Antheia Botanis's Arc

Chapter 13 of 15

Antheia went back to the arch at first light with Coro on her hip and one clean cutting in her satchel. She meant to call Iant home by name. She meant to remind the girl of the cot, the milk cup, the brother who slept with his hand on her back. She walked the black track until the anemones ended and the burnt stones began. She stopped at the threshold. She would not step across. The cactus dragon lay across the arch this morning, coiled like a dog on a doorstep. Flowers opened along its ribs. It watched her with one yellow eye and did not move. Beyond it, in the grove, Verdis knelt beside Iant at a low table. A dark orchid stood in a plain pot between them. A small lamp shaped like a bulb sat next to the pot, lit from inside with soft gold, stars cut through its shell. The orchid nymph held the lamp steady while Verdis spoke. "Iant," Antheia called. "Come to the arch. I brought Coro." The girl looked up. Her face was calm. The black vine on her back showed dark through the shift. She stood, walked halfway to the arch, and stopped out of reach. Coro leaned forward in Antheia's arms and said his sister's name. Iant did not answer him. She looked at Antheia and said, "I don't call you Mama anymore." Verdis rose behind her and set a hand on the child's shoulder. "Say it plain," Verdis said. Iant said, "My mother is Raven. I am learning to be a raven too." Antheia felt the last petal on her crown lift and fall. It landed inside the arch, beyond the dragon's tail, on Verdis's ground. The crown sat bare on her head. She did not reach for the petal. She looked at Verdis and understood the new name for what it was. Not a joke. Not a game. A claim, spoken in front of the child until the child said it back. "You took her name too," Antheia said. "She chose it," Verdis said. "Goddess of ravens. It suits the work." Verdis did not smile. "You may still come at dusk. She will not come to you." Antheia carried Coro back down the black track. She did not weep this time. At the edge of her own garden she set the boy down and knelt beside him. The green vine on his back moved under her palm, warm and whole. One child left. No petals. A daughter who answered to another mother's name. She opened her satchel, took out the cutting, and pressed it into the living soil. It would root here or it would not. She had a season to build a garden loud enough to call a raven home.