Night Three
Effie hears the latch click and her body moves before her brain does. Up from the chair, across the room.
Calliope Charm steps inside, brushing twigs from her coat, cheeks pink with cold. She looks freshly eleven, all elbows and logic and sharp opinions.
“Hi, Mama,” she says casually, kicking off her boots.
Effie can’t find her voice.
“I told you I was going to Finn's,” Callie continues, voice patient, like she’s repeating something for the third time.
Effie stands frozen in the hallway. Her hands are cold. Her throat hurts.
The kid frowns. “It’s not even that late.”
It is late. The moon is high, the fire in the fireplace long burned down. Effie had waited at the window, then by the door, then in the parlor with her nails pressed into her palms, trying not to imagine things she couldn’t unthink.
She’d lit every lamp in the house.
“I lost track of time,” Callie mutters. “Sorry.”
Effie exhales shakily. “You didn't tell me before you left.”
“I had already --”
“You didn’t leave a note.”
“I said this morning--”
“That was this morning, Calliope.” Effie’s voice is sharper than she meant. She sees her daughter’s shoulders tense. “If plans change, I need to know.”
“I didn’t change them!”
Callie’s tone cuts. Wounded, defensive. Her eyes flash, not with guilt, but with the confusion of someone being scolded for something that doesn’t feel wrong.
Effie closes her eyes. Her fingernails press crescents into her palms.
“I was with Finn and his cousins. We just sat in the barn and watched the stars come out. I didn’t do anything bad.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then why are you...?”
“You were gone,” Effie snaps, then bites it back. “And I didn’t know where you were.”
Callie stares at her. “But I came back.”
Effie doesn’t answer.
“I always do.”
Effie walks past her to the kitchen, turns on the kettle, cups her hands around the sink as the water runs. Anything to busy her fingers. Anything to hide the shaking.
Callie follows, arms crossed now, unsure. “You always get like this.”
Effie doesn’t look at her.
“I’m not a baby anymore, Mama.”
No. No, she isn’t.
She’s taller. Quieter. She says things like ‘I’m not a baby anymore’ and brushes her own hair before school and puts honey in her tea instead of sugar. And Effie doesn’t know when that started, but it’s happening faster than she can hold onto.
Callie leans against the counter, watching her. It's such a Haymitch thing to do, and it always crushed Effie’s heart a bit, how much she acts like him. “You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Then what are you?”
Effie doesn’t answer.
She takes the kettle off the flame before it whistles and pours them both cups. Lavender tea. She hands one to Calliope without a word, and Callie takes it, still frowning.
They sit in the kitchen, steam curling between them. The silence is heavy. Not angry... Just filled with everything Effie won’t say.
Callie glances up.
“I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Effie nods.
“But I don’t get it. You know I’m okay.”
Effie looks down at her tea.
“Why do you act like I’m not?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because how can she say it? How can she say it's because once she used to trace the names of dead children on news-sheets like they were ghosts? Because there are still nights she wakes up sweating, thinking someone has taken her kid, her baby? Because her quietness reminds Effie of cells? Because her freedom is something Effie doesn't know how to hold without breaking?
Instead, she says nothing.
Callie watches her for a moment longer, then sighs and goes to bed, a little slower than usual. She doesn’t slam the door.
Her mom stays at the table.
She runs her thumb along the rim of her teacup. The fire has burned low again. The lamps need trimming. The night is too still.
But the house is full.
Calliope Charm is home.
Effie closes her eyes and lets herself breathe.