“We’ll get some paint to cover it, then,” I say, trying to calm her down. I look to the old man for assurance. He gives a halfhearted shrug, which is close enough to permission for me. “Olivia and I will stay up here tonight, okay? Tomorrow we can talk about painting it or going somewhere else.”
I hold my breath and wait as my mom stares at the mural for a long unsettled minute. Part of me hopes she won’t agree, that she’ll decide this place is all wrong, but then she gives a small nod.
“We can paint over them.” She finally looks at me again, and I see her slowly coming back to herself. “We need to stay here,” she says, her blue-gray eyes serious.
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight Olivia and I will sleep up here. It’ll be fine. Right, Liv?”
“Sure, Mrs. Allister. We’ll be great,” Olivia says, stepping forward and giving my mom a quick hug. My mom doesn’t pull away from her.
“See? All settled.” I touch my mom’s shoulder again, feeling her muscles quiver as she forces herself to not jerk away from me like I’m one of the monsters she imagines. I pull my hand back and give her the space I know she needs as I try to ignore the bone-deep loneliness I feel in a room filled with people.
“Is there a way to turn this thing off?” Olivia asks as she walks over to get a better look at an antique sconce hanging over the bed. The lamp is an elegant twist of glass that reminds me of a fluted flower. As she examines it, the orange-red flame throws a strange glow across Olivia’s upturned face. Like the lamps downstairs, it’s burning even though there’s plenty of daylight left.
“It ain’t safe to turn it off—” the old man starts with a growl, but then he stops short, like he’s just said something he shouldn’t have. “Old lines and all. Never can tell what would happen,” he finishes, his voice only a bit softer. “Besides, it’s tradition to keep it burnin’.”
“Leave the lamp be,” my mom says softly, her voice still filled with worry.
I look over to find her staring at the fairy wall again, one hand slightly outstretched. I can’t tell if she’s reaching for it or pushing it away.
“I assume everything’s in order, then?” the old man says.
When my mom doesn’t answer, he eyes me.
“Yes,” I say, trying to smile. “Thank you.”
“Right.” The old man seems satisfied enough as he leaves us alone in the attic room.
“He’s not serious about the light, is he?” Olivia asks, her brows bunched.
“I think he was,” I tell her. Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain that there’s always something in each of the places we’ve moved to. Rows of stones carved with protective runes. Lines of salt or iron nails buried at the four corners of the property. Crystals hanging from the windows or, this time, lights that must always remain burning.
“I guess we should start bringing up the bags,” I say, glancing at Olivia.
“He’s not going to get them for us?” she asks, and her confused expression is almost enough to lighten my mood.
I shake my head. “It shouldn’t take us too long. The rest won’t be here until tomorrow anyway.”
“Right,” Olivia says, shooting me a concerned look. I give her a subtle nod to let her know I want a second to talk to my mom before I follow. “I’ll just get started then,” she tells me, heading toward the stairs.
I hesitate, waiting to see what my mom will do. But she only seems to have eyes for the fairy wall. It’s like I’m not even there.
“We could still go back, you know,” I say, taking a step toward her. “We could get you some help. I’m sure Olivia’s mom knows someone at the hospital who could—”
My mom glances at me, and the look on her face makes the words die in my throat. “We’re safe now,” she whispers. “Everything will be fine.”
“We were safe in Westport,” I say with more bitterness than I mean to let slip. “I was happy there.”
My mom frowns, like she doesn’t really understand why I’m pushing her on this. “I know you were, but . . .” She doesn’t finish her thought, but her brows pinch together. “This is the right thing to do,” she says finally. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
This is where I’m supposed to say, Of course I trust you. But I can’t. Maybe in a few weeks, after the rawness of being torn away from the life I’d dared to make for myself has eased, but not yet. “This won’t be the last time, will it?” I ask instead.
My mom has never said any of our moves would be the last. She’s never even pretended, and I’ve never asked—only hoped. But this move is different. This move doesn’t feel like me and my mom against the world. This move feels like me and my mom against each other. This time, I need to know.