Archive of Our Own

Over the years, Vi had developed a routine. It wasn’t like any of her others. At first, when she was little, it was simple. Wake when her parents did, which often meant rising with the sun, eating what they gave her, smiling on the summer days she was offered sweet, salvaged strawberries and other fresh fruits. Such things were often a delicacy reserved for special occasions. She recalled sitting at their rickety table in their tiny, one-room house, swinging her legs. Shivering and wrapped in threadbare blankets and quilts on the coldest mornings, when the frost rimmed the glass of the few windows they had and they were sparing extra oil to keep the gas lamps burning. She remembered giggling when her father dumped his hard hat atop her head and squealing when her mother let her take a sip of her hot chocolate and it burned the tip of her tongue, that little tin cup they shared between them warming her palms. 

  She also remembered waving goodbye to her parents from the stoop of whatever nice old lady in the neighborhood had offered to watch the kids that week. Remembered watching her parents join the long lines of workers heading to their even longer shifts in the mines. Remembered them coming home late, smeared with soot and sweat and sulfur, and her father putting that hard hat on her again. Remembered the shadows stretching like soot-smears under their eyes and how fast they fell asleep, Vi pressed between them. 

  And, when Powder joined them, a babbling bundle of blankets and baby blue hair—her namesake—those shadows and those shifts seemed to grow longer. But so did their laughter. Their love. Their routine stayed relatively the same, but there was another person to account for. First, a newborn her mother soothed and shushed in the nights, pacing by the flickering flame of the lanterns, nursing her in the worn armchair in the mornings, humming a familiar melody to bright blue eyes blinking up at her as she suckled. Then she was walking, and Vi helped her toddle around the table as her mother stood in the kitchen. When Powder was old enough to try solids, Vi slipped her tiny pieces of strawberry to see that little grin and giggle. 

  Powder’s smiles were almost as sweet as the strawberries themselves. Almost.

  After the bridge, after the blood, her routine changed again. As she grew older, and their band of bedraggled children grew larger, Vi found herself rising earlier and earlier, streaks of sunlight barely reaching through the thin slats of the few windows in their basement bedroom. She woke first to soothe Powder from nightmares and coax her into eating breakfast. To get to the washroom before Mylo took his long-ass morning piss so she could scrub her face and slick her hair back before Claggor woke and teased her about the amount of hair gel missing from the jar. To assist Vander with opening the bar, with balancing the books or scrubbing and spitting at a stain at the countertop. On the busy days, she rose to make breakfast for herself and her siblings, and on the slow days, she woke early to slip away to the arcade and swing, punching away her problems, her angers and her frustrations. 

  And then her life changed again. Stillwater’s schedule was perhaps the most confusing. The most challenging. She didn’t know if it was day or night. She didn’t know it was summer or winter. She only knew stone and the smell of saltwater, that brine-scent burning the back of her nose. She knew pain and punishment. The only ways she could keep track of time were the weekly freezing, five-minute showers and the two, if she were lucky, meals a day. She could tell by the tattoos and the little tallies she made on the cell wall with her own fingernails. By bruises and broken ribs, by stunts and stints that left her once again in solitary. By the fractures her fists left in the wall of her cell, forty levels below sea level, the cracks in the concrete like silky spiderwebs. By the bulk of the bulging muscles of her back and arms from doing so. 

  She had hope, for a bit, when a girl in Enforcers blues and even bluer eyes opened that door and sprung her from that cell. That trap. She spent days running and fighting, free, caught in a swirl of the neon-haze of her hometown and pink-purple potions, of smoke and salt and sweat. Blood. She had held hope so soft and sweet, like water in her hands, but then that bled away too. 

  Her next routine was perhaps the most awful. Step. Swing. Step. Punch. Down a drink. Punch again. Step. Stumble home. Throw up in the sink. Blink at blue hair from across the room. Squint at a softly-shadowed shape, a silhouette. It all blurred together after a while, each shot and each swing, each drink and each dodge. Each bruise and break. Each win or loss.  

  Then, after that, after the war, after everything, Vi didn’t have a routine at all. At first, she found that alarming. She would spend days wandering the Manor, then Piltover, ignoring the sideways looks she got in that beaten, battered red leather jacket that she still insisted on wearing until Caitlyn caved and had it professionally laundered, straightened and shined. She rolled her eye each time Vi put it on and popped the collar, but there was a certain look she had watching Vi wear it. The first time Vi put it on, all straight and shiny, Caitlyn had smiled, a subtle spark in the brilliant blue of her remaining, single-seeing eye, and Vi had smirked, then promptly bent her girlfriend over the dresser and let her feel the slide of leather over soft, sensitive skin.

  As they recovered and rebuilt, both physically and mentally, they developed a routine of their own. Breakfast in bed and reading by the fireplace at night. Caitlyn taught Vi how to make her Ionian tea and Vi learned she preferred black coffee, as bitter as it was. Dinners and tea times with Tobias. Steaming showers and long baths with lavender-vanilla scented salts. Walks on windswept streets and workouts in the home gym, updated to fit Vi’s needs, lifting and sparring sessions that ended… heated. Vi took up new hobbies. She cooked, braving and venturing the Kiramman’s shiny kitchen and supply of spices and sugars, pots and pans. She tried woodworking once and ended up with tiny cuts all over her hands that Cait pouted at and pressed her lips to. It stung a bit, but it still made her smile. 

  Vi took to reading the seemingly endless stacks of books and shelves in the library, silly adventure novels and poems and erotica that Caitlyn lifted her eyebrow at, but, when she finished one, another always mysteriously appeared on her side of the bed. Vi opened up. She talked. She tried therapy. 

  And, finally, after months, she went back to Zaun. She found Ekko. The first night was the hardest. It always was. So they sat under the shrine in the Firelight Sanctuary and passed a bottle of orange tangerine juice, Powder’s favorite, back and forth. They leaned on each other and laughed, talking late into the night, swapping stories about her, trading tale after tale. And when Vi made her way back Topside, back home, she passed one of the paintings, the one with her blue braids and raised fist. And she didn’t choke. She didn’t cry. 

  She stood and stared for a moment, then started walking again. She didn’t stop until she was back at the Manor, until the double doors swung open and Cait met her in the middle, opening her arms and drawing Vi in like she could tuck her against her ribs, her heart, and keep her like a secret. Like she could keep her safe. Vi nudged close like she could too, nestling her chin into the crook of Cait’s shoulder, and stilled, shuddering, drawing in a deep, deep breath. 

  And, for the first time in a long time, she felt like she could breathe again. That was when she felt her life begin again. 

Vi found she liked this new(er) routine the best. 

  On Friday night, as soon as the watch on her wrist—brown, worn-leather band, glinting glasses and golden little edges, scratched and scarred in certain places, once Vander’s, and a gift from both Ekko and Caitlyn, who had numerous connections within the city, including a certain clockmaker in Midtown—hit five o’clock, she would say her goodbyes and excuse herself from whatever it was kept her that week. 

  This time, she waved to the foreman, a gristly man with hulking forearms and a scratchy, scruffy-graying beard, who Vi assumed had more than water in his canister, and escaped the construction site five minutes later. They were adding a new wing to Zaun’s community center, which would finally include a gym after years of dropping subtle suggestions since the opening. Vi had offered to teach boxing or weightlifting classes to the scrappy street kids and school students that frequented the place and Ekko always scoffed and shook his head at her. 

  Speaking of Ekko, as soon as her shift ended, she made the now-familiar trek to the Sanctuary to seek him out. She had to see him. He had some precious stock after all, some stuff she had to come over and collect. 

  “Hey, Little Man,” she said as she slipped past the now-open gates, past the tendrils of twisting shadows. The sun always seemed to set earlier in the Sumps, long, languid shadows stretching over streets and side alleys like plumes of smoke. “Hey, girls.”

  She raised her hand in a half-hearted wave, her biceps sore and swollen from a day’s handwork. She was sure her wife would appreciate that later, privately, when the girls were in bed. The girls, who were currently taking turns placing punches against the trunk of a nearby tree, their arms, thankfully, protected, plastic-padding separating soft skin from scratchy tree bark. 

  Vi blinked, almost stopping halfway across the commune yard, squinting through the remnants of the sun’s streaks. Both girls were donning a pair of gloves, bright red and well-worn. Vi quickly recognized them as the sets she used when she occasionally taught lessons right here at the Sanctuary. That thought made the corner of her mouth curl upwards, her lips slipping into an easy half-smirk, an easygoing expression. She came to a complete stop and watched her daughters as they worked. Callie was persistent and precise, patient, her footwork both rhythmic and restless, restrained. Her strikes were equal in length and strength, steady and strong. 

  Her sister was…. Less so. Eight-year-old Charlotte was hopping from foot to foot, alternating her hand strikes as she alternated her legs, scraping the soles of her shoes against dried dirt and grass of the Sanctuary’s main courtyard. While Callie struck straight and true, Charlotte twisted and turned, a tangle of blurred, bright red gloves and fast fists. She wore a goofy, gleeful grin while Callie kept a straight, serious, almost serene, smile upon lips that quickly tightened into a thin, taut line, lips pressing together as she pressed one last hook into an imaginary jawbone. Vi blinked as the few branches above shook and then stilled, still shivering like they were expecting a second blow, one that never came as Callie drew in a deep breath, chest rising and falling in fast fits as she undid her wraps and rubbed at tender-touched wrists, holding her hands to her chest as she watched her younger sister take her place and punch sorely at an imaginary shoulder, then at the same spot an uneven interval later. In the silent, streaky sunlight, Vi could see the sweat drying on the edge of her daughter’s dark indigo hairline, which was wrapped back into a curled-curve of a bun, an adorable, adolescent indirect intimidation of her mother’s more militant Sheriff style, as Vi liked to say. Strands of her hair hung long and loose, sticking to sticky, flushed-red cheeks and sideburns. 

  Vi was still smiling when Charlotte suddenly started to turn. Immediately, a startled squeal split through the steadily cooling air. “Mama!” A tiny voice called in half a prim and proper Piltie accent and half in a distinct and defiant Zaunite drawl, an expression, an existence, entirely of its own. “Mama!”

  It was still among the sweetest sounds Vi had ever heard. She had several, catalogued like a museum gallery in her head, like the cartridges of bullets Cait carried while on duty. She kept them carved in crooks and crannies, carried in the corners of her cartilage, in marrow and mind, in blood and bone. She remembered her mother’s hum and her father’s tired sigh, Vander’s deep, throaty laughter and the background of the boys’, her brothers’, bickering. Remembered Powder’s giggle and Jinx’s chuckle. Ekko’s snort and the tsk of Cait’s tongue, as well as the… other sounds and slides of said tongue. The way it shaped and sloped when she said her whole name, the curl of her voice, her accent, the vowels like velvet. Are you still in this fight, Violet?

  It still sent a shiver down her spine. 

  And, because she stayed in said fight, she had new sounds to synthesize the way plants absorbed sunlight, the way a child held to their mother’s chest was soothed to sleep. The sound of the piano in the parlor as Cait took up playing again in the years following the war. The sounds of glinting glasses as Tobias joined them for dinner and brought his finest scotch, followed by cursing and chuckles and the clinking of gambling chips as they taught Vi the game of Pai Gow, Cait cheering and pressing a kiss to her cheek when she managed to make a proper move. Cait’s hums and huffs. Her moans like muffled music. The barks of the dogs as they ran in the garden and her own whine as she had to wipe off muddy paws. The sound of the rainfall against the roof of the Manor, peaceful and perfect. 

  And, most recently, the chatter of young voices and the occasional clatter of a totally-very-expensive-diplomatic-relic-from-Noxus-or-somewhere-or-other, followed by girlish giggles. The sound of socked feet sliding against slick marble and tiny shined shoes skipping up the stairs. Vi herself, cradling a bundle of blankets to her chest, humming the same tune her mother had hummed to her. 

  Of all the things she had heard and been called, perhaps Mama or Mom was the best. 

  Vi snapped back to herself as Charlotte squealed again and started to run, gloves still on, arms swinging at her sides as she scampered over, practically launching herself into her mother’s arms. Vi caught her with a slight jolt as she jumped, an oof escaping her lapsed lungs. Charlotte was still a tiny thing, all loose, lanky limbs and a tall torso she would grow into. With her long legs and knobby knees, she was definitely a Kiramman through and through. And, with the colorful bandages covering those knees and the colorful gloves covering those knuckles, she was definitely Vi’s girl too. 

  More surprised squeaks followed as Vi wrapped her arms around Charlotte’s bottom and lifted, leaving her legs tangled around her waist, her gloved hands awkwardly bundled against the curve of her back, brushing against her shoulder blades. Vi lifted, then let go, letting her bounce and back again. Vi pressed a kiss to her forehead and a palm to her hair, the same shade as her sister’s, to ruffle it. 

  Charlotte squealed again. “Stop!”

  “Sorry,” Vi said, squinting and furrowing her eyebrows to feign confusion. “What was that?”

  Another swipe to her strands of hair atop her head and another stifled squeal later, Charlotte seemed to fall more serious. “Stop it, I said!” 

  Vi gave in with a dramatic sigh. “Oh,” she mumbled, defeated. “If you insist.”

  Charlotte only lifted her head, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips in that posh-pinched way aristocrats always magically managed to polish to perfection. “I do insist,” she replied. “Quite adamantly.” 

  Vi held back her huff of laughter. A Kiramman indeed. Sometimes Vi wondered what Cassandra would think of her granddaughters, the continuation of her lineage, her legacy, her love. She wondered if she would mind that they were related to a Zaunite brawler who entered their home through a window, bloody and bruised, escorting her daughter, who was equally bloody and bruised. And, vice versa, Vi wondered what her parents would think. What Vander would think that her daughters were sired by the Sheriff of Piltover, the elite of the elite, the daughter of a former Councilor, head of House Kiramman, and a bunch of other titles Vi had a headache just recalling. 

  She quickly pushed those thoughts aside as a puff of air left her mouth. “Quite adamantly,” She scoffed, lips slipping into a small smirk. She adjusted her arms around Charlotte’s waist to hold her comfortably against her chest. “Huh?”

  Charlotte only hummed in response, dipping her chin in a slight nod, her lips still puckered, but her blue-gray eyes bright and beautiful as always. Vi snorted. Piltover Primary was surely putting their family’s funds to good use. (Though, technically, it was Piltover and Zaun Primary now, as they had started to admit Zaunite students under tension (threats) from a newly stated Sheriff when a newly stated Zaunite Councilor’s main concern was schooling for the children of Zaun. There were now a few schools constructed in Zaun, constructions Vi helped with herself, but Zaunites were also permitted to attend school Topside, if need be. 

  Caitlyn’s donations to the school only increased when Callie was old enough to attend school and almost doubled by the time Charlotte was born. Vi had to gently urge her wife to slow down, or else she feared they would erect a golden statue of the Sheriff right on the side of the schoolyard. But, she had to admit, she had come to appreciate the authority they had in… sticky situations, like when the freckled, fat-faced Ferros boy called Callie a mutt and Caitlyn only had to threaten to pull funding for the headmistress, a wrinkled wretch of a woman, to be fumbling for words. Watching the woman stutter and sweat under her wife’s stare, Vi had never been so amused, angry, and aroused all at the same time.) 

  By now, Callie was apparently approaching, much slower than her sister, and at a normal speed. She nodded at Vi as she tilted and then tied the gloves back onto the line they usually hung from, the one littered with a mess of mismatching socks and shirts left out to dry in the breeze. Vi nodded in return, feeling the crown of Charlotte’s head against her chin, and struggled to open one arm. Charlotte sighed and scooted over, allowing Vi to gesture to her other daughter, who came to a stop a step away from them both, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. 

  “What?” Vi said, tilting her head as Charlotte climbed, sliding herself around to slip against Vi’s back, held up by hands looped through her own. She loved to be carried on Vi’s back ever since she was strong enough to hold on. Vi remembered many treks like this with Callie and now Charlotte: the girl clinging to her back like a barnacle on the bottom of a battered-old boat as Vi slid and swung from edifice to edifice, the edges of rooftops and such. “I leave you here for two hours, and you forget what a hug is?” 

  Calliope smirked, snickered, and stepped closer, allowing Vi to swoop in and give her a secure side hug. Vi took the chance to press a kiss to the top of her head, which made Callie push away with a groan, her lips pursed the way her sister’s had been a moment before. 

  “Mom,” she grumbled. “I’m all sweaty.”

  “I’m aware,” Vi replied. “I saw you as I was coming in.” Her smile slipped wider. “You looked good, Cal.” 

  Charlotte’s head instantly perked up, nestled against the nape of Vi’s neck, right against the group of gears and swirling smoke. When she was little, Callie had always liked tracing the trails and lines there when she lay in bed with them. She used to ask in a completely serious tone when her own tattoos would “grow in,” and Vi would have to hide her face in the plush pillow while Cait struggled to stifle her own laughter. 

  “Mama?” Charlotte chirped, peering over the peak of Vi’s shoulder with wide, wonder-filled eyes, the same stormy gray that Powder’s had been almost a lifetime ago. Vi blinked and jerked herself out of that thought. “Was I good too?” 

  “You were the best, Muffin,” Vi replied, rolling her shoulder again to jostle her. “You showed that tree who’s boss. That’s for sure.”

  Charlotte practically preened while Callie shifted and shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Thanks,” she finally replied. Her cheeks were splotched with red, and not just from the physical exertion, but from the proud, paternal praise. “I guess.” 

  Vi tilted her head, curious. “You interested in boxing again?”

  Another shrug. Typical. Teenagers. “Maybe.”

  Like any other kid her age, Callie went through phases, picking out hobbies and activities the way forms picked out their outfits for school. As a daughter of a noble family, the noble family really, she practically had the world at her feet, a plethora of potential pleasures to indulge in. There was piano, followed by the flute, then drawing and painting. Singing. Archery. Horseback riding. Violin. There was also baking, but after a disastrous birthday breakfast-in-bed (when girls tried to make their mother her favorite scones and started a small, small fire), she was still not allowed to use the stove unattended. Sharp shooting and boxing were ones she slipped in and out of regularly, ones her parents were experts in and eager to teach her if she ever dared to ask them. 

  “Well,” Vi replied, sucking in a breath as Charlotte slid off her back, bumping a leg against the centered crater of her back, a knobby knee brushing sore skin the way her knuckles had been bruising, breaking, that tree only moments before, in her own special way. “If you ever want to ask anything, you know where I live.”

  Calliope just blinked, blowing a piece of hair that was currently framing her forehead, brushing it back from her face entirely. “Yes, I do,” she replied stiffly and smoothly, the way Cait always spoke to the old bats at Council galas. “Seeing as we occupy the same household.”

  Callie stopped, pausing, and lifted a hand to freely fan herself, traces of black nail polish still crusting her cuticles. (Charlotte was currently going through the same phase Callie had. She had discovered her mother’s vast vanity of varying makeup and various skincare products. She had taken to smearing eyeliner and smudging eyeshadow across each eyelid. Vi always had to stop her before she got into Cait’s eyedrops. At the same time, she was also discovering the wonders of nail polish, the many dips and details, the sets and the swirls. She was always excited when Aunt Jinx came to visit, bringing tales of her travels and a willingness to paint tiny nails in shades of blues and pinks and purples. When pressed, Jinx just scoffed and said she preferred that over her niece getting pet and pampered at some upscale Piltie-place salon, like the ones the Council wives got their extravagant updos done at.) 

  Now, Vi just held back her snort. Occupy the same household. It seemed the Junior Academy was working its wonders too. 

  “Great,” Vi replied now. “It’s a date.”

  The corner of Calliope’s top lip lifted, perking up. At the same time, Charlotte finally scrambled fully off her, scramble-sliding and then skidding to a stop, tearing up blades of spring-dried green grass in her wake. Vi watched her through her peripheral vision as she stepped forward and instantly reached for Vi’s hand: little, lithe hands compared to large ones, soft fingers touching sore knuckles, knuckles that had been bruised and broken, but now had built bridges, making and mending. 

  “Mama,” Charlotte huffed, out of breath from all her slipping and sliding. 

  Vi raised an eyebrow, her piercing glinting in the lowlight. “Yeah, Muffin?”

  “It’s Friday,” Charlotte stated very seriously, voice slipping into something different, something diplomatic. She crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pursed and her face ever-so-slightly pinched, causing that little imprinted indent between both brows. Janna, this was really Cait’s flesh and blood. It was the same expression Cait had, hunched over her desk, signing off papers, or pacing in front of her murder mystery board, muttering under her breath. 

  Vi raised her other eyebrow. “I’m aware.”

  “It’s Friday,” Charlotte repeated, rolling her head back to fully meet Vi’s eyes. In a few years, she’d probably hit her growth spurt, a rite of passage for the Kiramman girls. Caitlyn had shot up at twelve, and Callie more recently at thirteen. It seemed their girls had those Kiramman height genes. But the thought of her youngest’s head meeting her shoulder made her simply want to sniffle. Sappy, she could practically hear her sister cackling and crooning in her head. She pushed that thought away as her daughter pressed on, preparing to present her negotiation like a politician at a party. “That means there’s a deal on Jericho’s specials.” 

  Immediately, Calliope perked up, peering at Vi while simultaneously pretending to stare across the commune courtyard where other children played and women took in the washing. It seemed that no matter what phase her teenager was going through, at least Jericho’s would be timeless. 

  Definitely her daughters. 

  “Hmm,” Vi hummed, pretending to think. She held a hand to her chin and pretended to pet an imaginary beard. “What do you think, Cal?”

  Callie only shrugged, though the sparkle in her eyes bore her interest. “Sounds good,” she said. “If we take the long way back, it’s on the way anyway.” 

  Vi nodded. They took the long way back, usually, through the streets and through the bridge, rather than scaling buildings and rooftops. Callie was getting the hang of it, but both Vi and Cait were careful with their youngest (and clumsiest) daughter. A lot of things had changed since the girls came around and this was just one of them. 

  “Alright,” she stated. “Jericho’s it is.”

  Charlotte’s face instantly changed into a bright, brilliant smile. She bounced on the balls of her feet, bobbing her head in time. “Slug special?!” 

  “Oh, yeah,” Callie breathed as she shook out her still-sore wrist. Vi needed to remind her to stretch before any more impromptu boxing sessions. This was the first time she had seen her spar in a few weeks, at least. “Sounds good.”

  “Alright,” Vi sighed, giving in. She grinned and leaned in to ruffle both of her daughters’ heads again. Charlotte squeaked and Callie scoffed, lip curling up in the corner despite herself. “Slug special for three.”

  “And fish for Mum,” Charlotte added quickly, ever the advocate. 

  Vi nodded again. Over the years, Caitlyn had accepted Jericho’s more and more, especially when she was pregnant, and when the girls grew to like it too. Vi liked showing her around Zaun, stopping at little, hole-in-the-wall places that you’d blink and miss and food stalls tucked away from the rest of the market. Vi had also taken to cooking Zaunite cuisine in their expansive, expensive kitchens. She tried to recreate Vander’s recipes, the soups he’d make when they were sick or the sweet potatoes and sticky buns he’d make for holidays and birthdays. A lot of the recipes were lost to the passage of time, to trauma, but she had a few friends to help jog her memory, older folks who now resided with the Firelights and familiar faces like Babette, now retired and resting, who knew her old man and she made sure to visit every once in a while.  

  However, the one thing Cait never managed to stomach was slug. The closest she got to slimy and skinny was fried fish with a dash of dip, that secret sticky sauce that still had Vi slack-jawed every time she tasted it on the tip of her tongue. 

  “Right,” Vi repeated. “Fish for Mum.”

  “And a side of fries,” Callie butted in, hands now on her hips. 

  “Don’t you mean chips?” Came a deeper, distinct voice. “That’s what your wife calls them anyway.” 

  Vi lifted her head just as Ekko finished jogging over. He had been standing to the side, keeping an eye on the girls while talking with other residents. Vi smiled at the sight, jerking her chin up in greeting. “Hey,” she called out. “How were the girls?” 

  “Hey,” he called back. “Energetic as ever.” He tilted his head, quirking a brow. “Speaking of which, how much do I get this time?”

  Vi groaned. “Stop joking like that,” she grumbled. “You know, Cait would actually come down here and try to pay you.” 

  Ekko snickered, lips slipping into his signature smile, the one he had had since he was a boy in the back of Benzo’s shop. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She would.” 

  As the girls grew older, Vi wanted to introduce more and more of Zaun to them, as it was her home after all, and their heritage. Caitlyn agreed, even if that meant bearing buried bones and delving into some sad shit. When Ekko had offered to look after the girls so they could spend more time in the toughs of Zaun, Caitlyn had tried to offer some sort of compensation. Vi couldn’t blame her. She came from a world of wealth, where everything had a cost, a certain code, where things that were sought were also sold. Ekko had, predictably, shaken his head. 

  Now, Ekko smirked. “Tell her to send another fruit basket. The kids loved the last one.”

  Vi snorted. If her wife couldn’t give out cash or checks, other oddities were the choice—fruit baskets and stationery sets galore. “Will do.” She looked back to the clothes line, at the strings of the red gloves blowing in the slight breeze. She turned her gaze to Ekko, then to Callie. “So, boxing, huh?”

  Callie shrugged again. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “Uncle Ekko brought it up. It sounded fun. Plus, Charlotte wanted to.” 

  “Charlotte wanted to punch a tree?”

  Another shrug. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” 

  Well, Vi thought, watching as her younger daughter flexed her feet, trying to stand on the tip of her toes. That checks out. 

  “Some of the other kids are into it too,” Ekko added. “Vi, you should come back and show them some more moves.” 

  His dark eyes gleamed, and she knew that glint, knew the memories he held in his mind. Alleys and side streets, learning to step and swing, learning to punch and parry. Vi had shown up every move she knew and he always begged to see more, even when the candles were burning low in that basement under the bar and his eyelids were getting droopy. Then, sometime after the war, it had become a part of her regular routine to drop by and show a gaggle of kids the same thing. 

  Vi nodded, grinning. “I’ll check my calendar.”

  Ekko scowled skeptically. “You really do sound like you have a stick up your—” He cast a sideways glance at Charlotte, then cleared his throat. “You really do sound like Lady Kiramman.”

  Vi groaned, pretending to gag. For months, everyone in Piltover had called her that, from store clerks to random passersby in the streets. It was too formal, too fancy. It made her seem all prim and polished. Pampered. It made her ears ring each and every time. It had taken a lifetime for the house staff to drop Miss Violet, or Janna forbid, Mistress Violet while her and Cait were still unmarried, to just plain old Vi. Her friends down here still liked to give her a hard time about it. 

  “Well, Little Man,” she said through gritted teeth and Ekko looked at her through heavy, half-lidded eyes, knowing he had long since outgrown his childhood nickname. Whatever. Karma. “I’ve got a bowl of sauce and slug calling my name.” Her eyebrows shot up. “And a hot wife waiting for me at home—”

  “Ew!” Charlotte instantly shrieked, scandalized, while Callie blinked and bit her lip. “Mom!” 

  “—who I will promptly greet with a kiss on the lips.”

  Charlotte’s shouts only grew louder. “EW!”

  Vi smiled and scooped up her daughter with one arm, overworked biceps bulging in a way she was sure said wife would appreciate when she finally arrived home. Charlotte’s groans turned into giggles as she reclaimed her spot riding on Vi’s back. 

  “Goodnight, Uncle Ekko!” She squeaked as Vi turned on her heel. Carefully, she lifted a hand to wave while still holding on, gripping at Vi’s shoulders. 

  Her gap-toothed grin made Ekko smile back, arms folded against his abdomen. “Goodnight, Little Lady.” 

  Once the girl was done waving, Vi fully turned, Callie settling into step beside them. Vi adjudged her neck, tilting her head so she could see her other daughter past the tangle of Charlotte’s elbows. “You thinking about picking boxing back up?”

  “Mmm,” Callie hummed. “Maybe.” 

  “It’s fun!” Charlotte interjected, almost interrupting. “We get to hit shit!” Vi lifted an eyebrow. Charlotte must have felt the incline, the tilt of her jaw, because she stuttered something else. “Stuff.” 

  Vi nodded and Charlotte nestled closer to the nape of her neck. She shot her oldest a side glance. “If you are thinking about it,” she said. “Remember what I taught you about your stance, the way you stand, and stretching is always good beforehand—”

  “Mom,” Calliope grumbled. 

  Vi tilted her head even further. “Do you prefer this or your mother’s gun safety lectures?” 

  Callie quickly fell quiet. Vi had a small smirk on her face all the way to the familiar food stand. 

Vi arrived home around five-forty with two giggling girls and a greasy bag tucked under one arm. It had started to drizzle on their way home, making the cobblestone slightly smooth and slick, so they hurried in, hastily pushing past the front gate, up to the sprawling steps, and standing on the stoop as Vi momentarily fumbled with the key. It seemed to get lost in her plentiful pockets, even though it was hard to miss—big and brass, with the family crest chiseled right there in the center. 

  Vi still remembered the night Caitlyn had gifted it to her. A winter’s night, a few months after the war, cold so the heavy velvet curtains were closed and the fire roared in the hearth as they settled in their respective armchairs and read. Well, Vi read, and Caitlyn sat there, a small smirk on her lips until she slid the golden gadget over. Vi remembered looking down at it, seeing the lines and indents in the brass, tracing the etches and the edges, the signs and symbols. A symbol of trust. Of truth. 

  Vi had pinned Cait back against the chair, her book long forgotten on the low table in front of the fireplace. Needless to say, Vi tucked the key into her pants pocket the next day, fumbling for it when she felt funny, like that it really wasn’t real, but it was. And, needless to say, the armchair might have been… stained and required to be upholstered… again. 

  By the time the door clicked open and they hurried in, taking off muddy boots and shedding damp coats, footfalls were already descending downstairs. Charlotte hobbled on one foot, tearing off her poor shoe, before dashing over the spiraling staircase. 

  Caitlyn, who must have just arrived home a few moments before them, was still dressed in dark blues and glinting golds, but her hair was down, falling in long waves around her straightened shoulders, shoulders that slumped over in relief, relaxation, as she slid down to her knees to scoop up her daughter. 

  “Mum!” Charlotte chirped. “Hello!”

  “Hello, darling,” Caitlyn breathed, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Charlotte’s curls, damp from the light rain. 

  She let out a soft sigh as their daughter settled against her, and Vi noticed the red, raw skin around her sore socket, the sleek eyepatch she wore for work loosened, no longer pulled so taut. Vi made a note to help with the soothing salve before help. The minty-mineral cream Tobias had recommended during their recovery always helped with any leftover itchiness or irritation. 

  “Did you catch any bad guys today?”

  Caitlyn shook her head. “I’m afraid today was quite boring, love. Mostly meetings and monotony.” Charlotte wrinkled her nose and Cait tilted her head. “What about you?” 

  Charlotte bounced, still not taller than a bent-over Cait. “We punched a tree!”

  Caitlyn raised a brow as she came to stand, gaze going straight to Vi and Callie, who were still slipping their jackets into the coat closet beside the foyer. Even with one eye, her wife’s gaze was still quite piercing. She got that little indent between her brows and Vi bit her lip. 

  “Don’t ask.” Vi snorted and lifted the salty-stained bag as if it were a white flag of surrender. “I got dinner.” 

  Cait scoffed, rolling said eye, and the bag rustled as Vi stepped closer and made good on her promise, pressing a little kiss to her wife’s perfectly parted lips. Instantly, Charlotte’s giggles turned into groans, then gags. 

The next morning started completely ordinary as a morning could start, at least in House Kiramman. Vi woke before a still-sleeping Caitlyn, which was an oddity itself. Even on the days she had off, she tended to take an early start, rousing with the rise of the sun and blinking away blurry vision over morning tea and stacks of paperwork that required signatures in the sunroom, doing as much work as she could before Vi also woke and physically chased Cait away from her chair. 

  On the weekends, the staff had off days, so Vi looked to prepare a big breakfast herself. Sometimes, the girls or Cait helped, but, on the rare occasions, like today, when all three were still asleep, Vi took advantage of the situation to sneak downstairs and into the surprisingly shiny kitchen, starting the stove to fry some eggs and bacon and fetching the toaster from the corner of the cupboard. 

  Today, she pressed a kiss to her wife’s sun-kissed, sleep-warmed skin and carefully, cautiously, slid out of bed, trying not to shuffle the silky-soft sheets. Caitlyn only let out a soft breath smug slightly furrowed her brow when Vi made sure to drape said sheets back over her slacken form. Vi shivered slightly when her bare feet touched the cool marble, stepping into the slippers Cait had gotten for her ages ago after seeing how Vi frowned each time her feet fell on the floor. As pompous as they were, Vi had to admit, some Piltie shit did have some beneficial uses, such as acting as shields against the stinging cold of the Manor’s flooring. 

  Vi made her way down to the kitchen, descending down the staircase and flicking on lights as she did so, pausing to push open closed curtains. It was still early, but there were streaks of sunlight pushing through the branches of the trees bordering the Kiramman Manor, the willows and the birches. She started quickly on their usual Saturday morning feast—eggs, toast, and bacon. This time, she added pancakes, remembering the box of batter in the back of the pantry which would be best to use up sooner rather than later. Then she grabbed their usual mugs and poured their respective drinks—mint tea with a hint of milk for Cait, her latest favorite, black and bitter coffee as always for her, and orange juice for the girls. 

  She was just settling the glass down on the table when she heard footsteps coming from the hall beyond. She looked up to see Callie enter the dining room, still dressed in her wrinkled, silken sleep set, the dark navy pair that nearly matched her hair, which was bunched into a very messy bun. She was rubbing the sleep from her eyes as Vi straightened and slipped the dish rag she had in her hand onto her shoulder, her own sleep shirt wrinkled and probably dusted with egg white and bacon grease. 

  “Hey, Kid,” she greeted her daughter with an easy grin. “What are you doing up?”

  The grumble of her stomach gave her away. Callie blinked, her cheeks flushing. Vi’s grin only widened and she chuckled, pulling out the nearest chair and gesturing for her to sit down. Callie murmured her thanks and Vi walked over the counter to procure her plate, topped with a stack of still-steaming pancakes splattered with syrup and sprinkled with some strawberries, Callie’s favorite still she could eat solid fruits and foods. 

  Vi slid the plate over and Callie instantly reached for her fork, but not before folding her napkin over her lap and legs the way Cait did. Vi shook her head at the sight, nearly snorting. Callie stabbed the strawberry and popped it into her mouth, then turned to look at Vi. “Tank, Ma,” She slurred, her sentence smothered by the strawberry chunks she was chewing, her front teeth stained scarlet. 

  She had the same little tooth gap as Cait. Vi smiled so hard at the sight that her cheeks felt sore.

  Now, she scoffed. “You’re hungry, huh?”

  Callie nodded eagerly, starting on the pancakes, cutting away chunks to dip them in the sticky, swirling pools of syrup. 

  “Good thing you’re the first up here,” Vi commented. “When I was growing up, I had to get upstairs to get breakfast before my brothers did.” She shook her head. “They are like hogs on a hot day.” A small smile began to slip onto her lips. “I remember Vander used to make these small, sticky buns. They were sweet and soft, so warm on winter nights. He usually made a batch of six and we used to fight over the very last one, fists and all.”

  Callie began to smile too, her lower lip smeared with a streak of shimmery syrup. “Did you win?” She asked as she finally swallowed, clearing her throat. 

  Vi shrugged, still smiling. “Most of the time,” she supplied. “But, a few times, the boys or your aunt had had a bad day, so I let them have the stupid sticky bun.”

  Vi plucked the slip of a towel from its perch upon her shoulder and wandered away, walking over to the sink. She was aware of Calliope’s gaze and the incline of her head. Vi didn’t always talk about the small, simple things, tales from a time long ago, scraps and stories of her past. When she did share shreds of information, the girls listened the way Cait always did, silent and serene, eyes wide and whole, absorbing each and every word with something like wonder. 

  “Vander taught you had to fight,” Callie asked now, head still tilted. “Right?” 

  Vi nodded as she flicked on the faucet (golden, of course) and waited for the water to warm. “Yeah,” she said, trying to smile. “He passed some of his wisdom onto me. Where to strike, how to give a punch and how to take one.” Her small smile slipped. “Showed me how to wrap my hands.” 

  Calliope perked up, still peering over at Vi, a piece of pancake held in midair. “Like you did for me?”

  A strange sound almost left Vi’s throat. “Yeah,” she rasped. “I suppose so.”

  She busied herself with fumbling with the soap bottle and scrubbing at the two pans she had used, leaving them to soak in the steamy, soapy water. 

  “So he was a fighter? Like you?”

  Vi tilted her head. “You could say that.”

  “Like for… just survival? Or sport?”

  Vi frowned, considered it. There were the times he taught her, where she fumbled and it was fine. It was fun. She would get sore, but sure, and he’d smile at her like she was the sun itself. But then there were times where they fought fist for fist, blood for blood. There were times when their technique mattered. 

  “It’s complicated,” Vi answered. “But, both, I guess.”

  It was a complicated thing. A tool. A tactic. A token, trained and taught, tailored to each person, passed on through peers and protectors, by parents like Vander and now Vi herself. That was why she was excited when her daughter took an interest. 

  “I think it would be cool to see in a sporting situation,” Callie chirped, finally licking the syrup off her bottom lip. “Pit fighting is popular in Zaun, right?”

  Vi paused, raising a brow. Where had Callie heard about the pits of all places? Perhaps from people in the Sanctuary, or her friends from school, but those prissy Piltie kids probably hadn’t set foot in the Sumps a day in their lives. Was the sight of men and women fighting, getting beaten and bloodied, a sight for sore eyes to a gaggle of Junior Academy students? She couldn’t imagine a group of coddled children there, with the gambling and the rowdy roars of the drunken crowd. All the spit and sweat, the sour scent of bodies, they would surely fumble or faint. 

  Vi shook her head, not sure. “It comes and goes, I think.” 

  “Did you ever go?”

  “As a kid? No.” Vi shook her head. “I was too young, and my parents probably wouldn’t let me, and after…” She trailed off. “Well, I was busy with making sure my siblings didn’t do some stupid sh— stuff.”

  “What about after?” Callie pushed, pressing on, still peering up at Vi with clear, curious eyes. “You’ve never been?” 

  Vi finally turned around, looking over the strong slope of her shoulder. “Why the sudden interest, Muffin?”

  Calliope shrugged. “I don’t know.” There was a sticky smear of sickly-sweet syrup across her cheek, the corner of her mouth curling up. There was a clank as she dropped her fork against her plate. “Uncle Ekko was talking about it the other day.” Her smirk slipped sideways. “He said something about Zaun’s... nightlife, I suppose.”

  Vi nearly snorted or scoffed, not sure which to pick. Why was Ekko talking to her teenage daughter about drinking and dancing? Instead, she raised her eyebrows as she dabbed her hands on the rag, drying them. “Oh, was he?” 

  Calliope dipped her chin, nodding. “I was telling him about what I was learning in my history class at school,” she explained slowly, looking down at the tabletop, as if counting the crumbs there. “And I am asking questions about what it was like before… well, you know, and I know about the shitty stuff…” She trailed off, slumping her shoulders as she simultaneously straightened her spine, lips still parted as she peered up at Vi. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Vi just shrugged. “You’re right,” she replied. “It was shitty.”

  “Right.” Calliope blinked, moving up. “But he also said there was a lot of culture, community, the kind of things that come when there is a time of resurgence.”

  Resurgence, Vi thought absentmindedly. She reached for a messied plate absentmindedly. And resistance. Rebellion. 

  “Yep,” Vi said, popping the p. “Lots of people came together.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it myself.” 

  She remembered bad days after the battle, seeing blue hair and twin braids, seeing spray paint staining the brick for makeshift memorials, small shrines to a slip of a girl, a monster and a murderer to some and a martyr and mother to others. Remember how her stomach used to turn sour, how she couldn’t handle the smoke and shadows of Zaun in the months after, couldn’t round the corners without hearing her cries. Couldn’t breathe in the smog without feeling sick. 

  But, one day, she could smile again. One day, she could look up and see the stars. One day, her eyes shined again, the way Calliope and Charlotte’s eyes shimmered in the sunlight when they walked to the waterfront park every weekend. 

  Calliope paused, picking up her fork again, nose wrinkled. There was that indented dimple between her dark brows, the same tiny thing that Caitlyn always got when staring at the evidence boards in the study. “Mom?” 

  Vi hummed over the hiss of the hot water, slinging the now-used dish rag against her shoulder. “Hmm?” 

  “Have you heard of the Hound?” Calliope asked, gray-blue eyes blown wide. “She was a boxer.”  Her pupils seemed to dilate to pinpricks as she began to pick at her pancakes. She stopped to shovel more still-steaming, syrupy breakfast into her mouth. “A brawler. Fought in the underground pits a while ago.” She squinted, cheeks stuffed, talking around bites of the batter-baked bread. “Must have been, like, before the battle, I guess.” She stopped only once to swallow. “She was a real beast in the ring, or so I heard.” 

  The Hound. Brawler. Underground pits. 

  The porcelain plate Vi was washing nearly broke into little polished pieces. She let out a curse, thankfully muffled by the hiss of the hot water, and put the plate down in the shining-smooth sink, her knuckles strained a ghostly shade of white and her grip iron-strong. She pushed on the faucet, shutting off the steady stream of steaming water, and pressed her mouth open with an almost audible pop. 

  “No,” she said, albeit shaky, squeaky, and shook her head again. She cleared her throat, tugging at the collar of her sleep shirt, the cozy cotton sets Cait always insisted on ordering because the sleek silk always felt too much to her, too smooth, too scratchy. “I haven’t heard of her. Why?”

  “Oh,” Callilope murmured, looking a bit crestfallen. “She just sounded cool. She placed very high in the pit and broke a few records.” She stopped to scowl, wrinkling her freckled nose. “And a lot of bones, I’m guessing.”

  Vi stiffened, shoulders jumping, but passed it off as a shrug. “Yep,” she exclaimed, popping the p. “Dangerous place, dangerous pastime, and all that.” She stopped, squinting down the soap suds on the edge of the drain (also golden, of course). “That’s what you need proper teaching, proper things…” She trailed off, tilting her head to look down at Callie, who was chewing very slowly, still staring back at her. “You know, when I was thirteen, Vander took a very rare day off and took me somewhere.”

  Calliope widened her eyes. “Where?”

  “A sporting supplies shop,” Vi replied. “They had this pair of gloves, this bright, beautiful red. Before that, I didn’t have gloves. I just wrapped my hands and tended to my sores later. But, because I had been working shifts at the bar and saving, Vander allowed me to buy them.” She smiled, then shrugged. “They were some of the things I ever owned that were brand new. Most of my stuff was borrowed, sometimes stolen, or passed down.” She paused to sigh, then snort. “Your aunt got all my old stuff.”

  That made Callie laugh, holding a hand to her mouth. 

  “But, this,” Vi went on. “This was all mine.” 

  Callie blinked. “Do you still have it?” She blurted. “The gloves?”

  Vi shook her head. “No. I lost them.” She almost rolled her eyes. Story of my life, she thought, then tilted her head again. “But the store where I bought them is still there…” 

  That was true. The owner was probably as old as shit by now, so maybe he had passed it on to his son. The boy had been about Vi’s age when she went, lurking in the shadows with greasy, slick-backed hair and the thinnest streak of a trying mustache. Janna, and she thought that when Mylo tried to grow one was bad.  

  From her spot at the table, Callie’s fork nearly slipped out of the palm of her hand. Her eyes widened again as she slowly swallowed. 

  “Mum is still asleep?” Vi asked. “And your sister?”

  Callie nodded. 

  Usually, Vi would offer to bring breakfast to them in bed, but Charlotte was not allowed to be served syrup on silky sheets and Cait loathed the sensation of crumbs on the comforter, so she’d have to rethink this. 

  Vi nodded, then smirked, long and lithe. “Go get them up for me?” She asked. “And then I want to show you something.”

  Callie practically pranced and preened as she leapt up from the table and dashed up the stairs. A moment later, she heard the familiar voice of her wife scoff and scold her for running up said steps, and she couldn’t help smiling to herself.

The shop Vi was thinking of had stood on the same corner since Vi was Callie’s age. It was off the main road, then down a side street, not that far from the bridge. It was a bit proper for some of Zaun’s taste, but still poor for most of Piltover’s taste, but Vi preferred it compared to places up here. 

  They had a few in Piltover, ones she had tried out once or twice: Summit Sporting Goods, Progress Athletics, and Golden Gear Outfitters (always something to do with gold or glory, victory and valor. Pride and progress and all that jazz. Eugh. Topsiders.) That was why Vi still preferred the one she grew up with—Sumpside Sports. Simple enough. 

  Vi twisted and turned throughout the streets until she stood under a familiar, still-weathered sign, the letters hand-painted in faded cream over dark green metal, edges scratched and scraped from Zaun’s winds and weather. A painted pair of crossed boxing gloves sat beneath the words. She brushed her shoulder with Callie’s, who stood to her side, and pushed open the door, a bell jiggling softly overhead. She allowed Callie to press past her, then let the door shut. 

  Vi made a beeline for the back of the store, the most popular part of the shop by far. She pushed past the checkpoint counter and its long line of protein packs and athletic tape, brushing past the bulletin board that advertises fitness classes and free gym memberships. She didn’t stop until she stood under the sign that said Fighting Sports, the boxing and brawling section of the sports shop. 

  Vi came to a stop and let her gaze slide over the shelves and racks. They were stocked, albeit a bit messy. Janna, she was getting too used to the freaky cleanliness of Piltie boutiques. This section held everything a boxer could ever want or need—gloves and mitts of all colors, hand wraps and heavy bag gloves, speed ropes and chains for punching bags, as well as a giant punching bag displayed in the corner, propped up against an almost-empty shelf. 

  Callie immediately went over to poke it and Vi smiled, then went back to browsing. The next shelf had a bunch of protection: headgear, mouthguards, groin protection (ow), shin guards, and elbow pads. The last shelf seemed to be a mix of training equipment and apparel, groups of grips trainers and resistance bands, wrist weights and weighted jump ropes. Vi ran her finger over the small stack of tank tops and training shorts, feeling the stretchy, scratchy fabric. She looked over her shoulder to be greeted by a giant rack of weights, from dumbbells to kettlebells, medicine balls to massage balls and foam rollers. 

  Her gaze ultimately fell back to the vast array of gloves, ranging in every color of the rainbow, as well as various sizes. Vi bent over and picked up one that looked mid-sized, probably a medium, and stared down at it. This was probably the same size she wore as a teen, even if she did have fat hands, and the gloves were adjustable around the wrist anyway, with velcro strips and buckles to secure and strengthen their fit around a fist. 

  She grabbed the nearest glove, a pair of plain purple ones, and gestured to Callie, who was still playing with the big bag the way she did when she was little, and Vi let her in their home gym. Now, cupped fists met the firm fabric is soft, slow punches, careful and controlled. Comfortable. Vi watched for a moment longer, then called her over. “Cal.”

  Callie paused, letting out a long breath and blowing a piece of blue hair away, and lifted her head, peering over the peak of her sloped shoulder. Her hands were raised, her feet spread and planted firmly, the stage-stance of a seasoned fighter.  

  And suddenly it felt like Vi was the one being hit in the chest. Had Vander ever called for her and she had looked over at him just like this?

  Shaking her head, Vi closed the sentence between them. “Here,” she said, holding one glove out between them. “Try this size.”

  Calliope looked down at the gloves, then back up at her, that same stubborn slip of hair sticking back to a slightly shiny forehead. Vi gave her a gentle grin and Callie moved, slipping her hand into the first, then the second. Vi helped her test them out, tightening and untightening, having her shake her arms and wiggle her fingers, trying to give them a feel. After a minute, Vi grabbed one of the hand-held targets, the padding that protected her own palms as she turned them towards Callie, mirroring her daughter’s stance as she stroked and Vi stood straight, absorbing the blow through the soles of her feet, flat and firm on the floor. 

  “How does that feel?” Vi asked after a second, third, then fourth blow, Callie striking true every time, biting her bottom lip in concentration and a bead of sweat bubbling just below her brow. She looked like Cait on the shooting range, sharp and quick. “Feels good to me.”

  Callie nodded, using the back of her glove to swipe away that strand of hair again. “Yeah.”

  “It should be snug, but not too snug.” Vi took her hand again, rolling that tinier wrist against her own, testing and trying. “And it’s still adjustable, so you can grow into it. That’s good.” 

  Callie’s mouth clamped shut in shock, then fell open again. “I can get these gloves?”

  Vi smiled, slipping off the focus mitts and putting them back on the shelf, placing a hand on Callie’s shoulder instead. “Why’d you think I brought you here? To sightsee?” 

  “Um,” Calliope mumbled, nose wrinkled. Her flushed, freckled face was perhaps the cutest thing Vi had ever seen, besides Cait’s and Charlotte’s matching stares of calm concentration. “Maybe?”

  Vi scoffed. “This size works.” She used her other hand to point out the wide selection shown across the shelf. She stopped at the red, solid and shiny, though she was a bit biased. “Do you like any particular color?”

  Callie cradled her hands to her chest. “Purple is just fine. I like it.” Her nose wrinkled again, this time in thought. “Lavender. Like Mum’s perfume, and that one tea she made us try once.” She gritted her teeth, almost feigning a gag. “Gross.” 

  Vi snorted, then smiled, reaching out to brush away that same strand of hair, that shade caught between blue and red. “Alright,” she stated. “Purple it is.”

  She squeezed Callie’s shoulder. Callie didn’t shake her off for once. She just smiled up at her, sweet and serene, and Vi felt her heart squeeze too. She helped her daughter take off the gloves, grabbed a new box of hand wrap, as well as a bundle of athletic tape (hey, might as well stock up) and turned to leave. That was when she noticed Callie had left her side. 

  Vi lifted her chin to see she had wandered over to the wall opposite of them, a place plastered with posters and grainy photographs of famous fighters. Most posters were crude and exaggerated, advertising the dates and times of matches and brawls. The shelf under it was littered with shiny and streaky trinkets: local league trophies, plaques, rusty medals, and little scraps of ribbons. 

  Callie stood in the center, wide-eyed, staring up at a certain something in the middle. Lifting a brow, Vi followed her gaze and instantly froze. Because she was staring at something so familiar—her own face. It was a poster, drawn in bold, brazen details, showcasing a brave-looking brawler, adorned in a bandage and black leather jacket, accompanied by dark, ripped parts and a mop of dark, greasy hair, shining in the spotty lighting. Dark makeup was caked across her face, smeared under her eyes, covering even parts of her neck and shoulders. Her blue-gray eyes were piercing, popping out against the dark makeup, her jaw set and sharp, as she stared straight forward. Her fist was up, what’s wrapped in bloodied bandages, a smear of blood popping out against pale skin, streaking across one cheek. In the same scarlet color were the words THE HOUND, accompanied by additional details, like the days and times of her fights. 

  Vi didn’t even remember that they made posters like this. Yeah, she supposed she was popular, but… posters? Really? She didn’t recall seeing any around, but, then again, she didn’t recall much until Jinx showed up and snapped her out of her stupor. Plus, she only frequented like three places: the pits, the bar, and her small, shitty apartment. They might have been plastered in other places, trying to lure more people into the allure of the pit. 

  Vi nearly felt her heart stop as she realized Callie was staring straight at it. She turned, a smug little smirk on her face. “See?” She said, and her heart nearly stopped again. “She’s real. I didn’t make her up.”

  “Oh,” Vi managed to murmur, the blood still roaring in her ears. She stood there, waiting for Callie to break the silence, to snap the spell, but nothing came. “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Callie turned to face her with that soft, sweet expression, her padded-purple gloves bundled to her chest, cradled the way Vi used to cradle her. “Can I get it? Please?” She asked. “I want to show Uncle Ekko!”

  Vi’s mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut. “Well,” she started, trying to sound casual. “Where would you put it?”

  Callie blinked, as if the answer were obvious. “On my wall,” she replied. “Probably over my desk.”

  Vi nodded, pretending to be in deep thought. “Would your mother be alright with this?”

  “Why would she care?” Callie pushed back, wrinkling her nose yet again. “It’s not a crime to put up a poster.”

  Vi shrugged. “Could be.”

  Callie frowned. “Mom.”

  Vi shifted, folding her arms under her chest. She fumbled for an excuse, but didn’t find anything. With luck on her side, Callie would get it, forget about it, and then it would sit in the shadows of her closet for years. That was the best-case scenario. 

  “Come on,” Callie cried. “Didn’t you have posters on your wall when you were a teenager?”

  “Yeah,” Vi blurted thoughtlessly, then instantly regretted it. 

  “Like what?” Callie inquired, more like insisted.

  “Some… lady. I don’t know.”

  “What was her name? Was she a boxer too?” 

  Vi rolled her eyes skyward. “I don’t remember. And I don’t know. A singer, maybe.”

  “Well, what did she look like then?” 

  Vi stuffed her hands in her pockets, fiddling, still avoiding eye contact. “I wasn’t really looking at her face, Cal.”

  Callie’s face scrunched up. “Why wouldn’t you be looking at her face?”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

  “Okay…?” 

  She closed her eyes, sighing. “That’s the one you want?” She asked slowly. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” Callie replied. “She’s the only one I know.” She cast a glance over her shoulder to the other selections, grainy and dusty. “They’re all so… old.”  

  Vi held back her snort, lips pressed into a short, flat line. “Fine.”

  Callie grabbed one corner of the poster without a reply, ripping it from the rack without any prompt. She practically skipped over to the checkout counter while Vi trailed behind her more slowly, muttering under her breath the whole way. She fumbled in her pants pocket and found the tiny coin purse she kept there, cupping some cogs into the center of her palm. 

  A young, bored-looking man was behind the counter, reading what looked like the morning’s newspaper. He looked up when Callie stopped in front of him, slapping the poster down rather dramatically, and blinked. With a sigh, Vi leaned over, placing the rest of their purchases on the counter. He looked it over, muttered something, and then reached for a loose cotton sack, the complete opposite of the paper-plastic bags Pilties used while shopping. He stacked the boxing stuff inside first, then grabbed the poster, folding it over and rolling it up. 

  Callie stared over him through her lashes. “Have you heard of the Hound?” 

  “Vaguely,” the cashier replied. “That was years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but she still holds several records.” 

  “Sure, kid.” 

  “Like she had the most knockouts, some of the fastest too, most fights in one year, and, oh, also she had one of the longest undefeated winning streaks once—”

  The clerk nodded and kept wrapping. While it was halfway folded up, that familiar face and flashing eyes still visible, his eyebrows suddenly furrowed. He frowned, looking from the poster and up to Vi’s now-narrowed eyes. A look of realization, of recognition, flared across the features of his face. The cashier no longer looked bored as his mouth opened, then closed. Vi’s own frown deepened, slipping into a scowl, and the clerk only shuffled, struggling to roll up the poster and stuff it into the sack. Vi slid over the stacks of cogs just as he slid over the sack to Callie’s waiting arms. 

  “Thank you!” She called, already heading for the door. “Have a good day!”

  Vi nearly snorted. Proper Piltie manners, something both shoppers and shopkeepers in Zaun most likely lacked. 

  “Right,” the confused clerk mumbled as Vi also turned away. “Have a good day.” 

  Vi didn’t reply as the door snapped shut. 

As always, Vi’s first instinct was to talk to her wife. However, the only time they were truly alone together was many hours later. Vi got Callie home and instantly took her down to the rather barren basement, where one of the spacious storage rooms had been renovated into a gym shortly after Vi first moved in. Mats had been rolled over the hard floor, mirrors installed on one wall, and racks of weights and a punching bag utilized, the same punching bag she coached Callie with, correcting her posture and positioning, her performance. She watched her stroke and step and the bag swing precariously, all while Charlotte sat on a bundle of rolled-up mats, watching too, cheering when Callie packed a particularly pristine punch and chuckling when she tripped up and the bag brushed up against her. 

  At the end of their session, Vi walked over and squeezed her shoulder. Her muscles were taut with tension and her face had a thin sheen of sweat, strands of hair sticking to her forehead. Then she worked Callie through some simple stretches and left to make lunch, some sandwiches cut into triangles the way Charlotte liked. Later, when dinner was being made, Caitlyn made an appearance, finally stepping out of her study after hours of going through security procedures and protocols for some stuffy Councilor’s winter gala. They ate dinner as a family, had warm tofu pudding with sweetened ginger-brown sugar syrup for dessert, and Cait offered to put a hyper-hazed Charlotte to bed after murmuring a goodnight to Callie and pressing a kiss to Vi’s temple, a tentative look lingering in her eye as she took their daughter upstairs. 

  After a long day, Vi wound down with a long, steaming shower, her skin red and prickly by the time she turned off the water. She shamelessly stole one of Cait’s good-smelling lotions (this one was lush lavender) and slathered it onto her skin. She dressed in her plain pair of pajamas and used her towel to pat her hair dry until she was satisfied. 

  She only noticed her wife when she left the bathroom to throw her day clothes in the laundry basket by the dressing screen. Cait was already in bed, dressed in a purple sleep set, this one with shirts that almost fell to her knees and thin spaghetti straps that gave Vi a tantalizing view of collarbone and cleavage alike. Caitlyn was sitting up, leaning against a pile of pillows and the ornate headboard, looking down at the bundle of papers on her lap. She had a pen in hand, talking it listlessly against her thigh, dark ink smeared on one slender fingertip. An activity book, Vi realized, full of word searches and crosswords, the type of puzzles Tobias and Caitlyn liked to work through together. It kept them from going senile or something. 

  Vi tossed her clothes into the bin and cleared her throat, announcing herself. Caitlyn’s brow quirked and she looked over the lenses of her reading glasses, which were slipping down the sharp slope of her nose. Vi always had the strangest urge to reach out and fix them. Caitlyn moved to place her chin on her fist, fixing Vi with an interested look. 

  “You sure took your sweet time,” she commented rather than chided. “Bad day?”

  Vi shrugged, stepping closer to the bed that Cait sat on. “It was alright.” She sidled up on the side of the mattress. “I took Callie to a shop I liked when I was her age, one that…” She trailed off, and Caitlyn twisted, turning so that she could place her hand over Vi’s. “One that Vander liked too.” 

  Caitlyn’s mouth was a straight line. “I heard.” Her lips then dipped into a daunting smile. “I’m glad she’s interested in boxing again. I love seeing you like this.”

  Vi tilted her head. “Like what?”

  “So passionate,” Caitlyn offered. “Using your hands to… to build something.”

  Vi snorted. “As opposed to breaking something?” 

  Cait rolled her eye, but tugged Vi’s hand in by wrist, pulling it in and pushing it against the soft seam of her mouth, pressing a light kiss to Vi’s knuckles, scarred and scabbed as a testament to all the punches she had thrown. The look, the light, in her bright blue eye was so sweet, so soft. 

  Vi ran her fingers over Cait’s knuckles, then pulled away. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

  “Alright,” Caitlyn said, sitting back with a sigh and a shake of her head. “I shall wait here for you for as long as you require.”

  Vi snorted again. “I’m going to the bathroom, not off to war, Cait.” 

  Caitlyn sat back with a small smile and Vi retreated into the bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and coating it with their minty toothpaste. She scrunched her face at the sudden smell, staring at herself in the large mirror mounted over the sink, before a familiar voice caused her to tilt her head and turn.

  “Vi,” Cait called. “What is a small mammal that hunts snakes?” 

  Vi came to the stand in the doorway, a wad of spit drying on her lower lip. “Uh,” she mumbled, muffled by the bristles of the brush. “I dunno.”

  Caitlyn’s smirk was a sly one, still almost shy in its timing. “Mongoose,” she supplied, pronouncing the word slowly as she penciled it in. Vi rolled her eyes, but Cait was already moving on. “A collection of gears, springs, and cogs.”

  Vi squinted. She had to spit soon. “A machine?”

  Cait hummed noncommittally. “A certain machine.” 

  Vi’s gaze went to the small glinting-glass clock on Caitlyn’s bedside table, an heirloom of some sort. “Clock?”

  “Clockwork,” Caitlyn corrected. 

  Vi scoffed. “Same thing.”

  “Someone who delivers parcels and letters.”

  “Kieran,” Vi stated. “Love that guy.” 

  “His occupation, but yes.”

  “Courier,” Vi said, finally snapping. “Also, speaking of occupations, I think Cal knows about my old one, but doesn’t know that it’s me.” 

  Caitlyn opened her mouth, then closed it, Aldo squinting. Her glasses had slid ever further down her nose. 

  “Not when I wore the badge for, like, a week,” Vi grumbled, gritting her teeth. “But after that.” 

  Caitlyn paused. “The pits?”

  Vi nodded. Caitlyn closed the book on her lap, placing it on her bedside table beside her empty teacup. She had taken to drinking chamomile tea before bed. Vi liked the taste of it on her lips when she kissed her goodnight, the same lips that were frowned now, pulled firm and flat, pressed together in confusion. Concern. 

  Vi sighed, inhaling the strong, sharp scent of the mint on the tip of her tongue, scraping the back of her throat. “I don’t even know—”

  “Vi,” Cait chided lightly. “You’re dripping, darling.”

  Vi lifted a brow. “Huh?” 

  “You’re spitting,” Caitlyn replied smoothly and simply. “Saliva and toothpaste all over the newly polished tile—”

  Vi’s other brow rose, the corner of her mouth also rising in tandem. “I thought you liked it when I spat. You sure didn’t mind it when—”

  Caitlyn scowled. “Violet.”

  Vi slinked back into the bathroom to spit into the sink instead. After washing her mouth out and wiping her face clean with a towel, Vi returned to the doorway, arms crossed. 

  Caitlyn was still frowning, her singular eye soft as she gazed straight at Vi. “Please enlighten me.”

  “Cait,” Vi whined. “She bought a fucking poster. Of me. I’m on the fucking poster, Cait.” 

  A dark sheen passed over Caitlyn’s eye, something sensual that almost made a shiver go up Vi’s spine. “You in that bloody jacket?” 

  “Yes, the bloody jacket—” She bit her lip. Her wife and that damn leather jacket. “That’s not the point, Cait.”

  Caitlyn lifted both eyebrows. “Then what is?”

  “She doesn’t realize it now, but she might later,” Vi mumbled, chewing on her lower lip still. “It feels like… I’m lying to her in some way.” 

  Caitlyn blinked slowly. “You’re not lying, per se,” She said thoughtfully. “You’re just omitting some information.” 

  Vi frowned. “Wow, thanks, Sheriff Kiramman.” 

  “What I mean is you’re not being mistruthful on purpose,” Caitlyn clarified. “There was really no reason for us to bring up your…” She paused, trying to find a suitable word, and failed. 

  “My glory days?” Vi quipped. 

  Cait glared at her. “They were not your glory days, Violet. You were… you were hurting.”

  Vi’s smile slipped. Enough time had passed that they felt they could talk casually about their separation, about their time spent apart, but it still stung in some small ways. The thought of Vi, drinking herself halfway to death, always made Cait either want to retreat into herself or to never let Vi out of her sight. And the thought of Cait sharing a bed with her saboteur made Vi want to be the one who made that bullet ricochet.  

  “Start from the beginning?” Cait questioned quietly, instinctively patting the empty spot next to her. 

  Vi nodded, slipping into bed next to her. The sheets fell over her lap like a shimmering tide lapsing against the sandy shore. “When I picked up the girls yesterday, they were punching a tree.”

  Cait blinked. “Yes. That’s… swell.”

  “I thought Cal might be getting into boxing again. She brought it up a few times on the walk home and then again at breakfast this morning.” Vi rolled her eyes skywards. “She must have heard something at the Sanctuary or at school, because suddenly she’s bringing up the Hound.” 

  “Oh dear,” Caitlyn murmured. She sounded so much like one of the elite, elderly Pilties that sipped tea at the shops along the promenade that Vi nearly snorted so loud that surely strands of her red-pink hair would go flying. 

  “Yeah,” she sputtered. “Then at the sports shop, she finds that poster, and begs me to buy it for her.”

  “Well,” Caitlyn inquired instantly, ever the investigator. “Did you?”

  “Well,” Vi slurred. “Yes.” 

  “Pushover,” Caitlyn whispered, and Vi whipped her head around so quickly that she couldn’t help the surprised sound that left her throat. 

  “Pushover, huh?” Vi said slowly, slipping one hand onto the slant of Caitlyn’s shoulders. “I’ll show you a pushover.”

  Cait let out a low hum, amused. Vi pressed, only a bit of pressure, and one of the thin straps slipped further down, revealing the shadow of lace and the swell of her—

  Vi promptly pushed her wife down on that preposterous pile of pillows and kissed her until her head spun. 

It was decided they would have a formal talk with Callie the next morning. Well, Vi didn’t expect it to be so… fancy. The next day, Tobias stopped by sometime after breakfast and took Charlotte out to Progress Park, the nook of green grass and trees nestled right next to the river. After seeing her daughter and father-in-law off in the foyer, Vi entered the study and nearly stopped right in the doorway. 

  Another armchair, an additional one from the parlor, had been dragged over, situated between the two already there. The hearth was roaring, the flicker-flames lapping readily at the logs. On the low table in front of the fireplace, a charcuterie board had been selected, a carefully constructed spread of crackers, cheese, and grapes. Along with a tray with three teacups, the bone china set Cait only brought out for the best occasions. 

  Vi’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her gaze flickered to her wife, who sat stiff and straight in her usual chair closest to the flames in the fireplace, dressed in her dark sweater and slacks, the clothes she wore on her days off, still formal enough if they had guests, but comfortable for lounging too. 

  “Cait.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, pausing as she reached for her own teacup. Mint, Vi noted from the tangy traces in the air, sharp and stinging. “Yes?”

  “I thought we were going to talk with her,” Vi says slowly. 

  Cait’s other eyebrow raised. “Yes?” 

  “This looks like the same spread you used when that representative from Demacia visited to talk about increased security on shipments or some shit,” Vi deadpanned. “We’re talking with our daughter, not a diplomat.”

  “Right,” Caitlyn hummed, nodding. “Might as well have some light refreshments.”

  Vi sighed and stepped over, shoving a cracker and a little shredded slip of cheddar into her mouth at the same time. Caitlyn smiled and Vi rolled her eyes. She was still chewing when there was a knock at the half-open door. Vi turned to see Callie standing in the doorway, looking somewhat confused, and nearly choked on her cracker. 

  Vi quickly sat herself down, settling in the chair furthest from Cait, leaving the middle chair vacant. Callie’s gaze went to both of her mothers, then fell in the middle. “You summoned me?”

  “Yes, we wanted to see you,” Vi replied, patting the plush velvet cushion of the chair next to her. “Sit.”

  Callie furrowed her eyebrows, but entered the room, eventually plopping down on the plush cushion. She sat straight and stiff, just like her mother, while Vi leaned forward, legs spread and elbows slack against her knees. Callie’s gaze went to her, still a bit surprised, then slipped around the study, taking in the shelves and the fireplace, the desk and the microfilm machine she would become more privy to one day. But, today, this talk wasn’t about that. 

  “Why is there,” Callie began to ask, nose wrinkled. “So much cheese?” 

  Vi snorted. “That’s what I said!”

  Caitlyn drew in a sharp sigh, massaging her tentatively tender temples. Vi immediately stiffened, shoulders jumping to her ears, trying not to laugh. “Calliope,” she said, trying to sound light, and Calliope stiffened too at the sound of her full name. Vi cleared her throat. “Callie.”

  “Was another antique broken or something?” Callie instantly sputtered. “Because it was Charlotte, not me, and it was probably an ancient—”

  “No,” Caitlyn cut in. This time, her fingers brushed the bridge of her nose. “But we will come back to that later, I suppose.”

  “We just wanted to talk to you,” Vi tried to explain, drumming her hands against the knock-crook of her knee. “Since you’re getting older—”

  “I have a health class at school, Mom,” Callie cried out. “I don’t need—”

  “No,” Vi groaned, grumbling. “It’s not that, Cal.”

  Callie squinted, swinging her head around to look at Cait. “Oh, Janna,” she cursed. “I don’t want another sister. Please don’t be pregnant. Mum, please—”

  Caitlyn, still pinching her nose, let out a long breath. “No,” she breathed. “This isn’t about the future, it’s about the past.”

  Callie seemed to settle at that, sitting back and letting herself sink backwards, the chair swallowing her. “Oh, ok.” She blinked, still looking quite confused, and, at this point, concerned. “What about the past?”

  “About a time before,” Caitlyn started slowly. “Before you were born.”

  “When…” Callie began, looking between the both of them, wrinkling her nose. “Mom was in prison?”

  “A bit after that,” Caitlyn answered. “After I met your mother.”

  “After you broke her out of jail,” Callie chirped, looking quite proud at her parents’ rather peculiar first meeting. 

  Caitlyn couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. “Yes, but after that.”

  “After you found Aunt Jinx again?”

  Caitlyn nodded. 

  “And… after Grandmother…?” 

  Caitlyn nodded again, though this time, slower, and a bit unsteady. Vi cleared her throat again, taking over. Her wife flashed her a grateful glance. “Yes, after the explosion at the Council Chambers,” Vi explained. “I had a short stint with the Enforcers, as you know, and then we… had a fight. A falling out.” She met Caitlyn’s gaze again, then looked away. Some details still weren’t needed. Not until their girls were older. Much older. “We went our separate ways for a while.”

  “I know,” Callie said. They had already shared with Callie the shortened version of this story. “Mum was Commander and you were in Zaun for a while. I remember.” 

  “While I wasn’t exactly just hanging around Zaun,” Vi said slowly. “There were a few months there where I didn’t… I didn’t know where your aunt was, or where your mum was, or even your uncle, and I had to straighten some stuff out.”

  Calliope tilted her head. “What did you do?”

  “I got a… job,” Vi said, gritting her teeth. “It was how I paid for the small apartment I had.”

  And the liquor, she added absentmindedly. Lots and lots of liquor. 

  “What job?” 

  “Well, you know I’ve always been a fighter, punching my way through my problems,” Vi began, trying to chuckle. Her thrust just felt dry, so she cleared it again. “Sometimes I felt like fighting, bruising, breaking, was all I was good for, so why not make some money off it?” She paused, feeling the burn of Caitlyn’s gaze, still so piercing, so powerful. She couldn’t face it, not now. “I found the fighting pit. The owner took one look at me and gave me a shot. I got stuck with the early shifts at first, but I kept winning, and I got moved to the later ones, the ones where people actually showed up.” She met Callie’s conflicted stare. “You were right. During that time, the checkpoints and curfews were just beginning, and people were fed up. They needed a way to let out that rage and I guess gambling and watching people get beaten up was the way to do that.”

  She was aware of Caitlyn shuffling awkwardly in her seat. She was still looking at Callie, who was wide-eyed, mouth dropped open. “You were a pit fighter? You?”

  “Yep,” She said, popping the p. “For a few months.”

  Callie just blinked. “What?” She blurted. “Why?”

  “It was the only thing I was good at,” Vi said, shrugging. “Plus, I didn’t want to think. I wanted to forget, and taking some punches to the skull was a good way to do just that.”

 Callie winced.  “Nobody… came for you?” 

  Vi shook her head. “No, not until later.”

  Callie bit her lip, looking between both of them. “And nobody recognized you?” 

  Vi shrugged. “I, uh, took some measures to take care of that.”

  “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “I dyed my hair,” Vi answered.

  Across the way, Caitlyn withdrew into herself, wincing at some weary memory of a woman. That bad, huh? Vi wanted to quip, but turned back to face her daughter. “I wore makeup to hide my tattoos,” she explained. “And it’s not like I spoke, I just swung.” She shrugged. “You use aliases when you fight anyway.”

  “What was it?” Calliope asked, leaning forward. She was interested, impressed, the light dancing in her eyes. 

  “It was after my dad,” Vi said slowly. “The Hound of the Underground.” 

  Callie paused, eyebrows furrowing. “Grandpa Vander?” 

  Vi nodded even slower. She could see the gears turning in her head. Callie was the daughter of a detective after all. “So, I was…”

  “The Hound?” Callie gasped. She jolted out of her seat, jumping to her feet. The floorboards creaked under her. “You were the Hound?” 

  Slightly startled at Callie’s sudden standing, Vi let her lips settle into a small smile, a gentle grin. “Well,” she drawled. “Who else could pull off all those cool moves you were talking about?”

  Callie seemed at a loss for words. She just stood there, staring straight down at Vi, who straightened, elbows still braced against her knees. She rubbed her hands together slowly. “Look, Cal,” she began. “I just wanted to let you know. Honestly, it’s a part of my life I didn’t think I’d ever bring up again—”

  “Why not? You’re like a-a historical hero!”

  “A hero?” Vi asked, amused.

  “Well, yeah,” Callie admitted, stuttering a bit. She suddenly stared down at her shoes. “You’ve always been a hero to me.”

  Vi felt her heart constrict in her chest, pumping painfully. She reached out, slowly squeezing Callie’s shoulder in that same soft and steady way. “And, sometimes, heroes aren’t always so happy.” 

  Callie frowned, still fumbling for words. “What do you mean?”

  Vi sighed. “I… I wasn’t happy. I had lost people, lost my purpose. I was just so, so lost. I thought… At least I was good at this. Pushing people away, punching them.” She shook her head. “And I was drinking. A lot. Sometimes to forget, sometimes to remember. But, no matter what, what I had lost always seemed to find me. To haunt me.” She looked up to see Callie’s soft eyes, her slack-stricken expression. “I was only able to become that lost version of myself in the absence of the people I had lost.” She swallowed thickly. “The love that I lost.” She peered around the peak of Callie’s head, where Cait still sat, her expression just as soft. “But it turns out love can come back.”

  “Mum came back,” Callie echoed. “And Aunt Jinx.”

  “And Vander, for a time, and Isha.” Vi swallowed again at those names, at those notches in her mind, in her memory. “Not for long, but I’ll always cherish the time we had together. And, eventually, your uncle came around again, and your grandfather.” She sniffled, snickering. “Hell, even Sevika.” 

  Callie wrinkled her nose. “She’s still so grumpy.”

  “Yeah, she is.” Vi sniffed, swiping at her stuffy nose. “Anyways, the point I’m trying to make is that I was lost for a while, but I was found. I guess… grief can hollow you, but hope can move in.” Vi hung her head, catching a glimpse of a gap-toothed grin. “I sure felt it when I saw your mother again.” 

  “I’m glad Mum found you,” Callie said suddenly, sounding so, so sincere that Vi almost sniffed again. “I’m glad that you’re not lost anymore.”

  “Me too,” Vi agreed. “I’m glad I’m not lost, because not being lost led to you.” She stood up and surged forward, capturing Callie in a tight cage of a hug, feeling her chuckle vibrate against her chest. She squeezed even harder, making Callie squirm and squeal. “You and your sister and your mum… you’re like my guiding stars. I know I’ll never be stranded or stuck in the darkness ever again.” 

  “Like Charlotte’s night light?” Callie cut in, muffled by the material of Vi’s shirt.  

  “Yeah,” Vi huffed. “Just like that.” 

  A moment later, a longer, leaner pair of arms also wrapped around Vi, fingers spreading over the sensitive skin on the nape of her neck, scratching the scruffy hairs on the underside of her scalp, just like they did the first time they kissed a lifetime ago in a tunnel underground. And just like they did when they kissed again, also underground. 

  Everything led back to the light, Vi supposed. And she had never felt this light before. She was floating. She was free. 

“Wow, sis,” Jinx said a mere week later, smacking her lips. She was staring at Calliope’s wall, surveying the poster plastered over a messy desk, hands on her hips. “I didn’t know your ego could get as big as your fuckass forehead.” 

  Vi just scowled, standing in the doorway to her daughter’s bedroom. “Wow. Thank you.” 

  “Seriously.” She swung around, craning her neck to stare back at Vi, hands still held on her hips. “And I thought the real problem was your fat hands.” She squinted. “Your hairline is actually receding.” 

  Lying in the middle of her too-big bed, Calliope lifted her head. “Don’t listen to her, Mom. I think you look very badass.”

  Vi looked briefly at the poster, between her own blue-gray eyes and her daughter's eyes that now stared back at her with the same shade. “I guess,” she grinned. “Thanks.” 

  A scoff. “Well, there goes that ego—”

  “Jinx.”