Page 67 of For the Love of the Quest

If she weren’t feeling so resigned, she would have laughed at that. She hated these clothes, hardly ever wore them. In slipping back into her old life, Edith had never felt less like herself.

“Thank you, Father,” was all she said.

He came up behind her and gripped her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Edith. You made the right decision.”

“Thank you,” she said again, unable to look away from her own eyes staring back at her in the mirror. Her father watched her with a peculiar look, as if waiting for her to speak. It took Edith a moment to realize what he wanted from her. “I’m sorry I ran away. It was disgraceful of me,” she said hollowly.

His posture relaxed, and he gave her shoulder a squeeze. With a satisfied smile, he said, “The waves are too choppy right now. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Edith nodded, tried to smile, and failed.

“You must be exhausted,” her father said with a hint of distaste. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

“Thank you,” she said again, feeling a lot like a parrot or a show pony.

He tilted his head and smiled in a way that was both pitying and indulgent. Edith couldn’t meet his eyes. He squeezed her shoulder again. Just as he was turning to leave, his eyes caught on something. Edith followed his line of sight and froze.

“Good Lord, are those—”

Edith reached, but he was faster. His hands snatched out and took her grandmother’s urn.

“You haven’t had these with you the whole time, have you?” The shock and scorn etched into every line of his wrinkled face had Edith shrinking down into her chair. “When they disappeared from my mantle, I figured you’d hidden them away somewhere like a sentimental, spoiled little girl. But I never thought you’d be so selfish as to steal them away across the country. They could’ve been destroyed, Edith! I’m shocked you didn’t lose them!”

“I would never let anything bad happen to them,” Edith said in a small voice, while in her head all she could think was,As if you care.As if you cared about Grandmother at all. She might have been your mother, but I loved her with my whole heart. More than you ever did.And perhaps it wasn’t fair to compare love. He had loved hismother in his own way. He did grieve her. But Edith didn’t care if it was fair or not. She was petulant and angry and …

Her father clutched the ashes to his chest and stormed from the room after one final scoff. It took her a moment to comprehend what had just happened. Her father had taken the ashes from her.

In that moment, the wrongness of it all crashed into her with alarming clarity. Her father did not deserve to be the keeper of Edith’s grandmother’s memory. Her ashes did not belong on a mantle under a veil of dust. Where her father would gesture to them and say to his guests,Ah yes, my mother. An eccentric, foolish woman.

Edith stood abruptly from her chair. She strode over and pressed her ear to the door. When she didn’t hear anything on the other side, she flung it open. Edith might have made a mess of everything else in her life, but she would not stand for her grandmother’s remains to be treated in such a manner. As she crept from the room, she could hear her father’s footsteps already above deck. She hadn’t seen anyone else on the small vessel, and so she threw caution to the wind. There were only a few rooms and closets below deck, and she searched through every one of them.

The urn was nowhere to be found, and there was only one door left below deck. It was locked. Edith crouched in front of the doorknob and pulled two pins from her hair. She slid one into the keyhole, trying to remember what Thomasin had taught her. But Edith hadn’t been paying much attention to the instruction. She mostly recalled the way Thomasin had pressed up behind her. The way her strong arms had wrapped around Edith. Thomasin’s fingers tracing along her knuckles, and how much larger her hands were than Edith’s own. But still somehow so graceful and dexterous. She had guided Edith’s fingers through the motions of picking a lock with all the fluidity and nimble artfulness of a piano player. Then Edith’s mind conjured other memories of Thomasin’stalented fingers, and she blushed so hard she thought she might faint. With a shake of her head, she forced herself back on task.

They had practiced on the door of the inn they last stayed at. By the end of their stay, Edith had been picking the lock all on her own. This lock wasn’t so different. She felt her pin meet resistance, and she twisted it, letting it find the grooves within the keyhole. At an angle, she eased in the second delicate pin. She adjusted that angle until she heard a soft click. Holding her breath, she turned the knob. The lock gave way, and triumph bloomed in her chest. She snuck into the room. Gray, late evening light filtered in through a porthole on the far wall. Beneath it was an imposing dark walnut desk.

Edith heaved a sigh of relief when she saw her grandmother’s urn atop the desk. She rushed over and scooped it into her arms. The motion made a stack of papers flutter, and her eye caught on something that made her heart drop into her stomach. There was a queasy feeling climbing up her throat, and her ears rang. Sticking out from under the pile of ledgers was a simple cream envelope. Written in violet ink was her name. Edith would know the handwriting anywhere. The grand looping script, slashed across the page as if the writer was in a hurry. Her grandmother always said her hand could not move as fast as her brain did, and that was the only acceptable excuse for messy handwriting.

Edith picked up the envelope. It was as if she were no longer on the boat, but suddenly back in her grandmother’s room. Edith could see her sitting at her writing desk, the image so vivid. The desk, cluttered with knickknacks and books. Papers scattered. At her grandmother’s elbow, her inkpot, filled to the brim with her favorite violet ink.

Edith held the letter in her hands, turned it over, fingers tracing reverently over the broken wax seal. Her grandmother had written her a letter. Her father hadn’t given it to her. Edith’sgrandmother’s last words, and he had taken them. Just like he’d taken the ashes.

Once, she might have let him get away with it. But not anymore. She was going to steal back what was hers. Starting with this. She slid the single sheet of parchment from the envelope.

Dearest Edith,

You didn’t think I’d leave you without one final piece of wisdom, did you? It feels very Arthurian to be writing this letter as if I’m already beyond the grave. I’m imagining myself resting in Avalon, peering out at you through a veil of still water. My hope is that you are reading this letter somewhere exciting. Perhaps amid a dangerous quest? I know you must be awfully sad that we did not seek Excalibur together. But the dreaming and the planning and the wondering … those times with you meant the world to me. I don’t mind that I will be greeting death with the great mystery of Avalon still intact. What a shame it would be to have learned everything there is to learn. The magic is in the mystery after all. But while I am content to have spent my waning days dreaming, oh Edith, I want so much more for you. If I know you, and trust me, I do, then you’ll be feeling rather guilty to be going on the quest without me. Do not. You did not know me when I was young. I was a reckless, wild, terror, and I had my adventures. It is your turn now. Find Excalibur, or don’t. I want you to do every mad thing you can think of. Every mistake you make, I’ll be all the more proud of you. After all, Malory wrote that “a good heart will always mend a bad fortune.” And you, Edith, have the best heart of all.

All my love, for all time,

Your grandmother

Tears ran down Edith’s face. She wiped them away before they could fall and smear her grandmother’s words. Her beautiful words. Edith had never felt so loved and so foolish in equal measure. Everything she had done to try to redeem herself, to bring honor to her grandmother’s memory, none of it mattered. Not really. Her grandmother had not seen her life as one that needed vindication, and she had not seen Edith as a burden. All these choices Edith had made, she told herself that she was being selfless, doing right by the people around her. But that was just a shield. All her decisions, except for when she finally embarked on the quest, had been driven by nothing but fear. And that was the only reason she was alone on this boat: fear. She could tell herself she had left for Thomasin’s own good, but she knew deep down she was just being a coward. That was not the way to honor her grandmother, who was wild and kind and loving. Just like she wouldn’t have wanted her ashes to remain safe yet sequestered, she wouldn’t have wanted Edith to do the same to herself. Because that’s what Edith was doing, wasn’t she? By running back home with her father, she was just putting herself back on the mantle where she would never be hurt.

This was how she would honor her grandmother, how she would make up for all her failings. She had to keep living wildly no matter how scared she was, and no matter how many times she got hurt. Time had run out for her grandmother, and Edith couldn’t fix that. Before her grandmother’s passing, Edith hadn’t been ready to go on the quest. She had always thought of that as her biggest mistake, the most obvious example of her worthlessness. But what if it was okay that she hadn’t been ready yet? If she had gone on the quest earlier, she never would have …

Thomasin’s face flooded her mind. She never would have met Thomasin. Edith stormed from the room, letter and urn in hand. Her fear had come between her grandmother and the quest. Edith owed it to her to do better. She could not let her fear come betweenher and Thomasin. She could not make the same mistake twice. Thomasin was everything she ever wanted, and Edith had walked away because someday Thomasin might not love her anymore? That was ridiculous. Even if Thomasin did stop loving her, Edith did not want to miss all the days in between. She suddenly didn’t care how many days of loving Thomasin, of being loved by her, fate might grant her. If it was only a handful, then Edith wanted them all. She might not have any treasure to offer Thomasin, but she could offer herself. Edith could give everything she was to Thomasin. Maybe that would be enough.

Edith had to make things right. For Thomasin and her grandmother. She was so glad that her father had taken the ashes, because it had made one thing painfully clear to Edith. It was better to try and fail with people who loved her than wither away on a mantle with people who only ever tolerated her.