Seven Years Ago
"So the orchestra is only for high schoolers, but they made an exception for me. Isn't that cool?"
Lyra, engrossed deeply in a fantasy novel, nearly jumped out of her skin when Silver's voice sprang from what felt like the ether. She blinked, owlish, as she set down her book. Her friend had launched himself to sit next to her on the windowsill, his next words following with such haste that Lyra could barely keep up. "I'm eleven years old," Silver declared, "and I am playing with high schoolers. The next youngest person is fifteen. What's the word in English? It's...it's uh…"
"Prodigy?" Lyra suggested. Silver nodded. She lifted her book and tapped the cover. "The princess was going to find out who the mystery masked woman is."
"Just because I said it before doesn't mean I can't say it again," Silver whined. He drew his legs up and carefully arranged them around Lyra's, the way they always sat. "Also, I knocked. You didn't get the door."
"And you keep saying it again. It's a good book, Gianni," she groaned. "I told you, the mystery masked woman—"
Silver snatched the book, carefully marking her page with his finger, and flipped it over to see the cover. "'Parade of the Dead,'" he commented. "Spooooky."
Ire rose in her. She nabbed it back, snagged the pharmacy receipt she'd been using for a bookmark, and tucked it between the pages. As she set the book behind herself, she said, "It is not spooky. It's about a necromancer who was asked a favor by a princess: she wants the necromancer to bring her recently murdered dad back so she doesn't have to take the throne as a child," Lyra said, her hands gripping her knees at the thought of the big reveal that lay before her.
Silver tapped his chin. His eyes flickered, and Lyra knew he was about to say something her mother called "out there." He mused, "Romancing necks…sounds adult! MRS. LYRA'S MOM!" he yelled, making Lyra nearly jump out of her skin. "SHE'S READING A NAUGHTY BOOK!"
From the kitchen, Lyra's mother sighed. Moments later, her head peaked through the separating door, her eyes unamused. "Hello, Silver."
"I'm gonna kill you," Lyra groaned into her hand.
"Why didn't she get the door for me?" he demanded as Lyra's mom retreated.
"She was probably reading, too. It's a Sunday," she said flatly. Lyra slid off the windowsill and took her book with her. Then, it occurred to her: Sunday. "Wait. What are you doing here? You never come here on Sundays."
His eyes gleamed. "Dad's still sick. We didn't go to mass," he said, "so I'm pretending church doesn't exist today."
Lyra regarded the book, and then she regarded Silver. She'd hoped to finish the novel by the end of the night, but there was such an eager, bright look in his eyes that she decided the book could wait. She set it on the coffee table and planted her hands on her hips. "Okay, so then what are we going to do?"
His eyes widened. "Oh. You're gonna drop the book?"
"Yeah. You're squirrelly. That's what my English teacher calls me, anyway," Lyra said. "Wanna go the park? I think they just finished putting in the new monkey bars."
"Finally." Silver shifted from foot to foot, anxiously. "Let's go."
Lyra spent the afternoon and early evening with Silver, going to the park, playing around on her piano, and watching the end of a robot movie on TV. He stayed for dinner—Lyra's mother, calling it a "day of rest", had ordered Chinese takeout and suggested ice cream for dessert.
Silver was inhaling a second helping of chicken fried rice when there was a knock on the door. Lyra's mother had taken a phone call—she assumed it was her aunt Adrianna, by the rapid-fire Italian exchanged and the raucous laughter from the other room. Lyra went to answer it, and she found herself face to face with Giovanni. While Lyra adored Silver, she always felt unsettled to look up Giovanni. Tonight, he was especially offputting. His face was drawn and white, a sheen of sweat on his brow. His black eyes bored into hers, and Lyra took a step back without thinking. "Lyra, dear," he said, his voice a low croak from illness, "where is my son?"
"He's eating dinner with us," she said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be. "Do you need him?"
"He's been out all day. He needs to come home and practice, and he knows this," Giovanni said. He turned away and coughed out the door. "Please get him."
"Can't he take a night off?" Lyra asked.
Giovanni faced her again, eyes narrowed. "Don't be petulant. Please get my son."
"Jeez, okay." Lyra went into the kitchen, finding Silver partway through slurping noodles. She had to stifle a giggle as he looked up, deer in the headlights. He inhaled the last bit and swallowed as Lyra said, "Um, I think your dad is looking for you. He's here."
Silver's warmth seemed to fade. He stood, wiping his mouth off. "Ah. Um. Can you say I'm not here?"
"I already said you're eating dinner," Lyra whispered. She gave him a sad smile. "He said you have to come home and practice."
Silver sighed. "Fuck," he mumbled. The harshness of the word in a young boy's voice was jarring. He gravitated to the kitchen, where he washed his hands. "I'm also really not supposed to eat Chinese," he added.
"Maybe he won't smell the sesame oil," Lyra said.
Silver walked out to his dad, who looked at him with arctic eyes. "Gianni, your bedtime is in two hours. You need an hour of practice on weekend days. You also haven't done any of your German homework since Friday. We have a routine, and you have to stick to it if you want to do anything worthwhile with your life. You're disappointing me," he said. Any remaining energy and light in Silver's expression had died, and his shoulders hunched as he walked out the door. Giovanni looked to Lyra, standing alone in her living room. "Goodnight, Miss Aoki," he said, putting disdainful influence on her last name, before shutting the door.
Lyra returned to the kitchen to finish her dinner, but her stomach felt crampy and sore. When her mother returned to the kitchen, Lyra was simply pushing lo mein around her plate, brow furrowed. Before her mother could ask where Silver had gone, she said, in English, "Why does Silver's dad talk like that about Silver?"
"He was called back home?" her mother said, in Italian. Lyra nodded. Her mother sat back in her seat with a sigh. Sundays were always amusing in that Lyra's mother was dressed as far down as possible; a holey Jim Morrison shirt and paint-spattered sweatpants, both several sizes too large, hung off her frame, her hair was combed into low pigtails, the way she often styled Lyra's on mornings where they ran late. Lyra thought of how she never saw Giovanni any way other than polished. Even tonight, he'd been dressed in a button-down tucked into slacks, despite his illness. Did he ever just dress comfortably at home, around his son?
Her mother began to speak, and Lyra remembered she had asked a question. "Listen, this is between us, okay?" she started, and Lyra gave her a thumbs up. She said, "Giovanni is...a very cold man. But you knew this already. He home schools his son and puts him in these programs with much older kids to keep his son isolated," she said.
Lyra frowned. "Oh. Silver said he was a prodigy."
"He is very talented, but there are also orchestras for children your age where he could be the star of the show," Lyra's mother said. She reached out and smoothed Lyra's bangs. "What does an eleven year old have in common with high schoolers?"
Lyra thought. She thought middle schoolers were stupid as it was—why did the girls at the bus stop only ever talk about how cute the boys in their grade were? She couldn't imagine she'd have anything more in common with high schoolers. "Probably nothing," Lyra admitted.
"Exactly. I'm sure Silver is quite pleased, but it saddens me. The fact that he's allowed to come down here as much as he does is surprising to me. His time here is probably the one bit of unstructured time in Silver's life, if his attitude when he bursts in here is anything to go by," she said, her nose wrinkling. "I know the boy does love his instrument, but Giovanni will burn him out on it if he keeps pushing it."
Lyra felt her cheeks puff out in a pout—she hated when she did that. It made her feel childish. Her mother tucked some of her hair behind her ear and caught her eye with a reassuring smile. "Hey, we're part of his routine, but we're a good part of it," she told her daughter, as she gently blew the air from her cheeks. "Right? We can't go into Giovanni's apartment and order him to raise Silver the way I'd raise him, but he has fun with us."
"I'm sure Giovanni says bad things about us," Lyra said with a sigh.
"His problem, not ours, okay?" Lyra's mother pulled the container of fried rice toward herself and dumped a large glob onto her plate. "You two are good for each other, and I'm not about to disrupt that by marching up to Giovanni and telling him he's being a dick."
Lyra's eyes grew wide at her mother's language, and she laughed at her daughter. "You hear worse from Silver. We should never have watched " Picking up her chopsticks, she grabbed some rice. "Eat your dinner. It's getting cold."
Present Day
The next two and a half weeks saw a routine form around Silver's work schedule. After several nights of poor sleep, they determined Lyra would sleep over when Silver had the next day or two off. When he was off, they ventured out into the city around Lyra's work schedule, sightseeing and enjoying each other's company. On days that he worked, Lyra found herself entering extreme bouts of productivity. She spent days practicing piano, covering in the shop, and running the errands that her aunt could no longer run. After his shift ended, she would either meet Silver at the cafe, or Silver would come to Adrianna's apartment for dinner before whisking her away for the evening.
Adrianna was so close to due now that she was uncomfortable sitting or working in the shop for more than an hour or two at a time; Lyra split her shifts with Serena, the French student. Late nights at Silver's and early mornings at the shop often lent the mornings a strange haze, a soft blue that tinged the edges of Lyra's vision as she opened the shop and counted the till.
"She's still not at her due date?" Serena had asked one day, when Lyra was trading off with the older girl.
"It's soon," Lyra promised. It was a humid mid-July, and she couldn't imagine being pregnant in this weather. "She was telling me she might be induced by the end of the week, though."
"Godspeed," Serena said, earning a laugh from Lyra. The girl sat herself on the stool, fluffing her dark hair about her shoulders with an easy grin. "Heading off to see your guy?"
"My guy," she repeated, with a giggle. Then, Lyra added, "Soon, but I need to move some laundry over into the drier. Adrianna had an appointment earlier and refuses to move again until dinner," she said.
Serena nodded sagely. "I'm not pregnant, but I feel that in my soul."
Lyra returned the nod. "Oh, yeah. Yes."
She bid Serena goodbye and went up into the apartment. The air conditioner was running at full blast, instantly chilling her to the bone. "Time to give birth?" Lyra called into the apartment.
"Yes," Adrianna groaned. Lyra walked through the living room. Exhaustion permeating her frame, Adrianna rested half-reclined on the couch, pillows propping her up. "You know that one painting your mother doesn't know how to shut up about? In which Saturn devours his Son?"
"What about it?" Lyra asked with nervousness. "Are you so hungry you'll devour me?"
Adrianna turned her head to her niece. Her expression was filled with exhaustion. "Who would willingly put a child in their abdomen, Lyra? Who would just eat a child? Do they not know the miseries of pregnancy?"
"Take it up with the Greeks?" Lyra suggested.
Adrianna sighed. She stretched her arms above her head. "That'd be Kronos. Listen, tell Silver I said hello. I imagine you're staying over there tonight?"
"I have the volume turned up for if the twins decide that their time has come," Lyra said, holding her phone up.
Adrianna smiled. "Good. You have fun otherwise. You're young. Not even eighteen."
"Eighteen soon, though," Lyra said with a wink. "I swear, if I have to share my birthday with my only cousins on this side of the family—"
"How do you think your mother and I feel? Our birthdays are two days apart. Our brother's is only a week after ours," she said. "Luckily, he decided to pretend to forget his age and live in a fishing shack in Sicily until he dies, so that's not anything we need to worry ourselves over."
Lyra blinked, unsure of how to respond. Noticing her niece's expression, she cackled. "Listen, if I don't joke about how he doesn't write letters, then it isn't coping. Go take care of laundry and get out of here."
Later in the evening, when she was helping Silver clean up after dinner, she asked him, "Wanna live in a fishing shack in Sicily until you die?"
He cocked his head and squinted at her, as though she'd grown an eye in the center of her forehead. Silver replied, "Is this an omen or an Adrianna-ism?"
"Yes," she responded, earning a flick of soapy dishwater.
Toward the end of the two and a half weeks, they were quite settled into the routine. Work. Adrianna's errands. No work. Off to Doge's Palace, bleached and stoic. Off to Murano, not to be confused with Burano—though they had a plan to head back there. Work again. Working on duets. It was a small but powerful contentment that Lyra experienced in these weeks. Being with Silver like this was the most natural feeling she had ever had—maybe aside from playing piano. Growing up, she had assumed she maybe wasn't meant to fall in love with another person; when Ethan pined after a handsome boy or Kris started dating someone, she pictured herself in someone's arms or lying awake, wondering what another person was doing, and thought it was alien. She couldn't remember her parents being together. Conditioned to love her friends and family, her examples of romance were scant, limited to novels and television, and those hardly spoke to her. Yet, here she was now, spending as much time as possible with another human being who had held her and occupied her thoughts late at night. And it rocks, Lyra would admit to herself, a smug little smile touching her lips whenever she thought it.
Three days before her birthday, Silver had come over for dinner. As they finished and cleared the table, Lyra watched him. He'd come straight from work; his sleeves were rolled, his hair was still tied back in a ponytail, his eyes were dull with exhaustion. Despite this, he carried every dish on the table to the sink on his own, set it in the dishwater, and huffed with the exertion when he'd finished. "Are we washing or is your uncle washing?" he asked.
Lyra was shaken from her reverie at his question. She said, "It's my uncle's turn. He's getting Adrianna set up in the living room. We can head out of here whenever."
Silver gave a nod. Then, a tiny crease formed between his brows. "What's with the look on your face?" he demanded.
Lyra walked by him, snagging her purse from the coatrack. "You're cute," was all she said.
The blood rushed to his cheeks, but he ducked his head and pretended to cough to cover it up. Lyra laughed and trotted downstairs. He called after her, "Excuse me? Cute?"
"C'mon! You're off for a few days. I wanna make the most of it!" she called, beaming.
God, was she ever happy. It was going to be a lowkey night at his apartment; a coworker had lent Silver a copy of a B-movie about giant radioactive scorpions invading a desert town. She just relished the idea of being cuddled up with him for a while, jeering about the terrible movie. "What do you think?" Silver said as they reached his apartment. He fumbled with his keys for a moment before unlocking the door to let Lyra in. "Do you think the top scientist in the movie is going to call scorpions an insect?"
Lyra stepped through the door, deep in thought. "Insect? Wait, they're not a bug?"
"Nah. I think they're an arachnid," Silver supposed. "I mean...they have eight legs. And their head and thorax are kinda fused."
"Okay, so an octopus. Their body is basically just a head with legs, so...they are spiders" Lyra declared.
"This is getting into featherless biped territory," Silver said, his tone full of warning.
Lyra raised her eyebrows. "You would know about featherless bipeds."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you going to start the chicken jokes again?"
"I'll behave," Lyra said, mimicking zipping her mouth. Silver's face twitched with amusement, and she settled herself on his couch. "By the way, I've been thinking about what I wanna do on my birthday."
He leaned over the back of the couch, arms dangling. Gaze fixed on Lyra, his face broke into the easy smile she really only saw in private. "I've only been bothering you about it for weeks, but okay."
"Not all of us plan that far ahead, you know," Lyra said. She poked his hand and said, "Well, I wanna dance. I wanna be dumb and dance and then come home and share the wine you thought you hid."
Silver's smile turned wry. "I wasn't trying that hard to hide it."
Lyra laughed. And then, it occurred to her. "Wait, are you off on my birthday, or my birthday and the day after? I don't want you to go to work exhausted after a late night—"
He scoffed and stood, gesturing imperiously with one hand. "See, I thought ahead, Lyra. I took the day after your birthday off. I called in a favor with Proton," Silver assured her. "That's how much I—" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide. A deep red spread from his neck to the roots of his hair.
A silence fell over the apartment. Lyra felt oddly light. "How much you what?" she said, softly.
Silver's face burned. He backed away from the couch and grabbed the DvD case from the island counter to start setting up his TV for the film. Lyra sighed and stood. She rested her hand on his arm, and he refused to look at her. "Don't get weird on me. What were you going to say?" she said.
"Something I don't want to say yet. It's been...barely a month since this all started, Lyra," he said. He sighed. "Can we please forget about it?"
Lyra felt her eyes widen slightly. Love? She thought. Was he going to say love? Was he allowed to say love so soon? How was she even supposed to respond to that? Yes, she was happy, but, it was so soon, so fast. Silver noticed her expression. "Listen, I'm—"
She traced her hand up to his shoulder. "Um. Yeah. Don't...don't worry about it," she said, suddenly acutely aware of every inch of herself, of every cell metabolizing, of every blood vessel pumping away. Lyra felt a goofy smile split her features. "I don't think I'd know how to respond to it yet, anyway."
He looked at her, relieved. "Oh thank God. Just pretend I didn't almost say that."
She squeezed his shoulder. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. "I'm not going to forget you almost said that, but I won't make a big deal out of it, okay?"
"Close enough, I guess."
They sat through the trailers, advertising B movies of equally low budget. Lyra sat with her head on his shoulder, legs drawn to her side. During a trailer for a movie advertising a robot shark with a laser attached to its head, Lyra said, "But for real. I want to go dance somewhere. I want to have some wine. And I wanna video call my best friends."
"Do you want me in on the call?" he asked.
Lyra shrugged. "I mean, it's up to you. They're so curious about you, but I'm not gonna force you to do it."
"That's not my question, though," he said. He lifted his hand from the back of the couch and stroked Lyra's hair with it. "Do you want me to at least say hi?"
Lyra sighed. In a small voice, she said, "I would really like that."
"Okay." He turned his head to the side and kissed her forehead. "I'll join it."
"Thank you." she said.
When the movie started, they fell into another part of their usual routine: mocking the script and characters. They had done it as kids, finding the worst science fiction and thriller movies on TV and then derailing its weak plot and characterizations with their own drama. "Oh, I call the scientist," Silver said, as a beautiful blonde woman with black, plastic-framed glasses and ample cleavage appeared on screen, frowning at data on a computer screen. "Her name is...Dorothea. She's German now."
"What's she frowning at?" Lyra asked.
"Her unethical scientific company stock dropped," Silver said. He melodramatically clutched a hand to his chest. "However will she conduct horrible experiments now? The stockholders aren't interested in her main experiment: making flies with human ears."
"No accounting for taste, huh? Everyone knows flies with human ears will be the next big trend," Lyra said, earning a snicker from Silver.
The male lead appeared minutes later—running in and slamming the door behind him, wild-eyed. "I guess that's me," Lyra said. She dropped her voice, and over the top of his poorly-written dialogue, she declared, "'My name is Barton MacDougal, I'm from Texas, and I'm a Scorpio, which means I should be excited about your giant scorpions, but all the blood rushed to my massive muscular thighs running into this room, and my brain isn't workin' so good."
Silver snorted. "Dorothea's into that." The leads squished together at the computer, arguing about something. "She sees a big leg and goes 'Whoa, I almost forgot that there are scorpions running around here. Hey wait, are you telling me I SHOULDN'T have made giant scorpions to stick it to my investors? I'll have you know my scorpions were supposed to be sentient.'"
Lyra started laughing. Struggling to stay in the character of "Burton," she watched as clicking pincers appeared in the glass window on the door, animated with what was probably the worst CGI she'd seen in her entire life. "'Oh god, the polygons are attacking!'" she said, and burst into laughter.
"'You know I hate polygons, Burton!''" Silver said, barely-contained laughter making his voice shake. "'Almost as much as I hate that the directors decided it was more important to see my boobs than give me good lines!'"
Lyra buried her face in Silver's shoulder for a moment to force herself to stop cracking up. "Shit, we gotta slow our roll," she said, out of character, "or I'll be gasping for air at the end."
"Right," Silver said. The roll, however, was not slowed. By the time the credits rolled, they were collapsed in a puddle of laughter-derived tears, Silver laying on his back on the floor and Lyra with her face buried in a pillow.
She looked up to glance down at Silver, who was actively wiping away tears. "Do you think Barton ever got over the fact that his first wife left him for his dumber but handsomer twin, Carton?"
Silver looked up at her and shook his head. "Nah. Listen, Dorothea might be a hot scientist, but a man never gets over being left for a twin named after an inanimate object."
"Good thing you're an only child, and I can't leave you for a brother named Ronny or something. If we went with Silver...your brother's name would be...Dilver?" Lyra remarked, sending Silver into another fit. Lyra wiped her hand along her chin with a grin. "Hard to picture you with a handsomer twin brother, though."
"Handsomer isn't a fucking word," Silver said, but he propped himself up on his elbows. He gave her a smirk. "Better than being called cute, though."
Lyra planted her elbow on the couch cushion and rested her jaw on her fist. She winked. "You're cute, too."
He reached up and palmed her forehead. "Just because I walked into it doesn't mean you have to say it, Lyra."
She caught his hand and laced her fingers through his. "Does too," she said, and she pressed their linked hands to her cheek. It occurred to her then that he was still wearing his work clothes. "Dude, you never went and got changed. You're laying on your old-ass wooden floor in clothes you need to keep white."
"Ah. I had tunnel vision after...you know." Silver sat up, his hand still in Lyra's. She had almost forgotten, in their re-imagining of the giant scorpion attack, that he'd nearly said love. Her cheeks burned again at the thought, and Silver, ever observative, didn't miss it. "You told me not to worry about it, but I feel like I should be worrying about it," he groaned.
"Sorry. I'm just…" she sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath and opened them again. "I mean it. Don't worry about it. I feel like I'd panic if you said it. It's not that I don't care or—"
"Okay, now you're going to weird me out if you keep going," Silver said, and Lyra laughed, the sound airy and troubled. He rose up on his knees and kissed her, just a soft brush of lips—no different than their first kiss, really, but now there wasn't any uncertainty in it. As he rocked back, he stifled laughter. Before Lyra could ask what was on his mind, he said, "Glad Dorothea worked it out with her shareholders. Imagine not understanding the appeal of a bug with human ears."
Lyra snorted. "Go get changed already."
He went into his room, and Lyra flopped onto her back. "Too soon," she breathed, but she beamed, despite the words. When Silver returned, dressed in comfortable clothes for the evening, he sat himself beside her. She eased backward, head resting on his lap, and she said, "Can I tell you something dumb?"
He made a little "hmm?" noise. Lyra continued, "You know how I grew up. I can't remember my parents being together. A lot of my friends' parents weren't together, either. I didn't really know what it'd be like to just...like someone you know? To think about them all the time, to want their hands on me, to tell them about my day." His face tipped down to look at her, and she reached up and rubbed her thumb across his lips, cupping his jaw. "I never pictured myself wanting another person, but here I am. And I'm really happy."
He closed his eyes and held her hand against his face. "Never took you as someone who wasn't a natural romantic," Silver said, his voice a scant wisp.
"I feel like I am with you, though," she said. She closed her eyes and dropped her hand from his face, resting her hands on her belly. "I don't know. We just fit, Silver. We always have."
"I liked you when we were kids, you know," Silver said.
Lyra felt her mouth twitch. "Don't think I can say the same. I wanted to kick your ass a lot, but you were my best friend."
Silver poked her forehead. "Look who's talking. You were a giant pain in the ass, too."
She opened one eye and swatted his hand away. "That's just being a kid, Silver. We were stupid. I'm still stupid. In fact, it's really bold of you to say 'were a pain in the ass' like that's ancient history."
"True, but you're my favorite pain in the ass." He laid his head back again and took a deep breath. "Can I just be honest and say I'm both scared and excited to find out what you're like drunk?"
"Just two more days!" Lyra said.
"Indeed. Two days to prepare. God help us all."
Lyra had no reply. A comfortable silence yawned between them. In Silver's apartment, smelling his tea and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke, she'd never felt so comfortable in her life. His hand stroked her hair off her face, and a pleasant tingle ran down her spine.
There was no smaller—but stronger—joy than this.
Present Day
The days leading up to Lyra's birthday passed in a blur—save for the morning the day before. Oh, was that ever an early morning. Lyra woke, in the wee hours, at Silver's apartment, to a loud buzz from her phone. There was a text from Adrianna, asking if she could come in and open the shop. I need to go the doctor's this morning. It isn't an emergency, but we're going to talk about inducing labor. Serena can't come in that early, but she'll come in and take over at 1.
Groggily, Lyra looked at the time. 5:45, she thought, stifling a groan. Silver was sound asleep, turned onto his side, and she didn't want to wake him. They'd been up until nearly one in the morning the night before—or at least, that was when she last looked at the clock. Considering the time, the shop didn't open for another few hours; Lyra imagined Adrianna hadn't slept and had called her doctor in the night for her opinion.
Lyra messaged back, Yes. I'll be there to open. She set three alarms, starting at 7:30, and set it back on the nightstand. She flopped back onto her back and dozed off until the alarm went off. With the speed of a falcon's strike she rolled over and shut it off. She noticed that Silver was still deep asleep; following a silent sight of relief, Lyra got up and dressed for the day. Once the top buttons of her shirt were secured, she noted, with some annoyance, she had forgotten to pack a sweater. An idea formulated. She went to Silver's dresser, opened the drawer he took his hoodies from, and took one of his.
Before she left, she jotted a note and left it on the island counter. I have to open this morning. I'll be back around 1:30. Lyra squinted at it before drawing a little heart and signing her name at the end. She smiled and headed out the door, taking care to shut it as quietly as possible.
Once at her aunt's shop, Lyra used her keys to slide in. The shop didn't open until 9, but she needed to sweep up and count the drawer prior to opening. She went upstairs to brew a cup of coffee; once ready, she went back down into the shop, ready to prepare for the day.
At 8:59, Lyra went to the front door, flipped the sign to OPEN, and sat herself behind the counter. She glanced through the glass and noted, with a sigh, that the jewelry was in complete disarray. I guess that's my project today, she thought.
It was a slow morning, allowing her the time to really sort through. She reorganized the two boxes of rings. One box was what Adrianna called the "expensive" box; anything that wasn't costume jewelry from the past fifty years sat in it. The other was the cheap box, where, with a snicker, Lyra noted that there were some mood rings, no longer changing color, that looked as though they were fresh from 1997.
As she was sorting, only three customers came in: the first a native Venetian man, speaking Venetian to Lyra, who had to ask him to repeat on occasion until she understood that he was asking about a furniture item Adrianna had ordered for him from a shop in Milan that hadn't come in yet. By the time she was setting the expensive box back up, a woman came in to browse the shelves filled with curiosities. She bought a jewelry box and opera glasses before leaving again. The third person arrived after Lyra was attempting to sort the cheap rings into color by size: a young American man, tentatively asking if she spoke English. "Yes," she said, her lack of accent startling him. "What do you need?"
"You're American?" he asked.
"Yep, but I have dual citizenship, and I speak Italian about as fluently as English," she replied. When he was still standing, gawking at her, she set the ring in her hands aside and shoved her hands into her pockets. "What can I help you with?"
"Oh." He blinked. "My mom wanted me to bring home a mask. Does this shop do those?"
"We have some pretty old ones in the back," she said, pointing to the back corner, "but not all are hand-crafted. If you go to the city center, there's a mask shop on Calle delle Botteghe that sells authentic, hand-crafted masks."
Again, he said, "Oh." The man drifted to the back, and Lyra continued sorting the rings. She saw a simple ring with a square-cut garnet. On instinct, she shoved it on her ring finger and continued her work.
About ten minutes later, the boy reappeared with an ornatewhite and gold mask, the filigree styled into flowers. It was porcelain, telling her it was solely for decorative purposes. Real Carnevale masks that you're meant to wear are paper mache. Always. Lyra weighed it in her hand. "Just so you know, this one is purely decorative. It doesn't go on a face."
He said "oh" once more. "I guess that's okay. She just wants to hang something up in the living room."
She thought of Silver's bocca della verita for a moment. "I see. Well, this is good for that. That'll be 30 euros."
His eyes flashed. "30? That's kind of expensive."
"An artisan made it probably twenty-five years ago and sold it for 50 or more," she said, propping her jaw in her hand. It wasn't pure truth—she had no idea what it originally sold for or how long ago it had been made—but she did know that, save for a few particular types of antiques, the worth on most had gone down considerably in the past decade or so. If it weren't for living in a city of antiquity, Adrianna probably would have had to pick up a side business to make up for the devaluation. "If you bought something like that new from someone who hand-crafted it, I assure you that it would also be a fair bit more expensive than that."
"I see." He fished a wad of euros from his pocket and set them on the counter.
Lyra gave a nod. "I will wrap this up for you for safe travels, and then you'll have something nice to give your mom."
"Yeah," he said, watching her closely as she wrapped the mask. "Are you an exchange student? I'm here from Chicago," he said.
"Nope. I'm from the East Coast," she said, grabbing another sheet of paper. The mask was unwieldy and strange; she wanted nothing to happen to it during the man's travels. "I'm visiting family this summer and helping out in the shop. I head back in a few weeks for university."
The little "oh" came from him again. It bothered Lyra. Something about it seemed slow or slack-jawed in only the way a football-playing twenty-something could. "Oh. I'm in my third year. I'm doing international business. What are you doing?"
International business. She thought of her father and of Giovanni, and she had to work hard to control the twitch that jumped on her face. "Piano performance," Lyra replied. She taped the papers and set the mask in the bag. Lyra pushed it across the counter with a smile, adding, "Nice to see another American. Enjoy your time in Venice."
He grabbed the bag and looked at her. "Can I get your number?" he said.
Lyra coughed to hide the scoff that escaped her lips. "Ah! My number?" she said. "Why?"
"Um. You're American. And you're cute," he said.
In an impulse move, she planted both hands on the counter. She sighed deeply, and said, "Listen, absolutely not. You see, I'm married." She flexed the finger she'd put the ring on. "This is a beautiful heirloom ring. My grandmother gave it to him to propose with."
His mouth dropped open a little. "You look really young to be married."
You seem really stupid for college, she thought, but out loud she said, "Well, I am. His name is Gianni, and I don't think he'd be happy to have some other guy sniffing around. He's the jealous type," she said, blatantly lying at this point. She pressed her hand to her chest and sighed, vaudevillian to the core. "Such is the life of marrying a goth."
His eyes widened. "Goth," he said, and she could almost see the pale-faced, black-haired, pentagram-wearing human being that the man pictured. "Okay. Um. Sorry, I guess. Enjoy your marriage." After he left the shop and was out of sight, Lyra snickered. She checked the price on the ring and shoved a few euros to match in the till.
The rest of the shift went quickly. Business picked up, and Lyra bounced back and forth between organizing the display and ringing up customer's purchases. There was always a little burst of activity between 11 and 12; people on their way to lunch spotted the glimmering windows and were drawn in. She had moved through bracelets and brooches before finally looking at the tangle of chains of necklaces. "Who did this?" Lyra grumbled.
Necklaces weren't organized by price. There were far fewer of them than rings and bracelets, a lot of which she assumed had been in pawn shops at one point. She untangled a golden collar collar necklace, plated with pink enamel, and set it aside. The rest seemed that they would take a while.
The rest of the shift passed with Lyra sifting through and untangling. A rosary—black, silver, and ornate—had worked its way in. A heavy gold chain, each link inscribed with faint roses. A pink pearl necklace, each pearl genuine, if the imperfections were anything to go by. Another collar necklace, this one silver with a Roman coin motif etched into its plate.
Lyra untangled a silver chain and found a strange pendant at the end. It was circular, but there was an engraved, detailed eye in the center that spun when she poked it. Lyra checked the price tag, saw it was worth only a few euros, and gave a nod. "Perfect for my goth husband," she said to no one in particular.
By the time Serena entered the shop, a few minutes before 1, the display case was neatly organized. "Well, look at that," Serena said. "It's been such a mess for a few days."
"It really was," Lyra commented. She held up the necklace she had bought for Silver. "Check this out. Isn't it wild?"
Serena walked over and poked the eye in the center; it spun until it faced backward at Lyra. "Weird. I would assume it's cursed."
"Perfect. I paid for it and I'm giving it to Silver. Some American in Venice thinks he's my goth husband," she remarked, tucking it into her bag.
"He isn't your goth husband already?" Serena said. Lyra chuckled at that. The older girl reached into her bag and set a small package wrapped in brown parcel paper on the counter. "Here. I know you're becoming a woman tomorrow. I have a little gift for that."
"You didn't have to," Lyra said, waving a hand affably, but she snatched the gift anyway and pulled the paper open. There was a box containing two chocolate truffles, and a tiny black velvet bag. "What's in the bag?" she asked. She began fiddling with its drawstrings.
"A trinket, really," Serena said. Lyra pulled the bag open and lightly shook out its contents; a black glass figurine fell out. She examined it; it was an upright piano with a yellow cat sitting at the bench, mouth opened in a yowl. It was so kitschy that it filled her stomach with a warm, butterfly-filled joy. Lyra grinned as Serena said, "I hope you like it."
"It's so cute," Lyra said. She walked around the counter and hugged Serena. "Thank you. You totally didn't have to. I will bring this EVERYWHERE I ever go, college included."
Serena smiled. "I'm glad. Now, go enjoy your birthday, alright?"
Lyra popped open the truffle box. "Not just yet. Wanna share one with me before I go?" Serena's eyes lit up, and she extended the box to her.
On the way to Silver's apartment, about fifteen minutes later, she was exhausted. The day hadn't grown as warm as promised; the sun hid behind a dense layer of clouds, and the breeze was cold on her calves and thighs. She huddled into Silver's hoodie. Her phone buzzed in its pocket, and Lyra dug it out. Silver had texted her, You're on your way, right? I literally got out of bed ten minutes ago. I think I'm behind on sleep.
Lyra sent a laughing emoji and then, If I fall asleep, don't draw on my face.
She made it to his building and let herself in. After going up the stairs, she heard the low rumble of cello. Already practicing? Lyra thought. She supposed she was no different than him; today was probably the first day in several she hadn't at least practiced etudes and jazz scales.
When she unlocked the door and entered, she was greeted by the sight of Silver, still wearing what he'd worn to bed, his hair hastily braided over one shoulder. His eyes snapped up when he saw Lyra. Before she could say anything, he said, "I have a surprise," he said. Then, he frowned. "Stealing my sweatshirts, huh?"
"Matched my shirt and shorts," Lyra said, tugging at the pink and black floral print of her scout shirt and then the faded denim of her shorts. "What's the surprise?"
"Open my bedroom door. You'll see it," he said.
Interest whisking away her sleepiness, she walked past the couch, where Silver sat with the cello, smug as a contented house cat, and opened the door to Silver's bedroom. A black case sat beside the door, and Lyra's eyes widened. "Wait. A keyboard?" she said.
She grabbed the bag and pulled it out of the bedroom. "For here," he said. He looked at her with such gentle eyes. "I know you've been nervous about the idea of moving your keyboard around. We can work anywhere now."
Lyra leaned the keyboard in its bag against the wall, and she smiled. "Plus, you won't have to tune to yourself all the time."
"It's my signature, you know," he said. He starting playing a soft melody that Lyra recognized, from the theme of a movie she'd watched often in her teens. She sat herself beside him and watched him play. There was confidence now, even when she watched the muscles in his hands leap and the minute shifts in his expression. She huddled herself against the cushions and leaned her head against the back of the couch with a contented sigh.
"I was going to suggest we play something together, but you look like you could doze off," Silver said, over the low ominous notes the song fell into. "Long day?"
She gave a nod. "Just so you know, an American dude came into the shop and tried to hit on me." Silver didn't tense, but she noticed a muscle in his jaw twitched. Lyra added, "I told him I was married to a big scary goth dude."
"I need to invent a goth persona?" Silver said.
Lyra laughed. "Who's to say I'm not married to a big scary goth dude on the side whose name is also Gianni legally?" He rolled his eyes at her; despite the shift in mood, his playing stayed dark. She added, "So yeah, if we ever see some really slack-jawed blonde guy, let's just be extra couply in public, alright?"
"If you had to pretend you were married, was he making you uncomfortable?" Silver asked. His playing was less focused.
Lyra scratched her neck and laughed. "Nah, I was feeling melodramatic. And I was cleaning the ring boxes. I saw this and thought it would look like a cute wedding ring." She flashed it to Silver.
He sighed. "Okay. That's...that's good. I was gonna go tell some privileged American shithead off if you were made uncomfortable." A wry smile touched his features. "Was he that annoying to you?"
"Yes! He was a total yokel! He was slack-jawed! He said he was going to school for international business but I saw nothing behind the eyes, Silver!" She pounded her fist into her palm, earning a laugh from Silver. She sighed. "I'm sorry if that was...I don't know. Inappropriate," Lyra hedged.
He played the last note of the song and set the cello aside. Silver methodically rearranged himself, leaning back into the cushions now. Lyra waited, breath baited, as he turned to look at her. "I think that would have bothered me even just a week or two ago, but it doesn't now. I think it's, uh…" he looked away, the definition of bashful. "Cute."
Lyra smiled. "Awww. Okay." She scooted closer; Silver took her in his arms and guided her to straddle his lap. She rested her forehead against his. "Let's play later. We keep getting robbed of mornings lately."
"Yeah." He kissed her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other on the small of her back. "Tomorrow, though, it's your day or I'll fight God," he said.
"Very hot," Lyra said. An amused snort gusted air over her face and neck. She linked her arms around his neck. "Just kiss me, will you? God can wait."
"Gladly." Silver kissed her, far more deeply than before, and she melted into him.
Present Day
Anyone walking by Silver's apartment that night was treated to a concert. Libertango flowed from the windows, painting the pink sunset with an extra flourish of fire. An Irish folk song cooled the sky with a wanting tenderness, fitting the lavender that was now streaking the sky. A mournful rendition of Bach's Chaconne, with an almost non-existent piano accompaniment, floated out as the sky darkened to indigo. Then, a new instrument, a new sound, entered the scene:
Cello wafted, accompanied by soft piano, cello and accompaniment more of a conversation than a performance. The moon was just rising, fittingly, as Clair de Lune poured from the windows, not perfected, but somehow all the more feeling for it. People who walked by paused to listen, to a moment, to two players who had only been reunited for a month, but in some ways played as though they shared a heart—a body even.
Somehow, in the raucousness of the night, of the people walking to cafes and bars, the tune cut across. Other songs followed, but none quite as special, none that thrummed in the same way with the universe. Silence eventually replaced the music, the lights turned off, the moment converted into a memory.
A/N: and here's the last of the updates. Hope you enjoyed!
Just so everyone's aware for the future: I have been publishing on AO3 for a while. My handle on there is isometricradiance! Future works (once this fic is finished) will only be posted there, and not cross-posted. AO3 has some features that makes certain references for this fic a bit easier :)
Also, this fic is going to be ending soon! Within a few updates! That is insane to think about: I've been writing this for four years! This is probably my longest-running fic at this point, in terms of the amount of time I've been writing it. However, all things must end, and I want to wrap this up, especially since it's turned to almost entirely fluff with little plot at this point.
Until next time, take care. Also, remember: BLM and ACAB.
Mars