For all of two seconds Stephen thinks she just means I want to join them for roasting marshmallows or something, but then he sees the look on my face. “Ah,” he says. “I see. I’ll call the others.”
Within ten minutes I’m standing in the innermost ring of an outward-spreading circle of angel-bloods, the entire congregation assembled again in the middle of the meadow, and every single one of them is looking right at me. I try not to squirm. Stephen asks me a single question: “Do you promise to serve the light, to fight for the side of good, to love and protect the others who serve alongside you?”
I say I do. In that way it’s kind of like a wedding ceremony.
The congregation unfurls their wings. I’ve seen them do this before, with my mother, when they were saying good-bye to her the last time I was here. But now it’s me in the center of the circle, and it’s night, so when they summon glory around me, it kind of feels like the sun rising in my soul. I haven’t felt glory since the Garter, and something releases inside when the light floods me. I feel warm, for the first time in more than a week. I feel safe. I feel loved. Their light fills the meadow, and it’s different from the glory I call up in myself, fuller, like the beating heart of every person in the circle is my heart, and their breath is my breath, their voices my voice.
God is with us, they say in Latin, for what I assume is the team motto, their words a swelling hum around me. Clara lux in obscuro. Bright light in the darkness.
“I’m thinking about Chicago,” Christian says, the day after we get back to Lincoln. He’s sitting at the dining table in our hotel, surfing the internet on his laptop.
I look up from where I’m preparing Web’s morning bottle. “What are you thinking about it?”
“We should move there,” he says. “I’ve found us the perfect little house.”
I promptly lose count of how many spoonfuls of powdered formula I’ve scooped into the bottle. “Oh. A house.” He’s looking at houses. For us. Even though I feel lighter after the glory in the meadow the other night, the idea of hiding away with Christian and Web, creating a whole new identity for myself, still doesn’t sit right.
But Christian’s excited about it. He’s making plans.
He sees the freaked-out expression on my face, or maybe he feels it. “Clara, don’t worry. We can take this whole thing really slow. One step at a time, with everything. Let’s stay here for a couple more weeks, if you want. I know it’s hard.”
Does he? I wonder. Walter is gone, I think. Christian’s an only child. He’s not leaving anything behind.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “I had friends at Stanford. I had a life there, too.”
“Stop reading my mind!” I exclaim, then say stiffly, “I have to feed Web,” and leave the room.
I’m being childish, I think. It’s not Christian’s fault we’re on the run.
After Web is fed and changed, I slink back into the kitchen. Christian’s closed his laptop. He’s watching TV. He looks up at me warily.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “We’ve been cooped up.”
“Will you take Web for a while? I need to take a walk. Clear my head.”
He nods, and I hand Web over to him.
“Hey, want to hang out, little man?” Christian asks him, and Web coos happily in response.
I beeline it for the door.
It’s raining outside, but I don’t care. The cool air feels good on my face. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt, pull up my hood to cover my head, and walk to a park a few blocks from the hotel. It’s deserted. I sit on one of the swings and turn on my phone.
I have to do this one last thing, which I’ve been avoiding—hoping, maybe, that everything would work itself out. But it’s not working itself out.
I have to call Tucker.
“Oh, Clara, thank God,” he says when I say hello. He was sleeping, and I woke him, and his voice is rough-edged. “Are you okay?” he rasps.