Chapter Text
They’ve been banished to the back porch despite the chilly weather since Jimi insists on burning incense and noxious herbs any time they smoke indoors. If that wasn’t enough, Blue will be starting her first health unit soon, and teenaged Orla has made sure she knows how to throw around the phrase “double standard.”
Maura folds herself up onto the end of a wicker couch while Calla sprawls sumptuously across the length of it. The low wicker table between the two of them and Persephone is a different color, picked up from a different thrift store by a different Sargent woman. Calla lights the blunt with a great big hiss from the lighter and an opaque cloud of smoke. They pass it in silence for a moment, waiting for the high to hit.
Abruptly, Calla pokes Maura’s clothed thigh with her bare foot. Her skin is still warm despite the chill, and Maura leans into the contact. The slightly-too-large-to-be-tasteful anklet she wears jangles. She says, “You’re hiding something.” Persephone nods, owl-eyed.
It shows restraint on Calla’s part that she’s so vague. Psychic snooping is technically against good etiquette, but there’s not much point to the rule. They’ve all lived in each others’ pockets so long that the line between clairvoyance and mundane knowing has blurred. Besides which, it would be absurd to act like 300 Fox Way isn’t full of nosy know-it-alls. Privacy could be had, but usually not for long.
Maura lets herself hog the blunt for a moment as revenge for Calla making her talk about this. Even as she sinks into the haze of intoxication, the nicotine zings along her senses pleasantly. It feels the same way as it does when Aurora says her name. That thought forces out the admission: “I met someone. It’s not actually a thing, so you don’t need to worry about it.”
“Don’t you tell me what to worry about,” Calla snaps.
Persephone reaches across the table for the blunt. “The someone is married,” she says wisely. She inhales deeply and blows out a cloud of smoke that a dragon might envy. She coughs, small and polite.
Maura rolls her eyes, and they feel too big and sticky for her eyelids to cover. “She’s hardly married. Her husband has some job that means he’s out of the country for months at a time.”
“Oh, but it’s not a thing!” Calla cries. She and Persephone exchange a look as Persephone passes the blunt.
“Fine, it’s a crush! I can have a crush without it being a thing . Persephone has a crush on the damn mailman.”
“His shorts are very well-fitted, Maura.”
“Anyway, I’m mostly… intrigued. She’s intriguing. I’m not going to be tearing apart any marriages over it.” Calla and Persephone share another look. Maura does not have to put up with this. “What?”
Calla leans gingerly over the porch railing to ash the blunt. Her purple-painted lips twist. Maura knows she has the sort of juicy insight that she rejoices in telling other people, things people don’t know about themselves. She just feels conflicted because it’s Maura. “Intriguing is exactly your type. Your high school boyfriend with the trenchcoat was intriguing. That woman with the tattoo that changed colors was intriguing. Butternut was so damn intriguing you let him knock you up. You have a problem.”
Maura gapes at her, too stoned to formulate her defense. They should have broken out the sangria instead. Red wine makes her downright legalistic.
Persephone puts a hand on each of theirs. “Let’s not fight. I’m having a premonition that it will all turn out all right.” Calla and Maura turn twin glares on her. She giggles and steals the blunt from Calla’s other hand with a wink. “Perhaps,” she says a little more seriously, “Calla’s concerns would be alleviated if you arranged a serendipitous run-in with this crush of yours.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary since, as I said, it’s not a thing , but you’re always welcome to join me at drop-off or pick-up,” Maura concedes.
Calla wrinkles her nose. “I’d have to duck out of work early.”
“Then don’t come! I really, truly do not give a damn.”
“Oh no, I’m coming. Let those Aglionby bastards struggle without me.”
“Fine.”
“It is.”
The circle well and truly disrupted at this point, Maura goes ahead and yanks the blunt out of Persephone’s grasp. She takes a final puff before putting it out on the porch railing. “Let’s go inside, I’m freezing my tits off.”
They don’t get a chance to arrange a meeting on neutral territory. The next day, a Wednesday, a knock on the door interrupts an informal family dinner. Most of the mismatched chairs pulled up to the kitchen table are occupied by the kids: Blue, Orla, a couple of her cousin Harriet’s toddlers. Calla stands in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, crumbs scattered around her feet from Persephone’s failed attempts to throw food in her mouth. Maura is eating a fish stick off a paper towel while she leans against the counter.
She leans over to get a peek at the front door, and spots Jimi on her way to answer it. Maura has a feeling about who is waiting on the other side, a feeling that’s equal parts excitement and trepidation. She shoves the rest of her dinner in her mouth unceremoniously. When she breathes into her cupped palm to check her breath, she recoils from her own stench. Nothing to be done about it without a conspicuous trip upstairs.
The door is opened, and Maura hears a familiar voice speaking in unfamiliar tones. She hurries into the living room and gives Calla’s arm a squeeze as she passes her.
Aurora is there, unexpected but not unforeseen. The surprise is the three boys in tow behind her. Jimi tries to shepherd them all in and get the door closed, but quarters are tight between the staircase along the wall and the overstuffed couch that is shoved too close to it.
“Well, hello neighbour,” Maura says from the other side of the room. Ever-attentive Blue has followed her in, and is staring flabbergasted at the Lynches.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, a vision of hospitality.
Aurora busies herself getting her sons inside and needlessly adjusting their coats. “We hate to intrude,” she says in an odd, hollow voice. She won’t look up and meet Maura’s eyes. Jimi steps forward to put a reassuring arm around her shoulders.
“That’s my sister Jimi,” Maura says, “Jimi, Aurora.” The two smile delicately at one another. Maura speaks up so she can be heard in the other room. “Orla, can you take Blue and the boys upstairs? Her room or the cat room, it doesn’t matter.”
Blue pouts, “We don’t need a babysitter .” Orla wanders out of the kitchen with the pretense of leisure. Maura knows she likes being put in charge, especially when it annoys Blue. Her eyes widen a bit when she sees the small crowd gathered in the room.
“She’s not your babysitter, she’s your wrangler,” Maura says dryly, “to stop y’all from eavesdropping or sneaking out.”
Blue deflates, caught.
Orla smacks her sparkly lip gloss covered lips and gives Declan a critical once over. “How old are you?”
“Twelve?” he answers, incredulous but still with a dry edge of boredom.
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Whatever, don’t get any ideas. Come on, guys.” She leads the party to the stairs. Declan and Ronan both look about ready to sink into the floor, but Matthew tugs on their hands, and they follow reluctantly after him. Blue is last up the stairs. She gives a final withering stare to Maura before she vanishes to the second floor.
Persephone pipes up from the back of their little party, “Margaritas?”
“You’re psychic, act like it,” Calla grumbles. She shoves off from her post leaning against the wall and leads the way to the kitchen.
“I’ll get the blender down then,” Persephone says. She floats after Calla.
Maura looks at Aurora, who appears lost at sea. She still won’t meet Maura’s eyes. Jimi squeezes her shoulder. They wait there for a moment in silence while Calla noisily commandeers the kitchen. The other children flee looking chastened. Maura murmurs, “Perhaps some tea instead.”
“No,” Aurora says shakily, “I think I’d quite like a margarita. I’m not sure I’ve ever been drunk before.” They all giggle a bit, but Aurora still looks vaguely shellshocked. Maura could reach out and sense the cause of this whole state of affairs as easily as plucking the string of a lonely harp, but she holds herself in check. Aurora had seemed so frightened by that possibility the last time they spoke.
“That was Persephone and Calla, by the way. My best friends. They live here too,” Maura explains. She’s well aware that 300 Fox Way and the unique living situation of its inhabitants can be a lot to take in for newcomers.
They head to the kitchen, and Maura starts clearing off the table. Jimi follows with Aurora in tow and gets her settled at one of the more comfortable chairs that make up the mismatched dining set. Calla and Persephone have managed to get the blender down from on top of the cabinets, and Persephone is still standing on top of the counter in her sock feet. She makes no move to help Calla actually mix the drinks, but she provides running commentary and critique. “More tequila, I think,” she says gently. Then, “She’ll much prefer sugar on the rim.”
Maura sits down once all the dinner plates are in the sink and all the ice trays are down from the freezer, ready for Calla to smash and grind. She hesitantly reaches a hand out to place over Aurora’s. It’s cold and dry but still so very soft. Aurora looks up and makes eye contact with her for the first time all night. Maura hadn’t known how hungry she was for that simple acknowledgement until it was withheld, and the pleased fluttering in her belly overwhelms her nervous dread in an instant. It feels like practicing somersaults in her childhood bedroom.
She opens her mouth to offer some meaningless platitude, but she’s interrupted by the comically loud drone of the blender. The ice cracks and rattles until it’s properly broken down and incorporated. Aurora’s eyes widen and then crinkle in silent humor. The whole time the blender runs, they maintain eye contact. Maura’s palm starts to sweat. She can’t hear Aurora’s thoughts, that’s not how her insights have ever worked, but she can feel the rapid pace at which they’re running. It’s like the thudding vibration of many pairs of sneakers on the wooden floor of a high school gym- the classrooms next door shake with it.
The blender shuts off. “Would you like to talk about it?” Maura asks.
Aurora looks down again. “Niall and I had a fight,” she admits after a moment.
“A bad one?” Calla asks from the counter. Persephone has finally hopped down from the counter and is sampling the blended concoction.
She shakes her head. “The only one.”
Jimi must sense the truth of that, but she asks, “Really?” She and Orla’s father had made it work longer than most Sargent women ever managed, but it had never been smooth sailing between them. Aurora nods. “No shit!” Jimi says, amazed.
Maura hums in agreement. Back in the day, she and Artemus didn’t have fights per say. so much as she would rant at him indignantly and he would go quiet and stare at the nearest tree until she let him get out an apology. Still, she knows Aurora isn’t splitting hairs like that.
“We’re not perfect. I mean, we don’t always get along just so,” Aurora says defensively, aware that she’s said something odd. “He does things I don’t like, and I’m not always the person he wants me to be.”
Calla slides a tall blue glass, filled to the brim, in front of her. Aurora slides her hand out to pick it up and take a loud slurp from it. Maura misses that contact immediately. She doesn’t let herself linger. Instead, she gets up to pour margaritas for herself and Jimi.
They all settle in at the table, clustered around the end where Aurora sits. Her glass is already half-empty. Calla, stirring the pot, asks, “So if you never fought before, what’s changed now?” Maura glares at her, knows from the tone of her voice that she’s trying to lead Aurora to a specific answer.
Aurora considers it. “We- me and the boys, not Niall- used to be a lot more isolated. I’m less willing to put up with his bad behavior. Maybe he feels like he’s losing us because he isn’t the only person in our atmosphere.”
“He’s not jealous that you went out and made friends, right?” Jimi asks, as crossly as she’s capable.
“No. I don’t think so. Well, maybe he is, but that isn’t what he said,” Aurora says. “To be honest, we really only fought about what I told you the other day, Maura.”
The other women jerk their heads around to stare at Maura accusingly. She holds her hands up and says, “It wasn’t my information to share! Go dig up your own gossip!”
Aurora smiles at Maura. “Thank you for your discretion.” To the other women, she says, “Sorry to continue the secrecy, but it’s probably for the best after tonight. Niall would rather decide for himself who to trust with family secrets.”
“Something tells me it’s not just his secret though,” Calla says dryly. Maura has the same notion, but she’s already made peace with not knowing the whole truth until Aurora is ready to share her portion.
Aurora doesn’t comment, she just takes a long pull from her glass.
“Perhaps,” Persephone suggests, “A reading would help.”
“A reading? Like a Bible passage?” Aurora asks. The assumption is so sweet it makes Maura’s chest hurt. The other residents of 300 Fox Way titter, amused.
Calla shakes her head. “Like a psychic reading. I believe Maura told you about our use of tarot cards?” Maura reaches over to smack her arm gently. The only way she would know about her and Aurora’s conversation is through a little clairvoyant nudging.
“I don’t know…” Aurora says, looking down into her glass.
“I think,” Maura says as quietly as she can, “I might be too close to the problem to shed any light on it.”
“I don’t believe I said that you would be doing the reading, Maura,” Persephone says, casually dismissive. “There are three other capable women at this table.”
Aurora looks at each of the women in turn, clearly apprehensive. The alcohol has turned her cheeks a brilliant rosy red, but she looks remarkably with it. Maura, with her small stature, is usually compromised after just one of Persephone’s drinks. Aurora turns to Maura last of all. “Perhaps you could help, though?” She worries her lip between her teeth in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Maura is still relieved she’s looking her in the eye now. Maura nods.
“To the reading room?” Jimi asks. In answer, the other clairvoyants rise from their seats. Aurora stands, but she doesn’t immediately follow. Maura lays a hand on her back to reassure her and guide her in the right direction, through the living room. She feels the same oddness, the magic, that she felt the first time they touched, but now it’s tinged with a certain familiarity.
“It’s really nothing crazy,” she says. “More often than not, the cards just tell you what you already know. At the end of the day, it’s up to you how much to value their input.”
Persephone retrieves her cards from a small drawer in an oversized antique hutch in the corner. Jimi lights several candles around the room instead of turning on the overhead light. Calla settles down at the head of the table in this room, her plastic cup held in her hand as if it were a goblet decorated with precious gems. Maura puts herself and Aurora in chairs side-by-side.
“Three card spread?” Calla asks.
Persephone nods. “Too many factors already in play, any more might lead to further confusion.”
The reading room always feels more intimate than the rest of the house, perfect for exposing hard truths and answering delicate questions. The energy of the work they’ve done there remains; it hangs in the air like spiderwebs coated in glistening dew. Normally, Maura draws it around herself for protection and empowerment. Now, it just hangs there, and she feels naked without it. Maura leans into Aurora’s side. She feels like she ought to whisper. “You’ll shuffle the cards,” she says, “and then Persephone will pull three cards. The first, your current situation. The second, your main obstacle. The third will be advice- you can take it or leave it.”
Aurora nods, and she takes the deck from Persephone. The cards are a little larger than standard, and so they ought to be unwieldy in her hands. Her handling is slightly clumsy from unfamiliarity, but the deck suits her in some strange way. Maura is reminded of the vision she had the day they met: Aurora wispy and transparent against a vibrant fall day.
She places them in front of Persephone, who studies them for a long moment. In an anticlimactic display, Persephone simply takes the top three cards and places them face-up on the paisley-patterned tablecloth. Her hand gestures are graceful but swift and decisive. Maura loves to watch Persephone during readings, how utterly herself she seems with her cards in hand.
The first card she turns over is the Ten of Wands. Ten severe lines suggest the arch of a bridge that is under too much strain. The abstract configurations of Persephone’s deck heighten Maura’s emotional understanding; they make her intellectual knowledge of the cards secondary. “You undertook a difficult situation,” Persephone says softly. Aurora nods, but Maura can’t quite guess what she’s referring to with her limited knowledge of Aurora’s background.
“You’re holding onto too much now,” Jimi says. “The center won’t hold forever.”
“Drop the dead weight,” Calla summarizes.
Maura cuts in, “That’s not quite right. The card suggests that everything you carry is equally valuable to you. It’s not an easy choice whether to let go of any of them.”
Persphone slides her hand over the second card. It’s filled from edge-to-edge with harsh, scribbly darkness, interrupted only by a small circle of paper white in the center. The Moon. “Deals done in the dark,” she says. Maura thinks she sounds almost scared. “Secrecy and illusion.”
“You’re partially to blame,” Calla says. Aurora flinches and stares at her with wide eyes. “The moon can refer to the subconscious- the ugly stuff you’d rather not know about yourself.”
Maura shakes her head. “You may know it, but avoid examining it in the light,” she amends. Aurora doesn’t seem particularly comforted by the distinction.
“But make sure no one is pulling the wool over your eyes. Someone else might have an interest in your ignorance,” Jimi advises.
The final card shows two soft lines moving across a smudgy blue shape. Maura takes a sharp inhale. She knows she hasn’t even touched the cards, but she still worries that her energy has somehow impacted the reading. She wants too much. “The Six of Swords,” Persephone finishes.
“A journey,” Maura explains, “Physical or emotional.”
“You’re breaking new ground, entering a new stage of life. Some things must be left behind,” Jimi says.
“Drop the dead weight,” Calla reiterates.
Aurora closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and looks at the cards for one long, contemplative moment before she turns away. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what to say.”
They sit in silence for a beat before Calla says, “Well. Let’s get you another drink, hmm?”
After a while, Maura goes upstairs to check on the kids. She ignores all of Blue’s blatantly nosy questions as well as all of Declan’s subtler digs for information. When she mentions that they’ll be sleeping over, she senses an anxious spike in the energy of the room, beyond what would be normal for three sheltered homeschoolers who’ve never had a sleepover. Maura makes a note to investigate that further once the current crisis is dealt with.
Declan insists upon sharing with Ronan instead of Matthew, who is offended until Maura offers her own bed up for Matthew to share with his mother. Blue and Orla nearly come to blows over the idea of sharing a room for the night, but when Maura suggests that she could instead sleep in the babies’ room, Blue agrees readily enough.
She tasks the older kids with finding the sleeping bags in the spare closet and heads back down to the kitchen. After the reading and another round of drinks, Maura feels too keyed up to sit back down at the table. She meanders around the perimeter of the kitchen until she settles with her back leaning against the doorway.
Jimi is halfway through an amusing anecdote about a cousin’s birthday party. “It turned out the cake was entirely raw in the middle. It practically oozed batter when we cut it! We had to pass around a basket to run and buy an ice cream cake from the supermarket.”
“Wait, wasn’t that the party where you two finally got your act together?” Maura asks.
“If you count getting locked in a closet until we communicated our feelings like grownups as ‘getting our act together,’” Calla says breezily.
“Oh, you two are-?” Aurora looks between Calla and Persephone with wide eyes. Maura wants to hit herself for so carelessly bringing it up, but she’s relieved to see that Aurora looks largely neutral, if politely scandalized.
“We certainly are,” Calla says testily, taking hold of Persephone’s hand.
Persephone stares down at their clasped hands, feigning surprise in her subtle way. “That explains several things about our sleepovers.”
Maura snorts and is relieved to see Aurora laughing too. After a moment, her head sways and her chin lands on her arms, crossed on the table in front of her. “I think,” she declares, “I think I might be a little drunk?”
“And it only took three of our strongest margaritas. Incredible,” Maura intones.
Calla smiles approvingly. “You might be made of tougher stuff than I thought.”
Aurora smiles back at her and holds up a wobbly hand for a high-five. “Yaaay, I’m a real girl,” she says. Maura gets the feeling she doesn’t know she said it outloud.
“All right, let’s get you in a bed before you pass out on the table, huh?” Maura scoots Aurora’s chair away from the table and takes her hands to help drag her up. Aurora rises, stumbles, and falls into Maura’s arms. She stands for a beat with her head on Maura’s shoulder, just breathing deeply. Maura freezes, face hot. She has to remind herself that Aurora doesn’t know what she’s doing, that she’s in a tough place right now besides.
“You smell like fish,” Aurora says when she stands up straight, dopey smile plastered on her face. Maura guffaws in spite of herself. She’s hit with a wave of sheer relief that the weird, hollow Aurora who walked timidly into the house earlier is gone. That rush of reprieve sinks down into her bones and becomes something thick and sticky like honey. Oh , she thinks. She’s really fucked.
Aurora is teetering towards the front of the house and the staircase when she whips around like a seasick cat, and she says, “Niall doesn’t know where we are. I don’t want him to worry.”
The pleasant heaviness is replaced by a cold shock. Maura berates herself for finding any joy in the situation. Of course, this fight doesn’t mean anything. She’s still in love with Niall, she still wants to make things work. They’re married, they made a commitment for better or worse. The Six of Swords doesn’t change anything.
Jimi asks, “Do you need to borrow the phone?”
Aurora shakes her head rapidly and leans on the banister at the base of the stairs. “No, no. I have, um, a cellphone in my purse. Where’s my purse?”
“In here,” Maura says, spotting it slung over the back of Aurora’s chair. She picks it up to ferry it over to her.
“Would you please send him a message for me?” Aurora asks. “I don’t really want him to know I’m drunk,” she adds softly. She’s looking at the ground almost bashfully, and Maura can’t help but notice how long her eyelashes are, how pink her cheeks are. She scolds herself and digs out the little silver phone from Aurora’s bag.
She flips it open and stares at the tiny screen with some confusion. Calla comes up behind her, weaves her arms under Maura’s, and hits a large button in the center of the keypad. A menu appears, and she selects a little envelope icon. Maura sees three unopened messages in Aurora’s inbox, all from Niall. The first few words of each are displayed from the menu, and she glimpses a “You didn’t have to take…” She catches herself before she reads anymore, and then she stabs a button to choose ‘New message.’
This is quite literally the first text she’s ever sent, so it takes her a moment to get the hang of locating the letters on the keypad and mashing each button the proper number of times. She remembers that she isn’t entirely sober either. Eventually, she has a simple, “Staying at a friends. Boys are already asleep. Back tomorrow.” She thinks it would be unwise to specify which friend, given the nature of their argument. Maura shows it to Calla for approval, who goes ahead and hits send on her behalf.
“Done,” she says. She goes back to Aurora and leads her up the stairs with guilt heavy in her belly.
Matthew is already asleep in her bed, sprawled out in the middle like a starfish. Aurora giggles as she rolls him over to one side and tucks him in. “Nothing wakes him up!” she says in what passes for a quiet voice when someone is drunk. Matthew’s little snore confirms it. Maura fetches her an old t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. She doesn’t let herself think about Aurora wearing them, Aurora sleeping in them, Aurora waking up wearing them with tangled hair and bleary eyes. She wagers that Aurora doesn’t even wake up with tangled hair.
She points down the hallway to the bathroom and says goodnight. When she turns to go, Aurora catches her sleeve in her fingers. “Maura.”
Maura turns and is wrapped up in Aurora’s arms before she knows what hit her. Her hair is impossibly soft on Maura’s face, and a faint smell of wildflowers and moss clings around her despite the cold outside and the night of drinking inside. She can’t tell herself that Aurora doesn’t know what she’s doing this time- this was intentional. “Thank you,” Aurora murmurs in her ear. Just as quickly as she was surrounded by her, Maura is left alone in the doorway. Her face burns with the shame of how much that simple gesture meant to her.
She leaves and tries to make peace with a long night of tossing and turning on the couch downstairs.