you, though?”
“You certainly have me worried…”
I gave a small laugh, insecure and shivering. “Why do you think she is so mad?” I whispered into the phone.
“Well, I think Mara may be changing just as Pepper-Man did, because you need her to be something else now. Maybe she really is your daughter, in a sense, a part of you that belongs to you but that grows independently, becoming a force to be reckoned with and surprising even you.”
“I am sure she will disagree, but please, go on…”
“Maybe Mara is your anger that you never allowed yourself to feel, because you couldn’t afford it. You are stronger now, though, the book is out there and thousands of people have read your story. You can allow yourself to be angry now, people on TV even encourage you to be angry. No harm will come to you for it. Maybe Mara has become the embodiment of that anger.”
“My child of pain?”
“Just that…”
“Or just a very angry daughter who has just learned something bad once happened to her mother.”
“That too.”
“So what do I do?”
“You have to find out where her rage is going, if she’s a threat to anyone.”
“And if she is?”
“Then you must commit yourself, Cassie, there really is no way around it.”
“How will that help with Mara?”
“Trust me, Cassie. It will.”
* * *
I never did commit myself to the hospital, though, even after I realized what Mara could—would—do. I knew it wouldn’t help one bit. Rather it would make things worse, with me not being there to calm her.
She once said she went to see Dr. Martin before he died, but I don’t know if it’s true or not.
“What did you say to him?” I asked her. We were sitting on my porch, watching the sunset, sharing a jar of faerie tea between us. The very same jar that became the beginning of Golden Suns.
“At first I didn’t say much at all. He was in his office, typing, and I just stood there in the corner where the light didn’t reach and watched him.”
“That was not very kind of you. You know how people hate being watched from the shadows.”
“Well, I wanted to see him.”
“And then what? What happened?”
“He coughed a bit, sipped his cocoa…”
“And?”
“I went over to him and stood before him, looked him in the eyes when he raised his head. He made a sound, the kind they make, like an outburst—or a scream…”
“He was surprised, then?”
“Of course. Then I said, real slow, so that I knew that he heard every word: ‘Now you have seen a faerie.’”
“You didn’t.”
“Of course I did.”
“And did he really see you?”
“Of course he did.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. I left. I think I scared him. I hope I did.”
“You shouldn’t have scared poor Dr. Martin.”
“Well, nothing to do for it now.” She sipped her tea. “With him being dead and all.”
“Yes,” I said, “such a shame.”
We finished our tea in silence.
XXIII
We have to talk about your uncle, Ferdinand.
XXIV
I don’t know how much your mother has shared with you about everything that happened. You were still teens then, fragile saplings with tender hearts, she would have wanted to spare you the details.
Neither do I know how close you were to him, what kind of an uncle he was to you. I was rarely invited to your birthdays, as you know. I never had a natural place at the family table, not even while Tommy Tipp was assumed to be alive.
I am not bitter about that. I want you to know that I wanted it that way.
Back when you were small, Pepper-Man-in-Tommy and I took the easy route and went to see the Tipps rather than the Thorns when Santa came to town. It kept our neighbors and friends from asking, and the Tipps never knew the difference; they thought Pepper-Man was their son all along.
No one ever cared to ask why we so rarely saw my family. I have no idea how your mother explained that to you two. She used to bring you to our brown house, though, do you remember? Four times a year, three months apart to the date. I am sure she had it penciled in her calendar: Take kids to see Aunt Cassie and Uncle Tommy. You probably don’t see it that way, but I think you were fooled by that. I think it was your mother’s way of throwing you off the scent. It was the bare minimum she had to do to convince you everything was normal and safe. And