him that these are not radicals, they are supporters of the cause. Of course I don't always agree with their methods. God knows they went through that phase of setting houses on fire all those years ago to get rid of the unwanted element, but I assured the mayor..."

A roar kicks up in our ears. Her mouth keeps moving, the sprinkler keeps ticking, and I can no longer match the sounds to each other.

"House fires?" I ask. Why does that ring a bell?

Because it’s how Snow’s parents died, Three offers without pause. In a fire.

She waves a hand. "Oh yes. I mean, it was only because our city started to get overrun with magic-kind, rather like now," she muses, before snapping back into her podium voice. "We needed to be drastic in our cleansing, but that was just a vulgar way of doing it."

"When was that?" I ask Queenie. "Did they accidentally hurt normal humans?"

"A couple of decades ago," she says. "And of course not, they only went after magic-kind." The cup pauses an inch above the saucer. Then it completes its trip down. "Why are you asking me all these questions? This is beside the point."

Despite all the burning and throbbing in my stomach and arm, a more painful stabbing sensation builds in my stomach. What if they were responsible for Snow’s parents’ death? The timeline fits.