Page 33 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

She sighs and sets her mug down. “Rick had dinner with us the other night.”

My spine bristles.

I grit my teeth, reach for a cloth, and start wiping down the already-clean counter. “Good for him.”

“He’s been clean for six months.” Her voice goes careful and even, the tone she uses when she thinks she’s walking on thin ice and would like me to stop making the ice thinner. “No alcohol, no gambling. He’s in counseling at the church. He’s really trying, honey.”

I set the cloth down. “Of course he is.” My voice is flat. Steady. Not angry. I am genuinely not angry. I haven’t been angry about Rick for a while now, which is a milestone. “That’s how it always goes. Best behavior. Clean slate. He’s reformed, he’s trying. And then the moment the pressure comes back, or the debt comes back, or someone says the wrong thing on the wrong night—” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. “I’m not falling for it again, Mom. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Forgiveness is a process, but⁠—”

“Don’t.” I keep my voice quiet but precise. “Don’t talk to me about forgiveness. I’m not angry. I’ve moved on. Bethie is my priority, and I have full custody. He gets supervised visits once a month. That arrangement exists for a reason, and no amount of dinners at your house or church counseling changes that.” My tone turns firmer because it must. “You need to respect that, or you can’t have a place in Bethie’s life. And this is not the time or place, Mom. This is my work. I have customers.”

I don’t wait for the response.

14

Valefar

Ihear every word.

I am examining a display of tumbled stones near the far end of the crystal island—citrine, carnelian, a pale green aventurine that catches the shop’s amber light quite memorably. And I am making a reasonable effort to appear fully occupied with this task. I am not succeeding. My hearing extends considerably further than the width of a coffee bar, and Vesper’s voice carries to me as clearly as if she stood at my shoulder.

I do not move.

I am not yet certain what the correct response to overhearing something private is, in mortal custom. But I keep my hands behind my back, concentrating on the aventurine while listening to Vesper dismantle her mother’s argument with the uttermost control of someone who has made this case before and knows exactly where to apply the pressure.

I’m not angry. I’ve moved on.

Vesper believes it. The evenness in her voice is not performance. Like a door not merely shut but locked from the inside, and the key purposefully misplaced.

She is done.

And something about a person who is done rather than merely angry is considerably more final. As if I could not admire her more.

I hear her footsteps turn. She is walking back. Her pulse is steady, an elevated rhythm but unhurried and certain. Her jaw is tight. I have learned the specific set of her jaw and what it means: I have said the necessary thing. I will not revisit it.

I have no language in the Pit’s long catalogue of suffering for the emotions overcoming me: the irritation in someone I am devoted to, combined with a strength not only learned but earned, combined with the weight of knowing she bears it alone because she has always borne it alone.

I have escaped execution. I have endured seventeen centuries below the mortal world’s floor. Name the weight. I will carry it, if she’ll but let me stand at her side while she bears her own.

Vesper walks toward me. I look up from the aventurine before she reaches me. She says nothing, but I read an impending question in her expression.

“I’m fine,” she says with a single exhale. “Would you like to be useful?”

I have wanted nothing more since I arrived in this world. “Deeply,” I tell her.

She points toward a door at the far end of the shop. “Stockroom. Eight to ten boxes, labeled,” she shares with me, “for the display. Bring them to the front near the center island.”

I nod and go.

I study the shop more carefully as I go.

Vesper’s Vessels has been built with obvious intention. The herbs are grouped by property rather than alphabetically, the crystals arranged according to resonance, and the amber lighting is warm without leaving the room too dim. The twinkling lights upon ropes create a whimsical attraction.

I pass neatly labeled tinctures, a wall of altar supplies, and an old apothecary cabinet with hand-forged ironwork and wood darkened by age. A selenite sphere rests on top beside dried rosemary and a brass incense holder, mismatched pieces that somehow belong together.

There is an order to the place I find unexpectedly calming, and I suspect Vesper is responsible for all of it. Just beyond the cabinet is the stockroom, where I retrieve the boxes. The stockroom is narrow and orderly, so one may fetch something at reasonable speed.