Theea
a lost son is called a prodigal
My eyes widen a little at the name. Melita.That Melita.
Red hair, dragon, a vampire gourd… yeah, no mistaking it now. I’ve heard stories about her and her skyship, scattered and half-true, drifting all the way into the remote places we hid. They never agreed on the details—but they all said the same thing at the core: don’t cross the Honeybee unless you want to be very stylishly obliterated.
So. That’s who I’m fumbling in front of. Cool.
She asks if I’m okay, and I start nodding before I even speak.
“Me? Yeah. Definitely. Fine.” My voice is just a little too light, too quick. I catch myself, try to ease into something more real. “It’s just... a hello. For someone from my past. It’s...” The rest of the sentence hits a wall in my throat. I don’t say it’s no big deal. I can’t. So I just swallow and shift my weight, hands brushing my knees. “It’s manageable.”
Sort of. I clear my throat, like that’ll smooth it out. It doesn’t.
“I don’t even know if Mort hears stuff like that. Or if that’s how he works. Maybe he does. Or maybe my dad just knows. Somehow. I mean—he was always good at hearing what I didn’t say out loud.” That slips out before I can catch it, and my mouth just keeps going. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to go through Ludo for that, either. I probably should. I don’t pray to it as much as I mean to. It’s not on purpose, I just…”
I stop myself, finally, mid-breath. My lips press together like even they’re tired of me.
I glance at Melita, then let out a quiet, sheepish laugh under my breath.
“Anyway. I clearly don’t know the protocol for talking to gods in front of terrifyingly cool people—or talking in general.”
a lost daughter is just called lost
