“Gwen,” I said, reaching for the bread basket, “this bread is delicious. Did you get it from that new Italian bakery near the train station?”
She looked at the basket in my hand as if she’d never seen such a thing before, then blinked and nodded. “Yes, I did. And the tiramisu we’re having for dessert, too.”
“Ooh, yum. I love tiramisu,” I said, so heartily I almost peeked into the demon plane to see if any stray wisps of Gluttony clung to me. But of course Gluttony wasn’t the problem.
Nick came to the rescue—or tried to. “So,” he asked Kane, “do you think the Celtics are going to make it to the playoffs this year?”
Kane is a workaholic who doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase “spare time”—he’s too busy crusading for paranormal rights. It would never occur to him to go to a basketball game or other sporting event for fun. But sports sometimes tied in to his work, and he kept up enough to discuss whatever sport was in season when he was schmoozing with influential people. Just last week he’d taken a couple of congressmen to a Celtics game, courtside seats and everything.
Kane and Nick talked about basketball for several minutes. Nick was enthusiastic, certain the Celts would go all the way this year. Kane made some informed comments, but mostly he listened to Nick, who glowed with pleasure as he reeled off statistics.
Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to have lost her appetite, pushing food around her plate. Kane kept glancing her way. He wrapped up the conversation with Nick by inviting him to a game—courtside seats again—in a couple of weeks.
Whoa. Courtside seats. My brother-in-law rated as highly as a senator. That must mean Kane . . . My commitment-shy brain dug in its heels and refused to go down that path.
Kane turned to Gwen. “Do your kids like sports? Any budding basketball stars in the family?” Smart move, bringing Gwen back into the conversation by asking about her kids. It was a topic my sister and her husband could discuss for hours.
“Not basketball.” Gwen looked up slowly. “Not yet, anyway. Nick promised Zachary he’d teach him to shoot baskets when he gets a little taller. But Zack is only six, so he’s got quite a bit of growing to do.”
“He’s a pretty good shot with that kid-sized basketball hoop we got him,” Nick pointed out.
“Oh, and you should see him when Nick lifts him up and lets him shoot at the hoop over the garage.” The image made Gwen smile. “He’s so cute when you do that.” She turned back to Kane, her face softened with pride in her kids. “Zack and Maria both play soccer, although I think Maria is going to give up soccer for ballet. She’s crazy about dance. She says she still wants to play softball this spring, though. She’s a good shortstop.”
“She’s a terrific shortstop,” Nick corrected. “You would not believe this one play she made last season . . .” He launched into a description, Gwen jumping in here and there with more details.
Kane listened, asking the right questions in the right places. Soon, the stiffness had melted from Gwen’s shoulders and she was laughing and enjoying the conversation again. Crisis averted. No wonder Kane was so good at his job. He was a master at getting people to relax and open up.
In my peripheral vision, the kitchen door cracked open and Maria peered through. I pointed at Gwen to ask whether she wanted me to get her mom’s attention, but Maria’s eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. She pointed at me, and then crooked her finger.
I stood and picked up my plate. Gwen pushed back her chair, but I put a hand on her shoulder. “You sit and talk,” I said. “I’ll clear the table. Everyone want coffee? I’ll get that started, too.”
“The tiramisu—”
“I’ll take care of it. You worked hard putting together a great dinner. I can handle dessert.”
Balancing the stack of dirty dishes, I shouldered open the swinging door into the kitchen. Maria sat at the table in her PJs. She slumped in her chair, one bare foot swinging back and forth.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” She glanced at me, then examined her hands.
“So what did you want to talk about?”
She shrugged and chewed at a thumbnail.
Okay. Maybe she didn’t know how to broach the topic, whatever it was. I’d let her get to it in her own time. I slid the plates onto Gwen’s spotless counter. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“But . . .” A faint smile curled her lips, then faded away. “I couldn’t sleep.” She murmured her next words so softly I almost missed them. “I’m scared to.”
I turned on the water at the sink. “How about you rinse, and I’ll load the dishwasher?”
“Okay.” She got up and padded over to where I stood. Her small feet looked cold on the tile floor, so I moved over to make room on the rug in front of the sink. We worked for a minute or two in silence, Maria squinting at each plate with concentration.
“Bad dreams, huh?” I asked.
She gave half a nod, then shook her head. “Not bad. Some of them are good. But they’re weird.”
Now we were getting to it. “Weird how?”
“It’s like I’m not me anymore.” Worry clouded her face as she handed me a plate. “Mom said I should tell her if I have dreams like that.”
“Have you? Told her, I mean.”
Her wet hand gripped my wrist. “What will she do if she finds out?”
I curled my fingers around hers and gave a little squeeze. “It’ll be okay, sweetie. I promise.” I picked up a dish towel and dried both our hands. She nodded, but doubt furrowed her forehead.
“Dishwasher loaded,” I announced. “How about some hot chocolate? That helps me sleep sometimes.”
“Okay.” Maria sat down again at the table.
I put two mugs of milk into the microwave. As they heated, I got the coffeemaker started.
“You look weird in a dress,” Maria observed.
Yeah, I could agree with that. Felt weird, too, not to be in my usual jeans. “That’s because I don’t have cool pajamas like yours.”
Maria looked down at her pajamas, blue flannel covered with yellow peace signs, and grinned. “Mom would freak if you wore pajamas to a dinner party.”
“You’re right, she would. But at least I’d be comfortable.”
Maria laughed. I stirred in the cocoa and carried the two mugs to the table. She took hers in both hands and sipped, then sipped again. She put down the mug and wiped off a cocoa mustache with the back of her hand.
“So tell me about these dreams of yours,” I said.
Maria drank more cocoa. “They start off normal—you know, just dreams. But then they change.” She wriggled in her chair, sitting up straighter. “Like, I had this one where I was walking down the hall at school, except all of a sudden I realized I was underwater, swimming. It scared me because I thought I’d drown. I kept thinking, ‘I need air. I need to breathe.’ But then I realized I was breathing. I could breathe the water.” Her eyes went wide with amazement as she remembered how that felt. “After that, it got fun. Except I was worried I couldn’t open my locker because I didn’t have any hands. Just fins. And then I laughed at myself because I thought, ‘Silly. Why would a fish need a locker?’ The laughing made lots of bubbles.” Amusement lit her eyes but dimmed at once to worry. “Do you have dreams like that?”
“Sure. When I was your age, I had them all the time. Swimming, running—but on four legs, right?—burrowing, flying . . .”
Maria leaned toward me. “Flying dreams are the best. It’s like, suddenly I’m up the air and I’m flying. And then somehow I realize I always could; I just didn’t know it before. It’s great. I can go anywhere I want. And part of me thinks, ‘Why do I even bother to walk?’”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s like—”
The kitchen door swung open. “How’s that coffee coming?” Gwen stopped and stared at the two of us. From the heat that rose in my cheeks—and from the way Gwen watched us through narrowed eyes like we were conspirators plotting an assassination—I knew we looked way guiltier than a girl and her aunt sharing some cocoa.
“What are you doing up, young lady?” Gwen asked Maria.
“Um, I . . .” Maria’s round eyes implored me for help.
“She came downstairs for hot chocolate,” I said. “It sounded like a good idea, so I made us each a mug. She helped me load the dishwasher, too.”
“Well, you get back to bed now, Maria. I’ll be up in a few minutes to tuck you in. Again.”
“Okay. Night, Mom. Night, Aunt Vicky.” Maria gave Gwen and then me a peck on the cheek. She fled up the back stairs.
I put the empty mugs in the dishwasher and got a carton of half-and-half from the fridge.
“So, what were you two talking about?” Gwen took the half-and-half and poured it into a cream pitcher, which she set on a tray. The tension was back in her shoulders, and her hand shook. That was Gwen. When upset, make things even more perfect.
“Oh, you know . . .” I so didn’t want to get between my sister and her daughter on this issue. Maria should confide in Gwen about the dreams, yes. But not until she felt ready.
“She’s having dreams, isn’t she? Preshifting dreams.”
“They’re just dreams, Gwen. She said she had a couple of odd dreams lately—flying, swimming, stuff like that. Norms get those, too. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“But it might.” Gwen’s biggest fear was that her daughter would become a shapeshifter. That was a big part of why she’d married a norm; she’d hoped human DNA would make her children something other than Cerddorion, something closer to “normal.” But as Maria grew, so did Gwen’s fears. It didn’t help matters that a crazy scientist with an ambition to map the shapeshifter genome had tried last fall to kidnap Maria and use her as a lab animal. I’d brought Maria home, but Gwen’s protective instincts had kicked into overdrive. Yet she couldn’t protect Maria from herself. She couldn’t shield the girl from her own nature—whatever that turned out to be.