Come on love, please don't start
With you I could summon the gods and the stars
Sing your notes, play your part
Watch them dance out the plays that we wrote from the heart
Then we'll leave.
And we'd laugh at the ghosts of our fears.
We were gods
We were kids.
Battle Cries—The Amazing Devil
It's nearly a week after Dustfinger's return that Jehan works up the courage to ask for a proper show. Dustfinger's done small tricks up until then, flowers blooming on stone and sending out small showers of sparks, little creatures made of flame that singe the hair on Jehan's arms.
"I'll have to do it at night," Dustfinger says, his not-smile a little softer than it had been two years ago. "As anyone here can attest, fire is all about contrast." Julianne thinks back to a night before her son was born, all of them sitting at Elinor's prized table while Dustfinger said much the same thing.
"He needs the cover of night," Julianne says, an echo of what he'd told Elinor. "It's always more beautiful in the dark." He glances over at her, the not-smile softening into the real deal as he reaches out to put a hand on hers. Thinking of that night leads to darker things best left forgotten; the prick of a blade against her throat, terror in Mo's eyes, Capricorn looming over them both as they kneel in a church.
"Are you alright, little bird?"
"Fine, just lost in some memories." He seems to know exactly which memories have been conjured, squeezing her hand. "I think I was three months pregnant last time I saw you perform."
"Ah yes, you puked on my shoes afterwards." She scrunches her nose at the reminder, making a note to never mix peanut butter and bananas again. Then she remembers that peanut butter hasn't been invented yet and bananas don't grow around here. She really misses bananas.
"You puked on his shoes," Jehan asks in obvious delight. "What color was it?"
"The color of shame and despair," Julianne says, smiling. He giggles even as Roxane rolls her eyes. Boys and their interest in all things disgusting will never stop being amusing to parents everywhere.
"That reminds of the time your mother puked after cooking a pheasant," Jaime says with his own smile. "The smell of meat made her so sick when she was pregnant with you that I had to cook every meal. We mostly ate corn and a few carrots. It's a miracle you didn't come out orange." He reaches out to ruffle his son's hair, Jehan leaning into the touch.
"That would have been so neat," Jehan crows. "D'you think I could still turn orange, Daddy?"
"I doubt it, little man." Jehan doesn't seem to be discouraged, racing off to the back of the small house to tell Dustin all about his plan to turn them all orange. Julianne wouldn't put it past him to find a way to do it. "I probably shouldn't have told him about the carrots."
"The worse thing that'll happen is he'll eat too many and have a belly ache," Roxane shrugs. "Until then, let him have fun."
The rest of the day passes away lazily, one of the rare ones where they didn't have to tend to the fields. Jaime takes his son out for a ride on their horse, Roxane and Julianne work on teaching Dustin new words (Julianne is going to teach him to say you got it, dude if it kills her) and Dustfinger practices out in the front yard.
By the time night rolled around, the kids were giddy with excitement even if Dustin didn't know what the excitement was for. They all sit on the lawn, watching as Dustfinger conjured flames and manipulated them with a few words and movements.
There's no juggling in this act, no torches or bottles to help him make big displays. In the Inkworld, fire obeys Dustfinger like a tame animal. Like a marten, she thinks with a smile. He summons the flames and sends them into the air to form flowers, the petals opening with bright explosions of sparks that rain down over the group. They fade and return in different colors, scarlet and gold and even the purple-pink of azaleas.
"Fire," Dustin squeals, kicking his legs excitedly in Julianne's lap. "Fire, Ma! Da-dee make fire!"
"That's right, Daddy's making fire," Julianne laughs. The sparks bounce around Dustfinger's boots, almost looking like lava as they melt together. Julianne could watch this for the rest of her life, this brilliant display and the pure joy in Dustfinger's smile as he makes the flowers twist into birds that sweep around her head twice before shooting back into the sky.
"Ma, look!" Dustin points one chubby finger past the show, Julianne following his gaze to the scrawny figure near the gate. She can't tell who it is at first, but then the flowers overhead burn brighter and the shadows are washed away enough to reveal a familiar face.
"Farid?" The name causes Dustfinger's words to stutter, the flames guttering as he turns towards the gate. Farid is still standing there, ignoring the screeching goose as his dark eyes fix on Dustfinger. "Dustfinger, is that—"
"Yes," he murmurs. He's moving before the others have a chance to process the sudden darkness, striding across the lawn to open the gate and pull Farid into his arms. The others stand and come closer, Julianne holding Dustin in her arms as she comes to stand beside the pair. "How could I ever have believed that anything would stop you from chasing after me?"
"Dunno," the boy murmurs, fingers twisting in Dustfinger's shirt to keep him close. "You didn't mean to leave me, did you? It wasn't on purpose that Cheeseface didn't read the last few sentences?"
"I'd never leave you if I had a choice." Dustfinger pulls back as much as Farid will allow, nudging the boy's chin with his knuckle. "How'd you convince Orpheus to read you here after all?" The boy shrugs one thin shoulder, letting his gaze rove over the gathered crowd. They stop for a moment on Julianne and the baby, one of his hands coming free to run a whisper-soft touch over one of Dustin's bare feet.
"I went to Meggie and she read us here."
"Us," Julianne asks. "Who else is here?"
"Meggie," he says, sounding for all the world that Julianne must be stupid not to catch on. "She's staying with the old man from that village." His brow furrows and he snaps his fingers as he tries to think. "It was the author."
"Fenoglio." She doesn't phrase it as a question, but Farid nods all the same. She hasn't been to see the author very often; they tend to get melancholy as they think back to what they'd been forced to leave behind. She knows where he lives, though, and she's going to pay him a visit tomorrow to hug the life out of her sister.
"Who are they?" He juts his chin out at the others, looking less than inviting. It's understandable, Farid is a wary boy, raised amongst thieves and forced to keep most people at a distance. If you don't get close to them, they can't hurt you when they leave.
"This is Roxane, Jaime, and Jehan," Dustfinger says, gesturing with his freehand. His other one is clasped around Farid's nape, like the boy can't disappear if Dustfinger holds him tight enough. "And this is Dustin." Dustfinger reaches out in much the same why Farid had, running his hand over Dustin's head. "Does he look like you pictured him?"
"I thought his hair would be more like yours." Julianne can't quite hold back her laugh, Dustin echoing the sound. He doesn't know why he's laughing, just that his ma is.
"Aye, I thought it would be, too. My other two had hair like mine."
"Dustfinger," Roxane says, cautious. She doesn't trust strangers as easily as her husband, she's lived a hard life and knows what strangers can do. Julianne can't blame her, but in the same instant she hates the woman a little bit for the look she's sending Farid. "Who is this? Is he your son?"
"Might as well be at this point." Farid's chest puffs out at that, all pride and happiness. "He was read out of his story two years ago and I've taken him in. Is that all right with you?" Roxane's eyes are hard, but then she glances down at her own son and seems to realize that she has no room to argue.
"I suppose it doesn't matter. If you trust him, he must be decent."
"He's more than decent." Dustfinger squeezes Farid's neck, the boy relaxing into it. "Do you want to hold your little brother?" Farid nods quickly, looking to Julianne again. She grins as she hands her son over, Farid careful as he arranged Dustin on his hip.
"He's heavy," Farid laughs, bouncing on his toes. "And he's drooling."
"He always drools," Jehan says matter-of-factly. "Mom says you get used to it, but I think it's nasty. I don't like drool. Do you like drool?"
"Not really."
"Then you don't want to hold Dee too much. Juli calls him a drool box." Jehan continues to ramble about drool-related matters, Farid nodding along and chipping in sometimes. Behind Jehan, Jaime looks impressed. Jehan doesn't do well around strangers, but it seems Farid is special. "And that's why I always wear a rag on my shoulder around Dee," he finishes succinctly.
"Should I start wearing a rag on my shoulder?" Farid looks to Dustfinger for an answer and the fire-eater laughs.
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," he says, ruffling Farid's short hair. "Why don't you head inside? I'll find you something to eat and then we can have a little chat about what you've been up to." Farid's dark eyes widen and his mouth drops open, grip tightening a little around Dustin.
"I completely forgot! I'm an idiot! I came to warn you!"
"Warn me about what?"
"About Basta." Nausea hits Julianne in a wave and she sways a little on her feet, barely aware of Roxane having a similar reaction. Basta had pursued Roxane before he was read out of Inkheart, had disfigured Dustfinger for a chance at having her. Julianne wonders if he had smelled of mint back then, too. If the smell of it makes Roxane want to puke the way it does Julianne.
"What about Basta?" Dustfinger's voice has lost all happiness, a dull monotone that matches the blank expression that comes over his face. He reaches out blindly until he finds Julianne's hand, squeezing it tightly.
"He tried to kill me after you were read back here. He and Cheeseface and that mean old Magpie are working together. I managed to escape, but he was shouting at me that he was going to kill all of us." Farid's eyes find Julianne's, the pure panic in them matching the panic growing in her chest. "He said he was going after the bookworm and Silvertongue and Meggie."
"Does he have the book?"
"Yes." One of Farid's hands goes to his throat and Julianne understands the motion all too well, the press of a cold knife against her throat. She swallows hard as she remembers the prickle of pain and a drop of red sliding down over a collarbone, the threat of carving up her face to match Dustfinger's.
"Do you think he'll get himself read here," Roxane asks, voice hushed with fear. They're all looking to the open gate as though waiting for him to materialize, a phantom out for revenge. Frollo arriving at the court of miracles.
"I don't know. I told Silvertongue and he thinks Basta just said all that because he was in a rage."
"Yes," Dustfinger murmurs," Basta says a lot of things when he's in a rage."
"I won't let that bastard near my family," Jaime says, a grim light entering his eyes that Julianne has never seen before. He's not supposed to be a hard man, he's supposed to be kind and full of smiles. Jaime Wildes was never supposed to know the pain of fire or heartache. "He puts one foot on my property and I'll cut it off."
"I'll help you," Julianne says. "He doesn't get to do this to us again. I'll kill him first." Her voice isn't as strong as Jaime's, it's faint from terror.
"Enough with that sort of talk," Dustfinger says, clearing his throat. "Come on, let's all go inside and think happy thoughts." He wraps one arm around Julianne and the other around Farid, urging them into the small farmhouse. "Why don't we have a song while I get a fire going? Juli, Roxane?"
"Only you could thing of music at a time like this," Roxane mutters. She and Julianne share a look of fond exasperation, but a lighter subject will make the fear dissipate like fog in sunlight. They all settle down in front of the fireplace, watching with interest as a spark leaps from Dustfinger's hands to the dry tinder.
"Come on now. Sing us something happy."
"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin," Julianne starts, a well-known tune in the Wildes home. "Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in. Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove and dance me to the end of love. Please dance me to the end of love."
"Oh, let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone," Roxane picks up, leaning against her husband's chest. "Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon. Show me slowly what I only know the limits of and dance me to the end of love. Please dance me to the end of love."
"Dance me to the wedding now."
"Dance me on and on…."
They sing until the kids are sound asleep, light snores filling the night air and joining with the chorus of cicadas. Farid sleeps like the dead, his head pillowed on Dustfinger's lap. The adults don't even pretend that they're tired, they're too alert for that, too high strung.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Wayless Wood, a magpie is shooting a blue jay.
Updates will be on Mondays and Wednesdays. You can listen to all the songs used in this story by following the link in my playlist (unlike all the other links, this one actually fucking works).