EverHeart

Chapter 13: Blue and Gold

LUCY

Marco set the kitchen towel on fire at nine seventeen in the morning.

I was there.

This was useful, because otherwise I might not have believed him.

“Lucy.”

I looked up from my book.

Marco stood beside the stove holding the towel at arm's length.

Blue flame crawled over one corner.

Gold burned beneath it.

Neither of us moved.

“Lucy.” He called again like I'm not paying attention to the strange phenomenon.

“I see it.”

“Good.”

His voice was remarkably calm.

“I was worried you were going to tell me blue-gold fire was some kind of normal magic here.”

The flame reached his fingers.

It wasn't normal magic.

That was the problem.

“Drop it.”

He did.

The towel landed on the tile.

I was already moving when Marco reached down.

“Don't—”

His hand closed around the burning cloth.

The flame vanished.

Not extinguished.

Vanished.

The kitchen went silent.

Marco remained crouched.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

No burn.

No redness.

Nothing.

The towel had fared worse. A blackened hole had eaten through one corner.

Marco stared at it.

Then at me.

“I liked that towel.”

I stared.

“What?”

“That is your concern?”

“No.” He stood. “It's just the concern I can handle right now.”

Fair.

I took his wrist.

His pulse was fast.

His skin was warmer than usual.

“Does anything hurt?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Lucy.”

“Answer.”

“No headache.”

I turned his hand over.

Clean palm.

Clean fingertips.

Not even soot.

“What happened?”

“I was making eggs.”

“Obviously.”

“I'm glad we've established the important part.”

“Marco.”

He exhaled.

“I reached for the pan. The towel was too close.”

“You touched the burner?”

“No.”

“Oil?”

“No.”

“Gas flare?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

He looked at his hand.

“I don't know.”

True.

I released him.

Marco caught the hesitation.

“You believe me.”

Not a question.

“Yes.”

That frightened him more than disbelief would have.

His shoulders went still.

“Right.”

I picked up the towel. The burned edge crumbled beneath my fingers.

No chemical smell.

No oil.

No ordinary ignition pattern.

I knew that before examining it.

I examined it anyway.

“Should I be panicking?”

“Would it help?”

“Probably not.”

“Then no.”

“Excellent medical advice.”

“I'm not your doctor.”

“You say that like you haven't inspected me more than Ortega has.”

“That sounds inappropriate.”

A small laugh escaped him.

Good.

Then his eyes returned to his hand.

“What am I?”

There it was.

I folded the ruined towel.

Pointlessly.

“I don't know.”

His gaze lifted.

The answer was true.

It was also incomplete.

Marco had learned the difference.

“You have an idea.”

“I have possibilities.”

“How many?”

Fewer than yesterday.

“Several.”

“That sounded like a lie.”

“It wasn't.”

“No.” His mouth tightened. “It sounded like you wanted it to be one.”

I looked at him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“I don't know. Making this difficult?”

Something sharp moved through me.

“You aren't.”

“I set your kitchen on fire.”

“You set a towel on fire.”

“Much better.”

“The kitchen remains structurally sound.”

“For now.”

I put the towel in the sink.

“Sit.”

He did.

That worried me too.

---

We spent the next hour trying to make it happen again.

Nothing happened.

Marco held another towel.

Nothing.

Touched the cold stove.

Nothing.

Stared at his palm until a vein appeared at his temple.

Nothing.

“Maybe anger,” he said.

“Were you angry when it happened?”

“I was making eggs.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

“I have complicated feelings about breakfast.”

I wrote no obvious emotional trigger in my notebook.

Marco leaned across the table.

“Are you taking notes?”

“Yes.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

“That feels ominous.”

“You asked me to help.”

“I didn't realize there would be paperwork.”

“There is always paperwork.”

“Administration.”

“Exactly.”

I'd recorded his temperature and pulse. Sleep. Appetite. The nightmare. The episode at Cala Verde.

And the flame.

Blue.

Gold.

Heat without pain.

The sense that it came from inside him.

I did not write the word waiting at the edge of my thoughts.

There were old stories.

Older records.

Names attached to things the modern world hadn't seen in generations.

But resemblance wasn't proof.

I didn't build conclusions from stories simply because reality had become inconvenient.

“You're doing it again,” Marco said.

“What?”

“Going somewhere.”

“I'm sitting here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately.

I closed the notebook.

“Is this dangerous?”

“Yes.”

His expression changed.

“Anything unknown can be dangerous.”

“That's a very Lucy answer.”

“It's also accurate.”

“Dangerous to me?”

“Possibly.”

“To you?”

I paused.

Marco stood immediately.

“No.”

I stared at him.

“No what?”

“I should stay somewhere else.”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“So was yours.”

“If I can set things on fire without knowing how—”

“You burned a towel.”

“With my hand.”

“Yes.”

“Which, traditionally, is not how hands work.”

“I am aware.”

“What if it happens while I'm asleep?”

“It already has.”

Silence.

I regretted that.

“The first night?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You said it wasn't hurting me.”

“It wasn't.”

“But you were there.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn't know what it was.”

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

“What if I'd hurt you?”

“You didn't.”

“That's not the point.”

“No. The point is you're proposing to leave the only stable place you currently have because of something that might happen.”

“Something involving fire.”

“Which has so far harmed one towel.”

“Lucy.”

“Marco.”

His hands went to his hips.

I folded mine across my chest.

He was taller.

This had no bearing on the argument.

It was irritating anyway.

“Where would you go?”

His mouth opened.

Nothing.

“Cami's?”

No answer.

“Nico's?”

Still nothing.

“The clinic?”

“Maybe.”

“To tell Ortega what?”

He looked away.

Exactly.

“You don't even know what you're leaving to protect me from.”

“That's why I'm leaving.”

“And if this is connected to what happened to you?”

He looked back.

“You've had memory episodes,” I said. “Abnormal healing. Elevated body temperature. Now this.”

“And you think they're connected.”

“Yes.”

“What if they get worse?”

“Then we deal with that.”

“We?”

The word caught.

Again.

This time neither of us pretended not to hear it.

“You shouldn't be alone if they do.”

Marco went quiet.

Then—

“So this is medical.”

I knew what he was doing.

Making it easier.

For both of us.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Right.”

Something about that bothered me.

I didn't examine why.

---

By afternoon, nothing else had burned.

Marco had become offended by this.

“Come on.”

He glared at his palm.

We'd moved to the back garden after I refused further experimentation near curtains.

“That's your method?”

“Encouragement.”

“You're encouraging spontaneous combustion.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounded stupid before I said it.”

He held out his hand.

“Fire.”

Nothing.

“Please?”

Nothing.

Marco looked at me.

“Maybe it's shy.”

“Perhaps it dislikes you.”

“It's my fire.”

“You don't know that.”

“It came out of my hand.”

“A compelling argument.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn't praise.”

“I took it as praise.”

I returned to my notes.

A gecko dropped from the roof onto Marco's shoulder.

He shouted.

His hand flashed.

Blue.

Gold.

Gone.

The gecko fled.

My chair scraped backward as I stood.

Marco froze.

“Did you see—”

“Yes.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I didn't try.”

“I know.”

He looked toward the roof.

“The lizard did it.”

“The gecko startled you.”

“I'm being bullied by wildlife.”

“Focus.”

“I am focused. On my attacker.”

“Marco.”

He looked at me.

“Do it again.”

“How?”

“Think about what you felt.”

“Betrayal.”

“Before that.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.

For once, he didn't make a joke.

His breathing slowed.

Nothing.

A minute passed.

Then another.

“Stop.”

His eyes opened.

“I almost had it.”

“No, you didn't.”

“How do you know?”

“Your face was turning red.”

“That could've been fire.”

“That was oxygen deprivation.”

He inhaled dramatically.

I almost smiled.

Then I saw it.

A thread of light beneath the skin of his wrist.

Blue.

So faint I might have imagined it.

It traveled toward his palm.

Gold followed.

Marco looked down.

The light disappeared.

Neither of us spoke.

His eyes found mine.

No fear this time.

Wonder.

That was worse.

Better.

I wasn't sure.

“Lucy.”

“Yes.”

“Was that me?”

I looked at his hand.

“Yes.”

His smile came slowly.

Not because he understood.

Because for one second, the unknown had done something other than hurt him.

I couldn't take that from him.

So I didn't.

---

Marco went to bed early.

I waited until his door closed before taking the wooden box from the kitchen drawer.

The fragment from Cala Verde lay inside.

Blackened.

Grooved.

Silent.

I placed it beside my notebook.

Blue and gold.

Heat.

Regeneration.

Abnormal reserves.

Fire that did not burn its bearer.

There were explanations I preferred.

Rare elemental inheritance.

An unusual regenerative bloodline.

Experimental alteration.

Something done to him in that white room.

I considered each.

One by one.

And found each insufficient.

The cottage settled around me.

Marco moved once in the guest room.

Outside, insects sang in the dark.

I opened my notebook to a clean page.

For a long time, I didn't write.

Then I lowered the pen.

One word.

Not a conclusion.

Not yet.

A possibility.

I stared at it.

Then drew a line through it.

The ink remained legible.

Phoenix.

I closed the notebook.