Ophelia stares at me, her eyes wide as I babble. When I cut myself off, silence lingers between us for the stretch of one heartbeat. Then two. At three, I’m sure I’ve ruined things.
“I don’t have to talk about myself?” she finally asks.
I try not to be obvious about my sigh of relief.
“Not if you don’t want to.” I nod toward the two empty chairs on the dock, one of which I was just occupying. “You can just sit and relax and listen to us chatter. And you can leave whenever you want.” I lean toward her, lowering my voice. “Jack doesn’t talk either unless Ame asks him a question.”
Ophelia nods, and I thank the gods when she starts walking toward the dock again. This time, I let her get a step ahead of me, and when we reach the gangplank, I give everyone a warning glare that I hope they properly interpret.
Do not scare the firebird, I demand with my eyes.
“Everybody,” I call out even though their attention is already on us, “this is Ophelia. Ophelia, some of these might be a reminder, but this is Mor, Anthony, Niko, Ame, and Jack.”
There’s a chorus of greetings, and Ophelia detaches a hand from her bag strap long enough to offer a wave.
Ame slips out of Jack’s lap—ignoring his grumble of protest—and opens a cooler.
“What would you like to drink? We have water, beer, seltzers, and cider.”
Ophelia focuses all her attention on Ame. “Cider, please.”
Ame pulls out a bottle, pops the cap, then places it on the small table between the two chairs left open.
Then, my younger sister turns to Mor. “Have you decided if you’re helping with Galen’s Gauntlet again this year?”
And with that, talk turns toward the magical competition held in Folk Haven every other summer and away from Ophelia. The firebird settles into her seat and sips her cider, the tension in her shoulders easing as time goes by and no one asks her any probing questions. Slowly, the anxious orange in her aura fades from neon to pastel.
I wonder what had her retreating. Did she think we would ask questions about her traumatic time as the sorcerer’s captive?
Or was it more than that?
This week, I’ve played multiple facts over and over in my head. First, the small number of names in Ophelia’s phone. The firebird has been in Folk Haven for six months, and she hasn’t made any connections, it seems, outside of work and her living situation.
Then, there’s her lack of a last name and past life.
Jack mentioned his memory of the time spent as a cat had plenty of holes in it, but not of his life before his capture. He could recall growing up in California with his mother and best friend, Niko. He told us about the werewolf pack he attempted to join, but who ended up selling him to a sorcerer to fuel the man’s twisted magic.
Turned out, it was only one member of the pack that betrayed him, and the rest have done their best to earn his forgiveness. The wolves even relocated to Folk Haven, much to the consternation of the established pack. But that’s a can of worms I plan to stay far away from.
All this shows that Ophelia should have memories of her years before she was turned into a rabbit and used by that evil man.
Could it be that her time prior to captivity was bad in a different way? Was she betrayed, like Jack was?
Or is there simply nothing left from before?
As much as I want to know, I keep my curiosity to myself. Ophelia doesn’t owe me anything, especially not explanations of her past trauma.
“I just can’t commit to it,” Mor sighs, and I refocus on the conversation. “The Gauntlet planning takes up so much time. And depending on the spells, a lot of energy too. I have a library to run, my magical object studies, and I still need to figure out our statue problem.”
“Statue problem?” This soft question comes from Ophelia, and I try not to vibrate with happiness that she’s engaging in the conversation.
Mor gestures toward a thick stand of trees to the left of the library. “There’s a statue garden there. Metal sculptures created by the dragon who used to live in this house.” The library was previously a residence only, and from the outside, it still appears to be a regal Victorian house. “There is one statue though that I think might be alive in some way. But frozen. I want to make sure it isn’t someone who’s trapped.”
Ophelia goes tense once more, and Mor grimaces, no doubt realizing she brought up the very worst topic.
“Oh, look! Lucky is here!” Ame proclaims much louder than she normally would as her black cat familiar strolls onto the dock. My sister gets up again, earning another unhappy grunt from Jack, which she ignores. Ame scoops up her feline and strolls over to Ophelia. “Do you remember Lucky? She loves to cuddle.”
“Oh, yes. I remember.” The firebird seems perfectly content to allow my sister to set the animal in her lap before Ame strolls back to Jack.