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I listen to these people I don’t know use the past tense about my mother, the person who brought me into this world and created my present. They are past-tensing my heart—my whole beating, bleeding, torn heart—right in front of me.
Forever: We’ll talk later is not the same as We’ll never talk again. The twine from February closes tight around me like I will never take another breath, but somehow the police officer is still talking, shimmering and shining. The air around him looks alive. Like he is drenched in magic. But when your entire world is shattering, a little bit of magic is… nothing.
Because I can’t just sit in our room right now. Because ever since my mother died, there’s a version of me inside that wants to break things and scream.
No one wants to hear the real answers. What the Sorry for Your Loss Crowd wants is to feel good about asking the questions. This game is awful.
Some truths only tragedy can teach. The first one I learned is that when people acknowledge your pain, they want your pain to acknowledge them back.
Death moves faster than brains do.
I’m sixteen. I pay attention. I listen to the stories from uncles, cousins—hell, my own father—about police run-ins and stops. I see the videos online. Sitting in this car and thinking about those images makes my heart pound. I don’t know if there’s a single Black person in this country who can say with 100 percent confidence that they feel safe with the police. Not after the past few years. Probably not ever. Maybe there are some, somewhere, but I sure as hell don’t know ’em.
By the time my second class is over, one thought has burrowed in my mind like a splinter: Someone used magic to hide what really happened the night my mother died, and I’m not going to let them get away with it.
So, I have to ask: Is the Order based on the legend? Or is the legend based on the Order?
Growing up Black in the South, it’s pretty common to find yourself in old places that just… weren’t made for you. Maybe it’s a building, a historic district, or a street. Some space that was originally built for white people and white people only, and you just have to hold that knowledge while going about your business.
When his glittering golden eyes find me, a line from childhood comes to mind unbidden: All the better to see you with, my dear.
“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion and heir of King Arthur Pendragon of Britain, the son of Uther Pendragon, wielder of Caledfwlch, the blade Excalibur, and first-ranked of the Round Table in the Shadowborn holy war, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order.”
“but ‘Medieval Fun House of Horrors’ would make a great band name.”
This type of knowing is an expensive toll to pay. I can’t forget the knowledge just because the price is high. And yet, sometimes we have to tuck the reminders away today in order to grow power against them tomorrow.
“Did you just Lord of the Rings me?” “Nope.” I grin. “I just Fellowship of the Ring’d you.”
“Bree.” She grabs my ankles with both hands. With a face drawn in mock solemnity, she declares, “This is like a book. Or a TV show where everyone has great hair and is way too old to play a teenager. You are literally a walking rom-com right now.”
“Colonizer magic. Magic that costs and takes. Many practitioners face demons. Many of us face evil. But from the moment their founders arrived, from the moment they stole Native homelands, the Order themselves gave the demons plenty to feed on! They reap what their magic sows.”
“How could I have risked so much for a lost little girl who probably needs as much therapy as I do?” He tilts his head, eyes going unfocused. “Well, that’s not possible.” He laughs again, but this time it’s so self-deprecating it feels like my anger has nowhere else to go. “No one needs as much therapy as I do.”
“And everyone falls in love with Nicholas, Bree—it’s part of his insufferable charm.”
“No matter what you do, you gotta live your life, kiddo. You gotta be in the world. That’s what she would want you to do.” He reaches across the table to take both of my hands in his. “Don’t make your life about the loss. Make it about the love.”
“What changed your mind about the gala?” “Disney movies,” I mutter. “Ah yes. The unsubtle propaganda of ball gowns and charming princes.”
