Chapter Text
The muted atmosphere that followed after Molly's graveside service couldn't last forever. The grief didn't go away, but it did become less acute over the next few months. It was the sad reality that life continued on after tragedy, even when you felt like it shouldn't.
There was still school, for most of us. Magic lessons every day after school was over for me. Extracurriculars for Matthew, softball for Alicia, mini twirlers for Amanda, swim lessons for Hope. Mom had PTA meetings, Dad had monsters to slay. We all kept busy.
We were home now for the holidays. Cold had swept in, banishing the broiling heat of summer as Thanksgiving loomed. Snow coated the city, unnaturally thick even for a Chicago winter. We had the week off, and most of the kids relished the chance to pelt each other with snow. As for me, I was nursing a number of bruises. Harry had been teaching me shields. I hadn't been very good at it when the threat had merely been snowballs. So Harry had dragged me to a mini-golf course after dark and he and his friend Thomas had taken turns taking potshots at me. Even though they'd been using wiffle balls instead of golf balls, some of the hits had really hurt. I swear Thomas had super strength and relished using it.
I had a compress pressed against the worst offender on my bicep. Hope and Harry were in the kitchen with Mom, helping with--or rather hindering--her preparation of a cranberry pie. Shrieks sounded from the backyard.
"Hope don't give your brother a cranberry mustache," Mom chided from the kitchen. She was trying to sound stern, but even I could tell that she was trying to restrain a chuckle at her antics. Hope let out a pealing laugh.
Beside me, Dad sighed contentedly. I'd gotten better at shielding with Harry's assistance. Still, I could feel a muted sense of happiness rolling off of him. He was relaxed into the couch cushions, not really watching the game on the television.
"How's your arm?" he asked. "Do you need Tylenol?"
"I'm good. Took some a little while ago. It'll stop smarting in a bit."
Dad nodded. I hesitated before murmuring. "I'm sorry, you know."
"For what?"
"For...everything. For causing trouble and putting you all through hell."
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tugged me in close. Even though I'd grown another inch or two, I still felt like a kid when he hugged me. Part of me probably always would.
"Don't apologize for seeking answers, Daniel. We all had questions. And now, thanks to you, we have an answer. It's better that we know."
There was a definite shift in the mood of the house this holiday. There was still sadness, of course, but there wasn't a potent sense of longing, as there had been in years past. Molly was gone and now we could all stop yearning.
I nodded, throat tight. I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just shoved the knife in a little deeper and twisted it. But Dad seemed to mean it. He preferred having the answer.
A knock sounded at the door, though it could barely be heard over the commotion in the house. The doorbell rang shortly afterward. Probably Father Forthill or Harry, who'd both been commissioned to bring food to the early Thanksgiving celebration.
"I'll get it," Mom called, bustling out of the kitchen before Dad or I could push to our feet. Little Harry trailed behind her, popping a cranberry happily into his mouth. She reached the door a few minutes later and pulled it open with a smile.
That smile dropped from her face like a stone, eyes going wide, filling with tears. She let out a breathless sound and then her knees just seemed to declare total surrender. She slumped to the ground in a boneless pile with a soft sob. A second later I saw why.
A young woman stood in the doorway. She was thin, almost angular in her proportions, even bundled in a padded coat and a scarf. Her hair was white-blonde bleached almost free of color except for the very tips, which were the color of blue and pink cotton candy. But the face was unmistakable. Pretty, with a cute nose and big blue eyes.
"That's..." I croaked. "That's impossible."
Because the person on our front stoop had to be a ghost. Molly gave us all a guarded, uncertain look.
"May I come in?"