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The house feels different when we get back.
Maybe it is because, for the first time in what feels like forever, no one is preparing for the next disaster. The boys are outside with Ares, letting him get in a good run before dinner. I clean up and head toward the dining room, still emotional from seeing Stella in the hospital. I’m thinking about her recovery and everything that will come next when I nearly walk into Graves.
He is carrying a cardboard box filled with what looks like books, paperwork, and a few personal things toward the front door. He has one arm wrapped around the bottom of it, the other braced across the top to keep everything from shifting as he walks.
I stop.
“Are you leaving? Oh my god, did you quit?”
The question comes out more blunt than I intend, and Graves pauses before looking at me. A small smile touches his mouth.
“Officially? No.” He adjusts the box against his hip. “I’ll be back.”
I glance at the things in his arms, then back at him, not sure if he’s telling the truth. But if he is, I know what I need to say. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
His expression softens. “I understand. Everyone was under a lot of pressure, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing if I were in Timothy’s position.” He looks toward the front door, his fingers tightening slightly around the box. “But I also think it may be the right time for me to take a small break.”
“A break? What does that mean?”
This time, his smile is real, and there is something almost boyish about it that I haven't seen in him before. “I haven’t had a vacation in a long time,” he admits. “The House of Night was never stable enough for me to feel like I could actually leave.”
“And you think it’s stable now?”
He stares at me for so long, I’m not sure he’s going to answer, but then he says, “With your influence, Arianette, I think the house may be in the most capable hands it's ever been in.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at the words. I step forward and wrap my arms around him, careful of the box wedged between us. Graves laughs softly before shifting it aside enough to return the hug.
“Come back,” I tell him.
“I will.” He squeezes me. “And take care of my friend. Things are different for him now. He’s going to need your support.”
He pulls away, opens the door, and steps outside. I stand there until he reaches his car, then close the door behind him and turn back toward the house.
For once, I don't feel like I'm walking into a battlefield, but Graves’ words ring true. Things are different now. The dining room table is already set with dinner. Plates and silverware are arranged neatly, glasses filled, and the smell of something delicious and comforting fills the room. Timothy is standing beside my chair, waiting for me.
“How was Stella?” he asks.
“Recovering,” I say, because what else is there? I take my seat. “I saw Graves. He didn't seem upset.”
“He was last night,” Timothy assures me with a chuckle as he takes the chair beside mine. “But we worked it out.”
“I’ll miss him while he’s gone.”
“Me too.”
Damon and Hunter come in a few minutes later, and there is a brief, almost comical hesitation when they reach the table. The head of the table has always carried weight in this house. It is a physical representation of something bigger, and for the first time, I realize no one is entirely certain who is supposed to sit there anymore.
Timothy looks at Damon.
Damon looks at Timothy.
Neither of them moves.
Finally, they seem to reach the same silent conclusion and take seats on opposite sides of the table instead. Timothy remains beside me while Damon and Hunter sit across from us.
It feels oddly right–balanced.
The boys dive into their dinner, plates piled high with meat and bread. I like watching them eat–seeing that hunger inflicted on something other than myself. Timothy is more restrained, but it’s good to see his appetite is back. For once the conversation is easy.
