The Dream Thieves (The Raven Cycle, #2)(48)

Matthew, chewing fondly, waved at the contents of the baby carriage. The contents waved back. He spoke through his mouthful. “They always are. His panties, I mean. Twisted. Over it. And you. Is it true we’ll lose our money if we go back? Was Dad really as bad as Declan says?”

ARTICLE 7

FURTHER CONDITION



UPON MY DEATH, NONE OF MY CHILDREN SHALL TRESPASS THE PHYSICAL BOUNDARIES OF “THE BARNS,” NOR DISTURB ANY OF THE CONTENTS THERE, LIVING OR INERT, OR THE ASSETS DEALT WITHIN THIS WILL SHALL BE BEQUEATHED INSTEAD TO THE NEW YORK-ROSCOMMON FUND, APART FROM THE TRUST ESTABLISHED FOR AURORA LYNCH’S CONTINUED CARE.

“What?” Ronan put his sandwich down. Chainsaw angled in. “What does he say about Dad?”

His younger brother shrugged. “I dunno, just he was never there, or something. You know. Hey, Declan’s not that bad. I don’t know why you guys can’t get along.”

Mommy and Daddy just don’t love each other anymore, Ronan thought, but he couldn’t say it to Matthew, who gazed up at him with the same trusting eyes the baby mouse had turned on him. This dinner wasn’t enough to restore his balance. His illicit visit to the Barns, his realization about his mother, and Calla’s assessment of the situation had badly shaken him. Suddenly, he was presented with a decision: whether or not to revive their mother. If he could have his mother back, that would help, surely, even if she had to live in Cabeswater. One parent was better than no parents. Life was better than death. Awake was better than asleep.

But those words of Declan’s needled Ronan: She’s nothing without Dad.

It was like he knew. Ronan wanted badly to know how much Declan knew, but it wasn’t like he could ask him.

“Declan started hating me first,” Ronan said. “In case you were wondering. So that wasn’t me.”

Matthew blew out a tuna-scented breath with the sanguine, pleasant air of either a nun or a pothead. “He was just upset Dad liked you the best. I didn’t care. Everybody has favorite things. Mom liked me best anyway.”

ARTICLE 2A

FURTHER BEQUESTS



I GIVE MY ENTIRE INTEREST IN THE REAL PROPERTY WHICH WAS MY RESIDENCE AT THE TIME OF MY DEATH (“THE BARNS”), TOGETHER WITH ANY INSURANCE ON SUCH PROPERTY, TO MY MIDDLE SON.

They both quietly ate their sandwiches. Ronan thought they were probably both considering how this left Declan as no one’s favorite.

If I was your favorite, he asked his dead father, why did you leave me a home I could never return to?

Carefully — this was difficult, because Ronan never did anything carefully — he asked, “Does Declan ever talk about dreams?”

He had to repeat the question. Both Matthew and Chainsaw had gotten distracted by a circling pair of monarch butterflies.

“Like, his?” Matthew asked. He shrugged elaborately. “I don’t think he dreams. He takes sleeping pills, did you know?”

Ronan didn’t know. “What kind?”

“I dunno. I looked at the bottle, though. Doc Mac gave them to him.”

“Doc the f*ck who?”

“The Aglionby doctor?”

Ronan hissed. “He’s not a doctor, man. He’s a nurse practitioner or something. I don’t think he’s legal to give out drugs. Why does Declan take sleeping pills?”

Matthew stuffed the remaining quarter of his sandwich in his mouth. “Says you’re giving him an ulcer.”

“Ulcers are not sleeping problems. They are when acid eats a f*cking hole through your stomach.”

“Says you and Dad were both dreamers,” Matthew said, “and you’re going to make us lose everything.”

Ronan sat very still. He was so still so quickly that Chainsaw froze as well, her head tilted toward the youngest Lynch brother, purloined tuna sandwich forgotten.

Declan knew about their father. Declan knew about their mother. Declan knew about him.

What did it change? Nothing, maybe.

“He put a gun under the seat of his car,” Matthew said. “I saw it when my phone fell down between the seats.”

Ronan realized that Matthew had stopped chewing and moving and was instead just curved on the bench of the picnic table, his liquid eyes uncertain on his older brother’s.

“Don’t say burglars,” Matthew said finally.

“I wasn’t going to,” Ronan replied. “You know I don’t lie.”

Matthew nodded, fast. He was biting his lip. His eyes were unselfconsciously damp.

“Look,” Ronan said, and then, again, “look. I think I know how to fix Mom. She won’t be able to stay at the Barns and — I mean, we can’t go there anyway — I think I know how to fix her. So at least we’ll have her.”

NIALL LYNCH WAS, AT THE TIME OF SO EXECUTING SAID WILL, OF SOUND MIND, MEMORY, AND UNDERSTANDING AND NOT UNDER ANY RESTRAINT OR IN ANY RESPECT INCOMPETENT TO MAKE A WILL. THIS WILL STANDS AS FACT UNLESS A NEWER DOCUMENT IS CREATED.

SIGNED THIS DAY: T’LIBRE VERO-E BER NIVO LIBRE N’ACREA.

This was probably why he’d called Matthew. Probably he’d meant to promise this impossible hope from the very beginning. Probably he needed to say it out loud so it would stop chewing a f*cking hole through his stomach.

His younger brother looked wary. “Really?”

The decision galvanized Ronan. “I promise.”