Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(86)

“I’m starting to miss sex.” Katie sighed. “Is that disloyal? I loved Tony so much, I—”

“It’s not. It’s human.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m starting to feel settled, the last couple of weeks especially. I don’t wake up every night in the dark scared. It feels … settled to wake up in the same place every day, to have purpose every day. I know I don’t do as much as the rest, but—”

“That’s not true. You’re feeding and raising three babies.”

“I have help. Everyone helps.”

“Three babies,” Arlys repeated. “You’re running our census and the sign-ups. I realized today, I don’t know everyone’s name anymore. Faces, yes, but not names. You would. I’ve seen you charm people into signing up or heading a task, an activity. You’re good with people. A natural community organizer.”

“It’s hard to say no or to bitch at a nursing mother. Speaking of charming people, we could use another sign-up for morning yoga. It’s good for stress, and you have too much stress. Don’t say you don’t have time. We all do.”

“That woman’s weird, Katie.”

“What’s weird about a fifty-year-old faerie calling herself Rainbow?” Katie smiled. “Besides, she’s a good instructor. I took a couple of classes myself, and can vouch she’s patient and knowledgeable. Try one, okay? Just try one. If you hate it, I’ll never bug you again.”

“Fine, fine. Did I say charming? Nagging’s more accurate.” But Arlys scrawled her name on the sheet. “How many faeries does that make now?”

Katie reached down into her diaper bag, pulled out a notebook. She flipped through the tabs to her list. “Eight, but that doesn’t count the little ones who come and go. I saw some last night—middle of the night—when Duncan was restless. Just lights dancing around the backyard. And, Arlys, this morning, there are flowers blooming along the fence line that weren’t there yesterday. I have to ask Fred what they are, but it’s … Maybe another reason I’m not scared all the time.”

With a smooth, maternal grace, she shifted the baby—Duncan, Arlys realized—from breast to shoulder. “Anyway, eight faeries. At least eight comfortable enough to claim it. Four elves. I’m not sure what the difference is there. Twelve that fall into the witch/wizard/sorcerer group. And we’ve got twenty-eight who list some sort of ability. Like Jonah. I’ve got five with prophetic dreams, two shapeshifters—verified, and you can bet that’s a jolt to watch. We’ve got four with telekinesis, an alchemist, two seers, and so on.”

So many, Arlys realized. She hadn’t been keeping up.

“Looking at the math, that’s more than twenty percent of the community with magickal abilities.”

“I think there are even more. I think there are some who aren’t saying, who’re afraid to.” On Katie’s shoulder, Duncan let out a small, distinct burp. “We’ve also got a percentage—small, but it’s there—who are, well, magick bigots.”

“Kurt Rove.”

“He’d be president of the anti-magick coalition. I’m glad he’s taken over working at the feedstore so he’s not in town all that much.”

“Even there, he’s a pain in the ass from what I hear.”

“I don’t understand people like him, or the handful who hang around with him. Rachel told me that Jonah had to go out and deal with Don and Lou Mercer when they got after Bryar Gregory.”

“Got after her?” Bryar, Arlys thought, quiet, composed, and on Katie’s list as a seer.

“She went out for a walk, couldn’t sleep. Apparently the Mercers were sitting out on their porch, having a few beers—maybe more than—and spotted her. They followed her, taunting her, blocked her way, were generally obnoxious and disgusting. Jonah happened to see it, went over to stop it. It might’ve gotten ugly—two against one—but Aaron Quince, the elf, and I think he’s sweet on Bryar—came along. The Mercers backed off. Aaron walked Bryar back home.

“I don’t understand it,” Katie went on. “A few months ago, people were literally dying in the street. Every one of us lost family, friends, neighbors. We’re all we have left, but people like the Mercers, like Kurt Rove, belittle and bad-talk those of us who, well, have something that might help get all of us through. Because they’re different.”

“I have a theory,” Arlys began. “Major, monumental crises bring out the best or the worst in us—sometimes both. And sometimes those major, monumental crises have no effect on certain types. Which means, no matter what the circumstances, assholes remain assholes.”

“Huh. That’s a good theory.” She cuddled Duncan. “Arlys, I think Duncan and Antonia … I think they’re different.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They dream. All babies do—Hannah dreams—but they … It’s different. I said Duncan was restless last night, but it was more like excitement. Whatever he dreamed excited him. And one night last week, I heard Hannah crying. She’d stopped by the time I got to the nursery. And Duncan was in the crib with her—awake. I usually put Antonia and Hannah in one crib together, Duncan in the other, and I had. But he was in with the girls, and he and Antonia just looked at me and smiled. Him on one side of Hannah, Antonia on the other. Like they’d soothed her back to sleep.”