Chapter Twenty-Eight

Every time Ivan so much as twitched, his mother was there. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Her brows drew together, and she pursed her lips as she studied him. “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

Now that she’d found her footing in the world, Irena Wolff wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer--at least, not from her son. He’d been there for just under a week, but a week was long enough for the reversal of their roles to shift from mystifying to annoying to poignant.

Ivan had always had a mother. Now he was being mothered. “I’m fine,” he insisted, then relented before she could take it on herself to cook him another meal. “I could use a drink. Those painkillers make my mouth dry.”

She broke into a smile. “I made lemonade this morning.”

Lemonade had been his favorite expensive treat when he was young. Sometimes, after a particularly rough time, his mother would splurge and bring him a glass bottle still cool from the vendor, though knowing she’d probably skipped lunch to afford it had usually spoiled the pleasure in it.

That wasn’t a problem now. His mother’s suite at the temple wasn’t much compared to Maricela’s quarters, perhaps, but it was lavish for a cook. She had her own small kitchen and dining table, a sitting area with two comfortable chairs, her own bathroom, and even the spare bedroom she’d prepared for Ivan.

Everything was clean and bright and tidy and happy, and he still felt a little lost dealing with her. Their weekly visits had always been perfunctory, over before they had a chance to get awkward. Now that he was here all the time...

They didn’t know how to be a mother and son, not really. But Irena was trying, so Ivan tried too. “Thank you,” he said when she brought the glass back to him.

But the first sip didn’t remind him of his childhood. It reminded him of Maricela, who loved lemonade and always closed her eyes just a little with the first sip, as if she had never gotten jaded about having freshly squeezed lemons and real honey at her fingertips.

“Is it too sour?” Irena asked anxiously. “You don’t like it.”

“No, it’s perfect.” He took another sip and didn’t fight the feelings that came with it. That was what the priestess had told him during their first meeting, anyway. To stop fighting the things he felt.

So far, Ivan wasn’t loving it.

His mother sat across from him and rested her chin on her hands. “You look so much like your father. When something was bothering him, he used to get the same--” she rubbed the spot between her eyebrows, “--scrunched-up look, right there.”

Ivan barely kept himself from running a finger between his eyebrows. It’s nothing. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, born of a lifetime of habit. He’d never wanted to burden his mother with his problems, always worried that any extra stress would be the final straw that sent her to her bed to stare at the wall.

But his mother was doing a hell of a lot better than he was. And maybe, in this, she really could help him. “I saw how much the medicine Kora got for you helped. When she told me that my tests didn’t show the same imbalance... I guess I just wanted an easy answer.”

“Ah.” She chuckled. “I have it easy, do I?”

“No,” he protested quickly. “No, it’s just--it’s a thing you can measure. It’s an enemy Kora knew how to fight. I don’t know how to fight something I can’t even wrap my head around.”

“Isn’t that why you’ve been talking with Minako?” she asked gently. “So you can work through all the terrible things you’re still carrying?”

“I guess so.”

She went on. “I know it’s not just what happened recently, or even the war. Growing up was so hard for you, and a lot of it is on me.” She took a deep breath. “It’s taken a long time for me to be able to say that I did the best I could. But I still wish things had been different. For your sake.”

It was the one thing Ivan had never doubted, that Irena had always done the best she could. Harder was trying to reconcile the very first thing Minako had told him--that he’d done the best he could, too. Life had dealt them a shitty hand, but they’d scrapped and fought the best they could to protect each other.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Everything Gideon had warned him about, all the consequences of drawing the ire of the sector...

They wouldn’t just fall on him.

Ivan cleared his throat. “All my life, all I’ve wanted to do is make you proud. And to make our family’s name into something good, so you never have to worry again.”

She shook her head, her dark blonde hair swinging. “That’s never been your responsibility.”

“I know, but--” There was no way around it. He was going to have to say the words. “Irena. Mom. I’m in love with Maricela Rios.”

Her sheer confusion would have been comical--if it hadn’t given way almost immediately to joy. “But that’s wonderful! She’s a lovely girl.”

She hadn’t even asked if Maricela felt the same way--and it was maybe the most motherly thing she’d ever done. As if she simply couldn’t imagine a world where anyone wouldn’t adore her son. Not even a princess.

Ivan loved her for it.

He still had to pierce her joy. “She is, but her life is complicated. If I married her, we wouldn’t be invisible anymore. You wouldn’t be invisible. For all we know, everyone in the sector could get really, really mad that someone like me had seduced their beloved princess. I can’t put you through that again, not when you’ve finally got a life.”

“Ivan. Listen to me.” She reached across the table and gripped his hand. “I lived through it once, for the worst reasons imaginable. I can make it through that again, especially for the best reason possible. Your happiness.”

His eyes stung as he clutched her hand. “It might not happen anyway,” he told her hoarsely. “I kind of fucked it up. I don’t know if she still wants to marry me.”

“So you’ll fix it. Make it right,” she told him resolutely. “You can invite her for dinner. Ed’s coming over.”

“Ed? The blacksmith?”

Irena blushed and cleared her throat. “Ed, my fiancé.”

It was Ivan’s turn to stare in confusion. “You--you’re marrying Ed?”

“We planned to tell you tonight,” she admitted. “We didn’t announce it--it’s nothing that formal. But he’s been sweet on me for years. And once I gave it a chance...”

She was glowing. When he reached for her other hand, a smile curved her lips--the kind of smile he used to wonder if he’d imagined, because his hazy memories of the time before his father’s death always came in tiny snapshots with blurry edges.

But here it was. Older, a little world-weary...but still beautiful. And so, so happy. His mother had lost the love of her life and had gone through seven different kinds of hell on earth...but here she was, brave enough to love again.

Her courage humbled him.

“I’m glad,” he told her, and he’d never meant the words more. “I’m really glad. You deserve to be happy again.”

“So do you.” Irena’s smile faded a little. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. When you’re ready. Just...don’t let her slip away without a fight.”

His body was still sore, but it was healing. And his heart... Well, that might be a work in progress for a while. But if he could figure out the right words, maybe Maricela wouldn’t mind.

“Don’t worry,” he told his mother, squeezing her hands again. “Fighting is the thing I do best.”