Page 87 of Ashen Souls

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said flatly.

Harper’s face fell. “Oh no.”

“The dinner,” I confirmed. “Every week. No exceptions. Questions, unsolicited advice, passive-aggressive concern. I don’t have the energy to dissect my life over the chicken. Or pretend I'm fine.”

“You don’t have to tell them everything,” Harper pointed out.

“They don't need me to tell them. They'll just look at me and know I'm a mess.” I dropped my head into my hands. “I’m not going.”

“Wait.” Harper sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing. “Your dad.”

“What about him?”

“He restores old books for the university,” she said, her tone shifting. “Ancient texts. Marginalia. Stuff no one else is allowed to touch.”

“How did I forget that?”

“Because your brain has been occupied with alcohol and questionable life choices,” she replied.

I pushed myself off the bed, ignoring the dull throb in my temples. “He works with original materials. Untranslated notes. Rare bindings. The kind of things that never get digitized.”

“And things that don’t show up in public archives,” Harper added.

The mental fog was starting to break. “He might know about Aethrya. Or at least recognize the sigil. He’s been in that basement workshop longer than I’ve been alive. If anyone’s stumbled across something that doesn’t fit official history…”

“It’s him.” Harper watched me. “I officially don't believe in coincidences anymore.”

Dad.

“Aveline?” Harper tilted her head. “You look like you just had an epiphany.”

“Harp, I think my dad really might know something.”

“Why?”

“After my accident, when I spent those two weeks recovering at their house… one day he acted really weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Out of nowhere, he just started staring at my left wrist.” I pulled up my sleeve, looking down at the lines of the sigil. “But there was nothing there yet. It just itched. What if the itching was the first sign the sigil was going to manifest?”

Harper frowned. “But if it wasn't there yet, what was your dad staring at?”

“Exactly.” The image clicked into place. “He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Then he bolted into his office and started frantically digging through some old journal.”

Harper exhaled a quiet curse, sinking back against the wall. “Well. Now you have even more reason to talk to him tomorrow.”

“So I go to dinner,” I said, pacing a short line across the rug. “I play the exhausted student. I get him alone and I ask.”

Harper crossed her arms. “Just be careful. You start poking around in buried histories, you might not like what you dig up.”

“I already have a demon mark on my arm and two guys scrambling my brain. At least answers will give my problems a name.”

Harper grabbed her jacket. “Alright. Family dinner. Ancient texts. Magical revelations. I’m officially drafting an escape plan.”

“In case of what?”

“In case the dinner turns into an interrogation. Or a prophecy.”