He couldn’t speak, stunned. Of everything he thought she’d ask for, this hadn’t even crossed his mind.
She mistook his shock for reluctance. “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to.” She shook her head. “Sorry. We … we talked about it. After you told us what you are. But we weren’t sure if you wanted to talk about it anymore.”
“Why would you think that?” he asked gruffly.
“Because you don’t let the phoenix out very often,” she said. “You keep it hidden away, like a secret. And we get why. After what you went through here”—she said it hurriedly, with a wince—“it must be hard to even think about the phoenix. And after what that nasty woman made you do at the hearing, I guess you don’t want to—”
He stood, extending his hand. She took it without hesitation, allowing him to pull her up. Leading her down the gazebo steps, he squeezed her hand and said to his daughter, “It would be my honor.”
The fire came, then, the phoenix rising with a piercing cry. Flames overtook Arthur, but they did not burn Phee. They could never. He was hers, and she was his. He would rather die than harm her, or any of them. As he sank into the phoenix, his mind shifted, changed, the troublesome thoughts of humanity falling away. His vision sharpened as he and the phoenix became one, a crystal clarity impossible with human eyes. All told, it took less than ten seconds for the fire to consume him, and he spread his wings, an impressive span of fiery orange and blood red. His tail feathers fanned wide, stretching, reveling in the freedom. Towering above Phee, he lowered his head, snapping his beak at her playfully. Phee gasped, stroking the small golden-red downy feathers between his eyes.
“Holy crap,” she breathed. “You’re huge!”
He snapped at her again, hopping on two black feet, his talons digging into the soil. He circled around her, nudging her back. “Okay, okay,” she laughed. “I’m going. We’ll race to the sandbar at the back of the island. On three, ready? Three!” And with that, she shot off into the air, her wings buzzing above her cackle.
Arthur crouched low and launched himself into the air, spreading his wings. They caught an updraft, lifting him higher and higher. Daughter, he thought in his alien mind as she darted away from him. My daughter.
They flew into the night, a sprite and a bird made of fire. At one point, she flew below him on her back, legs crossed, hands folded behind her head. Making sure he was looking down at her, she faked a yawn, stretched, and said, “Huh. I was sure you’d be faster. Must be getting old. Watch this!”
She folded her wings against her and began to fall toward the darkened sea. He followed after her, wind buffeting his face, ruffling his feathers. The moment before Phee hit the water, she twisted around, her wings snapping open. She hurtled forward, leaving a wake in the ocean behind her, small whitecaps that rolled before disappearing.
Not to be outdone, the phoenix—and Arthur, for they were one and the same—burned the air around him, and in a burst of speed shot past Phee, who shouted after him, “That’s not fair! Using rockets is cheating!”
They hooked around the island, and the sandbar came into view, a long stretch of semi-firm ground. Hearing the buzz of Phee’s wings behind him, Arthur pulled back a little, allowing her to pass by him and hit the ground first, leaving divots in the sand behind her as she skidded to a stop. As Arthur landed, Phee jumped up and down, fist pumping in the air. “I won! I won! I won!”
Arthur spread his wings, tilting his head back. The scream that tore from his throat was one of pride—in his daughter, in all his children—and Phee yelled along with him, a battle cry of youth.
Later, as the sun rose, Phee sat against him, one wing wrapped around her as she blinked slowly, trying to stay awake. She yawned as the sun crested the horizon, illuminating her hair so that she, too, appeared to be on fire. “You should bring out the phoenix more,” she said as her eyes closed. “It’s part of you. Why hide it away when we want to see you fly?”
And then she slept, her breaths slow, even.
“Fly,” the phoenix said only once, a low, guttural sound lost to the wind coming off the sea.
TWELVE
Breakfast on Sunday morning was always a boisterous affair. Linus had decided that it’d been far too long since he’d made pancakes, and created stack after precarious stack, thick slabs of butter melting across the top. On the record player, Thurston Harris And The Sharps wailed about his little bitty pretty one, come on and talk-a to me, lovey dovey lovely one, come sit down on my knee.
By the time they sat down—still in their pajamas, of course; it was Sunday, after all—Arthur could almost pretend it was a normal weekend morning, and that everything was as it should be.
This was shattered when David winced, reaching for the plate of link sausages Talia was handing over to him. He took it from her gingerly, favoring his wrist.
“David,” Arthur said, causing the yeti to jerk his head up and almost drop the plate. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m alive,” David said. “Which is good. I had another sleepover with Lucy.”
“He doesn’t snore,” Lucy said, rolling a pancake into a thin tube and trying to suck up syrup to no avail. “So I let him keep all his blood on the inside.”
“And for that, we’re all grateful,” Linus said. “David, how is your wrist?”
Immediate silence. Everyone froze, waiting.
Aside from David, that is. He lifted his arm, bending his wrist back and forth. “Hurts a little,” he admitted, gaze down at the table. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
“So am I,” Talia muttered, stabbing a sausage with her fork. “I’d like to see her try and grab me without my permission.”
As would I, Arthur thought.
“Why did she do that?” Chauncey asked, a pancake attached to each of the suction cups along his arms. He tried to shake them off, but they held tight. “David was just playing with J-Bone.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “But she was wrong. David, I’m sorry that happened. She had no right to—”
“Why do you do that?” David asked, squinting at Arthur.
“Do what?”
“Apologize when it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to me, so why are you apologizing?”
“Because someone has to,” Arthur said.
“But why is it always you?” Sal asked. “You didn’t do anything to David. You didn’t do anything to us aside from give us a home and let us be happy. Why do you have to be the one to apologize when it’s Miss Marblemaw who did something wrong?”
“Yeah,” Lucy said. “She should be in here ruining our breakfast with an apology.”
Arthur looked to Linus for help, only to be surprised when he said, “I agree with them. While an apology is all well and good, David and Sal make an important point. An apology stems from ownership of an action that can be considered wrong or offensive. You did neither.”
“I’m trying to help them survive,” Arthur snapped, causing everyone to look at him with wide eyes. “These people are callous, destructive. Cruel because cruelty is the point. You think anyone in DICOMY or DICOMA cares about an apology? They don’t. But if they at least can hear it from me, I think—”
“Then why did you try and get them to apologize to you at the hearing?” Phee asked.
