Alban saved me.'
Cole made a choked sound of disbelief. 'Tony would’ve seen him, Margrit. He would’ve said something.'
'Would he?' Margrit sighed. 'It happened so fast, and would you believe your eyes if you thought something big and pale and winged had swept down and snatched me up? Or would you think, no, you must’ve seen me go flying, nothing else would make sense?' She offered an unhappy smile. 'And I can’t ask him if he thinks he saw something impossible, because Alban’s life depends on secrecy.'
Frustration contorted Cole’s features as he opened and closed his hands. 'You’re protecting him. You’ve been lying to all of us to protect that…
Anger bubbled in Margrit’s chest and she tightened her arms around herself, trying to keep it in. Letting Cole bait her only gave him control over the discussion. It did no one, least of all Alban, any good for her to rise to the fear and accusation in her housemate’s words. Still, several seconds passed before she trusted herself enough to say, 'Yes,' in a neutral voice.
'I thought I knew you, Margrit.' Distrust hollowed Cole’s eyes. 'I thought we were friends.'
'You do. We are. You have no idea how much I would’ve liked to have told you about all of this from the beginning.'
'You should have.'
Margrit swallowed. 'Should plantation owners who helped run the Underground Railroad have told their families what they were doing, Cole? Should Germans who sheltered Jews have announced it to the neighborhood?'
Real anger flashed in Cole’s eyes, so sharp Margrit clenched her thighs to keep from stepping back. 'That’s not the same thing at all, Grit.'
'Why not?' She kept her voice soft, knowing the argument Cole would make, but waiting to hear it said.
He didn’t disappoint her, though at the same time, he did. 'Because slaves and Jews are
Margrit nodded stiffly, her entire upper body swayed slightly with the motion. 'Not if you asked most slave owners. Not if you checked Nazi doctrine.' She had once read a facetious argument that claimed that once Hitler came into a conversation, any rational discussion was over. She felt as if she balanced on that line, trying hard not to stray into overblown rhetoric. 'You see my point?'
'I see it.' Cole bared his teeth. 'I just don’t accept it.' He turned and walked away, leaving Margrit slumped by her bedroom door. She turned her wrist up, looking at her watch, and her shoulders sagged farther. It was hours until she had to be at the memorial service. She should’ve waited to shower and dress, and taken time to go for a run. Without consciously planning to, she pushed away from her door to find a pair of socks, then pulled her running shoes on.
'I’m going for a walk,' she said quietly and slipped out the door to no response from her housemates.
It wasn’t as good as running, but it was vastly better than being cooped up in the apartment with Cole’s censure hanging over her. Margrit stalked along, hands in her pockets, letting her feet take her where they wanted while her thoughts hopped in exhaustive detail from one moment of the past week to another. More than once emotion threatened to overwhelm her, making her steps unsteady as she worked her way through the park. It would have been easier with Alban at her side, but sunset’s refuge was still far away. She had to face daylight troubles alone, as long as she was with him.
Cole’s anger and fear came back to her, and she sat on a bench, face buried in her hands. Any fantasy of sharing Alban and his world with her friends and family had shattered at his reaction. Worse, promising Cole that she would explain to Cameron created a new level of danger for them. Margrit herself had petitioned to lift the law forbidding humans to learn of the Old Races, and had done so with full understanding of what could happen to those who couldn’t bear the weight of their secret. She hadn’t thought that threat would strike so close to home, or so quickly.
She would have to make him understand the necessity of silence. Margrit pushed to her feet again, mouth set in a grim line. Of all the shocks and upheavals in the last week, she might at least be able to address that one before anything terrible came of it. One small victory would seem a candle against the dark, and she would take whatever light she found.
'What is it you’ve done, love?' The soft transatlantic accent came out of nowhere, startling Margrit into a stifled shriek. Grace O’Malley, catlike in her amusement, sauntered up the pathway and took the seat Margrit had just abandoned. She spread her arms along the bench’s back, using all the space, and smiled at Margrit, though the expression didn’t reach her brown eyes.
Margrit glowered at her as much from envy as embarrassment at being taken off guard. She’d never seen Grace in daylight before. In the sun, her pale vibrance was set off even more dramatically by a black trench coat. Some of her height came from the extra-thick soles on her heavy boots, but even without them she was taller than Margrit. Sprawling across the bench showed her long limbs to their best advantage. Her platinum-blond hair, cropped short, had much darker roots, a nod toward humanity that Margrit imagined would be bleached away again in a day or two.
Not that the leather-clad vigilante was inhuman, according to Alban. She was merely leggy, gorgeous, and looked good with the pale gargoyle, which was offensive enough. Margrit’s glare faltered into rueful humor. She approved of what little she knew about Grace, and if Alban found her attractive, it seemed evident he found Margrit more so. 'What do you mean, what have I done?'
'I’ve been watching.' Grace pulled herself together, taking up less room on the bench, and Margrit sat down again. 'The ice rink. The ball. You’ve got them all dancing to your tune.'
Margrit laughed in disbelief. 'I wish I had your confidence about that. You’ve been watching? Why?'
'What goes on with you and yours affects me and mine. Don’t pretend you’re not the fulcrum, love. Change swirls around you like a maelstrom, and you stand steady at its center.'
'You’ve got a funny idea of steady. I’m barely keeping my head above water.' Margrit shifted, uncomfortably aware that, protests aside, Grace had a point. 'I didn’t mean for all of this to happen. Everything has just snowballed, from the night I met Alban. What was I supposed to do, dig a hole and put my head in the sand? Snowball and sand,' she muttered. 'I’m mixing my metaphors.'
'Might have been better. Grace likes a steady boat, and you’re running like a mad thing, trying to overturn it.'
'Like I overturned the demolition of your building in Harlem?' It hadn’t been Grace’s building at all; it had been one of Eliseo Daisani’s properties. But beneath it lay one of the major hubs for Grace’s complex under-city existence. Daisani had deliberately moved against her, in retaliation for Grace exposing his subway speakeasy to the world. 'How did he even know that building’s subbasement was one of your centers, anyway?'
Grace’s voice sharpened. 'He’s Eliseo Daisani. What doesn’t he know, if he wants to? I didn’t think anyone used it,' she said more lightly, though it sounded as if doing so cost her. 'That chess set down there with the selkies and the djinn, well, I recognized that, didn’t I? But the place was sealed off tight as a tomb, not even any dust to come filtering down. If I’d known the Old Races still used it, I’d never have shown it to the city, good press or no.' She brought her focus back to Margrit, a crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. 'But aye, even that, like overturning the demolition of that building. It would have wreaked hell with our network, but vengeance would’ve been a done deal and all of us let alone after that. Now?' She opened her hands, a fluid gesture that reminded Margrit of Janx’s grace. 'Now we’re still riding the troughs and peaks of the storm you’re stirring up.'
'Not stirring,' Margrit said, suddenly light-headed with clarity. 'Stirred. I think we’re moving toward reaping the whirlwind now.' Her laugh turned to a shudder, and she leaned forward, elbows on her knees and fingers laced behind her neck. 'I mean, I’ve got a funeral to go to in a couple hours, for someone who’s dead pretty much because I agreed to help Alban clear his name. A few tens of thousands of selkies declared themselves because I made an offhand comment about strength in numbers. My housemate’s angry and scared out of his mind because he got a glimpse of Alban’s real form. I’m past stirring. I’m standing in the storm.'
'Back off.' A note of pleading tinged Grace’s voice. Margrit lifted her gaze to find her expression grim with hope. 'Back off, love. Let them fall back into the patterns they know. They’re too old to change their habits without someone forcing them along. I like stability. It’s all that keeps my kids safe.'
'They asked for my help.' Margrit’s voice dropped. 'Alban. The selkies. What was I supposed to do, say no?
