His chest and arms were surprisingly hard, lean muscle against her hands, and under his thin T-shirt he was carrying a gun. Mae felt the shape of it press briefly against her stomach.
Alan wasn’t harmless. He didn’t mind if she knew it.
For a moment she didn’t even think to return the hug, just stood there frozen. He’d started to pull away by the time she curved a hand around his shoulder, and there was an awkward instant where she grabbed him and he stepped back in too close and then they both stepped away too quickly.
She wasn’t expecting a hug from Nick. She didn’t even get a hello.
He leaned against her door with his arms folded and nodded at her. When she suggested they come inside he followed them into the sitting room, always one step behind, carefully shadowing his brother.
Mae couldn’t stand how ridiculous and off balance she felt, and took the desperate measure of being her mother’s daughter and playing hostess. “Sit down,” she said, and pinned a smile in place like a badge. “Can I get you guys anything? Juice? Tea?”
“I’d love some juice,” said Alan.
Nick shook his head.
“What, you don’t talk anymore?” snapped Mae, and wanted to bite her tongue out.
“I talk,” said Nick, his mouth curving slightly. “And I see you still pester people.”
He had a deep voice that reminded Mae of a fire; a low, dangerous sound that crackled occasionally and made you jump. Listening to Nick talk was like seeing Alan walk. It was always obvious there was something wrong.
“It is one of my favorite activities,” said Mae, and went to get Alan some juice.
When she came back, she found Alan sitting in an armchair by the fireplace like a proper guest. Nick was roaming the room as if he was a feral dog she’d shut up in the house and he was searching for signs of danger and getting ready to bolt. He was stooped over the grand piano and he looked up, not startled but wary as she entered the room. Mae took a quick, instinctive step back and her free hand found the doorknob, her palm suddenly sweaty against the cool juice glass.
She’d always been a little jolted when she met Nick’s eyes, and it was worse now she knew why. His gaze was steady, his eyes not the windows to any soul but to another world, a world with no stars or moon, no possibility of light or warmth.
Then he looked down at the piano keys and was again simply the best-looking guy she’d ever seen, with lashes lying feathery on high cheekbones, a sooty shock of hair such a dense black that it didn’t shine but always looked soft, and a full mouth that should have been expressive but somehow never was.
“Do you play?” she asked, and felt stupid and enraged. She never usually felt stupid.
“No,” said Nick in that low, emotionless voice. She thought that was all he was going to say, since he was always careful with words, acting as if he had a very limited supply and might run out at any moment. But he added, “Alan used to. When we were kids.”
“Ages ago,” Alan put in, his voice very light. “I was also on the football team and I played the guitar. But where I really shone was my work on the tambourine.”
He didn’t say that that had been before their father died and before Alan had been crippled, when they’d had money. Mae held on tight to the doorknob and felt embarrassed by her whole house.
“We could get a piano,” Nick said.
“And what, keep it in the garden?” Alan made a soft sound, almost a laugh.
“We could get a bigger place. You could play the piano. You could play football. We can do
Mae had never heard Nick’s voice show feeling, but she had heard it show danger plenty of times. He didn’t shout, but sometimes everything went silent when he spoke and his voice sounded louder, like the slide of a knife from a sheath in a sudden hush.
She remembered Nick’s voice sounding like this one night when he’d whirled and hit his brother. And she remembered Alan coolly pulling a gun.
Alan’s voice cut Nick off.
“No, Nick. You can’t.” He turned away from his brother and focused on Mae. “Mae, come here—thank you—and tell me what exactly is going on with Jamie. What magician is he mixed up with? What’s going on?”
And Mae found herself sitting in the armchair across from Alan, her hand curled, as if still around the glass Alan was now holding, and feeling at a loss and almost annoyed. That was the thing about these two. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them. She did, but she didn’t feel in control around them. She wanted to feel in control.
“Gerald, of course,” she almost snapped. “He said he’d come back for us and he has. Only I didn’t know he’d come back, and it’s—it’s pretty clear that Jamie’s been meeting him and not telling me. I saw them, and they seemed like they were
So she’d gone running to them. Again.
Mae clenched her hands into fists and looked away from them both into the empty grate. She hated feeling so useless.
She wasn’t looking when the door burst open and Jamie’s voice rang out, saying, “Mae, are you really sick— oh.”
Mae twisted around and saw Jamie held still by surprise in the open door, one hand clinging to the door frame. His expression of concern was fixed on his face, as if he’d absentmindedly left it there even though he was done with it, and Mae felt suddenly and unexpectedly angry with him.
He was much more scared to see Nick than he’d been to see Gerald. And no matter what Nick was, he’d done
