Page 17 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
After Uncle Neel stomped out the front door, Briar hooked my waist and kissed me, soft and brief. I goggled when he withdrew. “See you tomorrow?” he breathed beside my ear.
A chill skied down the slope of my neck.
Winking, Briar followed in my uncle’s footsteps.
Happy to leave my belongings where they were after loading them in Briar’s trailer that morning, I forged into the pastel florals, mauve voile, and impressionistic paintings decorating our family room. Mismatching woven rugs covered the hardwood floor of the cluttered, cozy room.
Our two cats—Fianna, an orange tabby, and Kell, an enormous Maine coon—were both sprawled on the rug closest to the double French garden doors, completely indifferent to my arrival. I greeted them by scratching their chins, then stepped over their fuzzy bodies.
A tall wooden fence enclosed our garden, where every square inch of ground served a specific purpose. We’d devoted most of the yard to raised herb and vegetable beds, but there were also fruit trees, berry bushes, creeping vines, my rose bushes, and two flowering dogwoods. In the right-hand corner sat a large, sided doghouse where our giant blonde mutt, Novus, napped in a bed of buttercups.
He’d been around since we’d moved to Pittsburgh when I was little, but his curly coat hadn’t whitened with age. Novus was my favorite pet, although his heart and soul clearly belonged to my dad.
Draped in a plaid blanket, Daddy lounged in a distressed Adirondack chair by our fire ring, his dark-circled eyes closed upon a sunbeam. His skin, once as creamy as milk, now hung loose from his crescent moon profile, gray and jowly. Even the arches of his Danann ears lacked the mettle to stand.
I froze at the sight of him. Had it only been a little over a month since I’d last seen him? How could he have become so weakened and enervated?
I had trouble remembering when my father was the stalwart athlete Uncle Neel told stories about. Whatever illness he’d contracted when I was a preschooler had been slowly eating at his strength for years, but his vibrant spirit had always transcended his frailty. Now, however, he reminded me of a guttering flame.
Daddy’s brittle voice squeezed through cracked lips. “Don’t just stand there.” His nostrils flared, taking in my scent, his sense of smell acute, though his body was failing him. “Come and sit with me, Amy. I’ve been waiting to see you.”
Battening down fears that could rock my soul, I sauntered to the chair beside his.He’ll rebound, I soothed myself.Uncle Neel’s specialist will find a new treatment. It’ll work.
Daddy’s gaze glimmered at me like moonlit oceans. “Ah, I’ve missed that face—and those lovely eyes—amber today, like your mother’s.”
I clasped his skeletal hand where it rested on the arm of his chair. Silver hairs dusted his knuckles. “What are you reading?” I gestured toward the open book sitting in his lap. A pile of other cloth-bound books sat on the ground beside him.
Daddy dog-eared his page, showed me the cover. “The Social Contract—Jean-Jacques Rousseau.”
Admiring the cover’s gilded font, I took the book from him. “What’s it about?”
“Oh, Rousseau had this idyllic notion that no monarch is divinely entitled to create and enforce laws on his—or her—people. That only the people themselves can do that.”
I chuckled. “What a novel idea.”
Daddy grinned as I thumbed through the pages. “It’s a fantastic idea. Especially in this—country. Of course, it’s not a universal fit.”
“Where wouldn’t it fit?” Nowhere would’ve been my answer.
Daddy shrugged. “Anywhere that the public has been deceived, or immorality has too much influence. When those immoral few start using the masses as a tool for their own selfish gains, fearmongering them into believing what’s best for them is bad for them—and vice versa. When the tide of public opinion becomes detrimental to the common good, that’s when a strong, well-meaning sovereign is necessary. Corruption can poison even the strongest government, Amy. We should never forget that.”
“I thought democracy was meant to weed out corruption.”
“It’s meant to.” Daddy grimaced. “That doesn’t mean it always will.”
“That’sdepressing.” I closed the book, blowing bangs from my eyes.
His chuckle sounded too dry, too harsh. “It’s logical.”
Preferring my idealism to logic, I handed him back his book.
Daddy shook his head, tousling his silver hair, once as black as a raven’s wing, against his seat back. “Keep it. I want you to read it.” He motioned to the pile on the ground. “I want you to read all of these, actually.”
“Allof them?”
“Yes.”
Shaking my head, I hefted several of the tomes onto my lap, reading off their illustrious authors, “John Locke. Machiavelli. Karl Marx? Voltaire.Plato?” I gaped at him. “I thought I was done with school this year.”
