“Oh, don’t go changing sides on me, Iris. You’re my literary-fiction girl. I raised you so I could have a nonfantasy ally in this damn family.” This was a joke. Sort of. But it was also true, and for the first time, I didn’t like that I’d been raised to be on his team.
I paced until I found my voice. “You know I’m not into elves and crap, but being here makes me wonder what was going on in Grandma Mae’s head. How did she have the courage to write her guts into those stories? What if the world had hated it?”
“Your grandmother didn’t care what people thought about her. Not even her son.” My dad’s voice was on the edge, and I held my breath. “Iris, she was a classic writer—whiskey and neglect. Don’t need more of those in our lives, do we?”
“No.” He didn’t hear the edge in my voice. He never did. “You’ll call back in a few days?” I asked. “When you’re done?”
“Soon as I’ve sent my draft to my editor and the coast is clear.”
The snippiness of his voice worried me. “Dad, are you staying off Goodreads?”
He almost growled. “Who reviews a book about a dead FBI tech director and gives it one star for…” I pictured him leaning forward, scrolling, quoting. “‘Not having enough dogs and cats in it.’ What is wrong with this world, Iris?”
He hung up before I could attempt an answer, which was in line with our longstanding relationship. He lobbed questions like grenades, and I sat in the crater of the aftermath, pondering.
“What’s wrong with this world, Dad?” I thought about everything that had transpired since we arrived. “Enough to need a fantasy one.”
Ryder’s—or my dad’s—old copy of the Elementia trilogy was still sitting next to my brother’s pillow. I picked it up and flipped to the last page. To the bio and headshot showing off Grandma Mae’s long, dark hair and the eyes Eamon hadn’t been wrong about. They had a dark brightness to them that felt bold beyond this world. But Eamon had been wrong about me. Mine might have been the same color, but they were flat and sad. My dad’s eyes.
I pushed away the thoughts and read the short bio.
M. E. Thorne was born in San Francisco in 1945. She is the author of the Elementia trilogy. She lives in Ireland.
Wait, she lived in Ireland?
AN IRISH INTERLUDE
Outside, the morning sky was turning brilliantly blue. I went in search of breakfast and maybe to have a few words with Ryder. He’d been strange earlier—getting dressed and calling Dad all on his own. He’d even left without pleading with me to go with him.
A tall, angular man stood beside a griddle, popping silver dollar pancakes in the air. Apparently, this was Mr. Donato. Ryder stood next to him holding out a plate. He caught three in a row before he missed one, and I was about to speak up, but Mr. Donato’s response was to toss a pancake onto Ryder’s head. My brother’s cheeks were bright red from laughing, and all I could think about was how he’d slapped himself last night. I’d made him snap.
Only Dad pushed him over the edge at home.
I grabbed a banana and sat at an empty picnic table with my empty thoughts.
“Hey, I’ve got something for you.” Eamon appeared next to me like he actually did have sneaky elf powers. He held out a closed fist, and I put my cupped hand beneath it. He opened his fingers, and nothing but air appeared on my palms.
“Oh look, it’s an excuse to talk with me,” I said.
“Magic elf dust, Iris.” He winked. “You have to believe in it to see it.”
I pretended to sprinkle it on his head. “You need it more than I do. To help you get a comb through that hair.” He pretended like he was offended, and I pushed his shoulder. Someone snorted behind us, and I turned to see Henrik with his dark glasses and floppy hat and clipboard.
“Something funny?” I asked.
“Yes. Puppies are hysterical.” Henrik handed small pieces of paper to Eamon and me, our sides for the day. I noticed that Cate had already put Ryder’s job on there. God, she was quick. My meeting with Julian was there as well.
“Why is my name stamped on this?” I asked Henrik.
“In case it gets leaked on the internet. Then we know it was your fault.” He walked away, heading for Cate’s trailer. It was identical to the others apart from a small Irish flag by the door.
“What’s Henrik’s story, Eamon? Cate and him are an unusual pairing. He’s such a grump and she’s so can-do.” Eamon shrugged, and I glanced at his T-shirt and jeans. He’d changed since the interview this morning. Now he looked like he’d fallen out of a 1990s music video—which reminded me that one of these days, I was going to see him in full makeup and costume. Acting. “When are you shooting scenes?”
“I’ve got a few more days. Still just enjoying the general splendor on set.”
“And doing your blog series.”
“Ah, yes. But I promise not to bring that up while you’re around. I know how you feel about cameras.” Now Eamon looked at his side. “What are you doing with Julian Young?”
I leaned in. “I’ve been assigned a special mission: make Julian Young a better actor.”
“You’re going to need that magic dust then.” Eamon leaned in too, and his crazy hair brushed my forehead. “So you’re staying around after all?”
“Don’t get too smug about it.” We were oddly close, and I studied him. He was cuter today than yesterday. Some boys were like that. One day they were sort of odd, and the next they had noses and grins and eyes that seemed manufactured in a fall for me factory.
“Do I look strange?” He wiped his mouth, a dash of shyness making him even cuter.
“No, you
