Seanan McGuire - An Artificial Night

Luna had been to Blind Michael’s lands to visit her mother at least twice that I knew of. Only they weren’t Blind Michael’s lands anymore; they were Acacia’s, and according to Luna, they were blooming. Something good had come out of everything that happened. Try telling that to the parents whose children never came home. The fae parents were few enough, and they could almost understand; there are always risks to living outside the Summerlands. But the human parents would never know, and for that, I was sorry beyond all measure. I succeeded in doing what I set out to do: I brought my children home. Why did it feel like a failure?

Quentin could’ve answered that for me, if I’d dared to ask. He’d dropped his entire mortal identity, leaving it all behind for her, and he hadn’t even tried to create a new one—I guess it would’ve been cheating. He gave Katie up once—thanks to the Luidaeg’s spell, she didn’t even remember that he existed, and he wasn’t going to push it by trying to be close to her as someone else. That showed a lot of guts and a level of maturity he shouldn’t have had to live with yet. He was growing up. Poor kid. Without a mortal existence to occupy him, I was seeing a lot more of him, and hanging out with a teenage boy was certainly proving to be an education. He could almost make baseball seem interesting, for one thing, and I was getting used to finding him asleep on my couch every Saturday morning. The landscape of my world was changing and somehow I didn’t mind at all.

Lily cried when I came back to the Tea Gardens. She hadn’t expected to see me again, and I couldn’t blame her. The Luidaeg was right when she said I was trying to die; I just hadn’t been able to see it until it was right on top of me. I still wasn’t sure I could fix it, but at least now I knew it was there. That was something. So Lily and I drank our tea and spoke of inconsequential things, and she smiled until I thought her face would crack. I started visiting her once a week after that, and bringing Quentin and May with me, when they’d come. It wasn’t fair to play games with the hearts of people who loved me. And they did love me—I had to admit that, or nothing would ever make sense again.

And me? Somewhere along the line, I’d faced the facts I’d been running from for a long time—maybe since before the Tea Gardens. Before everything. I’d finally run out of places to hide from the truth. I’m a hero. That means certain things. I probably won’t live to a ripe old age, Sylvester being sort of the exception as heroes go, but I always knew that. I never expected to live forever. Maybe admitting it to myself was all I needed to do. The rest came from there.

It’s a long, hard road to Babylon, but you can get there and back by the light of a candle. You just have to light it for yourself.

“Here comes the cake!” shrieked Jessica. Stacy dimmed the lights, and I turned to see Anthony and Cassandra walking into the room, holding opposite sides of a large white sheet cake. Everyone started joyously shouting the words to “Happy Birthday.” Even Spike chirped along with the melody. I didn’t sing. I looked from face to face instead, watching my kids—watching the people who had become my family—celebrate being alive, being together, and making it through another year.

“Blow out the candles, baby!” urged Stacy. Karen leaned forward and blew. The candles guttered and died, winking out like stars.

They weren’t needed anymore.

We were already home.