"It's not me," Trow insists, shocked, as Roger now turns to interrogate him.
"It is you," I counter. "It is you. I know it is." I look at Roger. "He is literally written in the stars. Seven sisters. His mother made sure to give him seven sisters. She was told to. And the salt dances into his name. His birthday is the winter solstice, and mine is the summer. And look what he can do." And I don't even think about it. I reach out and put my hand on the kettle on the stove, which is still hot enough that it instantly burns me and I cry out involuntarily.
"Merrow," Trow says.
I turn to him, blinking back the tears in my eyes, holding up my blistering palm. "Fix it," I say to him.
"I can't just fix it," he snaps. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Yes, you can. Just let yourself fix it. Whatever you did outside, when you kissed my cheek, do it again."
"I didn't do anything. I—what is wrong with you? Why would you do that to yourself?" He leans over to turn on the cold water and then frowns hard at my hand, reaching for it.
Before his fingers close around my wrist, it's completely healed, the blisters curled in on themselves, the red leached out of it.
The kitchen is so silent, you could hear a pin drop—or my mom muttering to herself in the other room, but that's not an expression.
Trow blinks. "What just happened?" He takes a step away from me in alarm. "I don't understand what just happened."
"It's you," Roger realizes. "A boy. That was the most brilliant bit of enchantment yet."
"I've been enchanted into being a boy?" Trow says, sounding confused.
Roger half laughs. "No, but we were all expecting girls. I don't know why. Must have been a misread prophecy somewhere. But a boy. Of course. I am sorry, girls, but you are not the fays," Roger tells Trow's sisters gravely. "Brought into being by a faerie on the run in order to fulfill the prophecy, but you're not going to save the world."
"Okay," says one slowly.
"And Trow…is?" says the other one.
"Trow is a fay of the seasons, prophesied to save the Otherworld." Roger beams at Trow. "And he's a healer."
"I'm a healer?" Trow echoes.
"That's your talent. Merrow can read the stars, and you can heal."
"Like my father," says Trow softly, sounding stunned.
"I should have realized it immediately. All of the people you're successfully taking care of." Roger gestured to encompass all seven sisters. "That's a healer hallmark."
"If he can heal," I insert, "can he fix Mother?"
Roger looks grave. "A healer isn't all-purpose—there's only so much he can do. Much like a human doctor, there are times when a healer's greatest strength is accepting his own futility."
"But I can try, right?" Trow says.
"Certainly," Roger replies. "The only thing any of us can do is try."
Trow puts down the baby he's been holding all this time and walks into the living room. I follow, dimly aware that everyone follows behind us. He stands over my mother and concentrates very hard. My mom, seeming to sense that something important is happening, falls silent and still.
After a second, Trow moves away. "I don't know," he says, frustrated. "I can't seem to do anything, but maybe I just don't know how—"
My mom grabs on to his arm. "You have to rewrite the story. That is how you fix it: you rewrite the story."
"Okay," he says, gently prying her hand off of the death grip on his arm. "That's what we'll do. Merrow and me. We'll rewrite the story." He straightens and walks toward me and gives me a little smile of encouragement. And then he looks to Roger. "What do we have to do? If we do it, will we be able to fix everything? Our parents too?" He gestures to indicate the cluster of his sisters.
"Possibly." Roger settles his eyes on me. "That all depends on what Merrow sees in the stars."
· · ·
I stand outside in the dark, and I take a three-part breath. I clear my brain of all the incredible chaos of this day. I don't think of prophecies. I don't think of my mother, caught motionless inside the house behind me. I don't think of my mom, who taught me how to read these stars, who knew all along what I should be reading in them and yet dreaded that it would come to pass. I don't think of Trow's sisters, the littlest ones asleep now, the middle ones silent and solemn and shocked, the oldest ones listening to Trow tell them a crazy story and expect them to accept it. I keep my mind as clean as I can.
I also don't look up at the stars. I look beyond them. I half close my eyes and look through my lashes and watch them dance above me.
When the door opens behind me, I know it is Trow. He comes to stand next to me, not touching, but I edge closer until he gets the hint, until he opens his arms and I settle into them.
"How are they?" I ask.
"Oh, they're dealing," he says. "They're champs. They always just roll with the punches, take what gets thrown at us."
"You're like that too," I tell him, aware that we see ourselves least clearly of all.
Trow makes a noise that is half-skeptical, half-accepting. It's a cute noise. I lean my head back against his shoulder and say, "Do you think any of this would have happened if I hadn't met you? Do you think I dragged all of you into this?" Is all of this my fault? I add silently.
Trow shifts so that his nose presses in behind my ear. His nose is cold, but I don't flinch away. I stay focused on every point of contact, grounded here in this world that's mine, while the Otherworld winks just beyond the stars. He says, "Nah, I think this was all always meant to be. You tell me, Merrow. What do the stars say?"
I think of how many tarot cards I've dealt for myself and how the message was never clear, how nothing about Trow would come into focus. I turn suddenly in his arms and say, "I don't care," and kiss him, kiss him until stardust swirls, snaps, and sparkles around us.
Trow leans back and looks around him in bemusement. "And what does that say?"
"That sometimes we make the stars read exactly what we want them to," I answer.
"Rewrite the story," Trow says.
"Exactly."
"So let's do it. Let's find these other two fays and fix our worlds, and this Otherworld place too, I guess. Any ideas where to start?"
I tip my head to the side, look at the night sky out of the corner of my eye, and breathe. "Boston," I say.
