“Er, if you want,” Theo added. “It was an idea.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. “Thank you.” He wanted to say so much more, so much that it filled up his throat and heart and mouth; he hoped Theo knew.
Under a porcelain-pale sky painted with clouds, in a meadow he knew as intimately as his own body, he sat down. And then, after a moment, lay down: stretched out along the earth, surrounded by grass and the rustle of wind and the circle of blue overhead. He could see flowers, yellow and violet and raspberry and white, at the edge of his vision; he could smell the hints of protective herbs, and woods, and endless green and gold possibilities.
Theo murmured something low and practiced, an incantation: a shield-spell, keeping them undisturbed. His voice was quiet.
Henry pushed himself up on an el
