Vespertine

It was a typical night in the Vespertine household, except it wasn’t, because Quinn was stabbing at her food with a forced kind of casual pleasantness that suggested she was about to throw a fit.

“So, Mom, Dad,” Quinn said in that same forced, casually pleasant tone, “what is it that you do again?”

Their parents exchanged a look, one that neither Salvatore nor Quinn missed.

“Your father and I both work in marketing, honey,” Sasha replied. “In the Tenaten Building downtown. We’ve told you this before.”

Quinn nodded aggressively. “Cool, because I was beginning to think you guys were lying about what you really do. You know, I found out something really interesting today.”

Salvatore decided to take the bait. “Which would be?”

“That you guys are lying,” Quinn replied, jabbing her fork in the general direction of her parents.

Chiaro forced himself to laugh a big, hearty laugh that suggested he found Quinn’s accusation amusing. “And why would you say that?”

“Because school got out early today,” Quinn said, resuming her assault on her steak. “So, you know, I thought, why not surprise Mom and Dad at work? Drop by before going home?”

She raised her head to look at them accusingly. “But when I got to the Tenaten building and asked if you guys were in, I was told nobody under the name of Vespertine was employed there.”

Their parents exchanged another look, this one more frantic, and then they both exchanged looks with Salvatore, who merely pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“What?” Quinn demanded. “What is it that you guys all know and won’t tell me?”

Their father sighed and put his fork down. “Okay, you caught us.”

“I know that,” Quinn said, unimpressed with his confession. “My question is why you guys were lying.”

“Because we don’t work,” their mother said, putting down her own fork and wiping her mouth daintily on a napkin.

She raised an eyebrow. “Uh, elaborate?”

Salvatore continued eating as he answered. “We’re rich. Well, to be accurate, our grandparents were rich. Mom and Dad don’t work because they don’t have to. The money from their inheritance is enough to get us by.”

Now both her eyebrows were raised. “Seriously? Why is that a secret? And why did nobody tell me?”

Then she frowned. “Wait. So if you don’t have to work, where do you guys disappear off to all the time?”

“That’s the real secret, sweetheart,” Chiaro answered. He chose his next words carefully. “Have you ever heard of the V’s?”

Quinn thought about it. “Kind of. I’ve heard some rumors. It’s an organization that attempts to gain equality for mortals, right? But a little shady?

He laughed. “Pretty much.”

“Why’s that important?” And then her eyes widened. “Oh. Oh! Are you guys part of that?”

She was becoming excited now. “Wait, that’s so cool! Are you guys like, spies, or something? Is that why you couldn’t tell me? Wait, wait, are you telling me you guys are badass vigilantes, or something?”

“Language,” Sasha reminded in a mild tone. And then she smiled. “But yes.”

“Not just part of it,” Salvatore said, equal parts amused and relieved at Quinn’s reaction. “They’re the leaders.”

Her eyes became even wider, reflecting the light that hung over the dinner table. “Seriously?” Then she turned to Salvatore. “You, too?”

He nodded. “I don’t actually play sports year-round. I’m usually training with the V’s.”

“God, that’s awesome,” Quinn beamed. “When do I get to join?”

There was an awkward pause around the table.

“Not now,” Salvatore said. “You’re too young.”

The radiant smile disappeared and she furrowed her brow. “You’re only six years older than me.”

“Six years is a long, long time.”

“Well, I bet you weren’t nineteen when you started,” she accused. She was right. Salvatore had been twelve when their parents had revealed their role in the V’s to him, and fourteen when he started training. Then again, he’d always been more levelheaded than Quinn.

And he had also already known that he was a sorcerer.

“Well, I wasn’t thirteen, either,” he retorted. “You’re too young, Quinn. Wait a couple years, and we’ll see.”

She looked insulted. “A couple years—we’ll see! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Salvatore said hastily, noticing she was reaching a dangerous level of pissed. “I just meant maybe in a couple years, maybe sooner.”

“Why not now?” She demanded. “I’m mature, and I’ve got loads of free time, anyways. The sooner the better, right?”

“No, honey,” Sasha said gently, but this only served to anger Quinn further.

“No,” she said, turning to her mother. “Don’t give me that. Stop treating me like a little girl. I can take care of myself, you know! And besides, don’t I deserve something for you guys lying—“

The vase on the windowsill exploded.

Quinn stopped talking, looking around for the source of the noise, confusion coloring her features. Sasha immediately stood up, and Salvatore and Chiaro instantly rushed over to the vase as Sasha cradled her daughter’s head in her arms.

Salvatore mopped up the water dripping off the windowsill and scooped up the broken shards of the vase while their father hastily grabbed another vase from under the sink and filled it with water, putting the flowers from the ruined one inside. He adjusted it slightly as Salvatore deposited all evidence of the other vase into the trash can, and they scrambled back to their seats just as Sasha placed Quinn back into hers and settled into her own chair.

Salvatore quickly picked his fork back up, watching as the glaze slowly faded from Quinn’s eyes. He didn’t know what exactly his mother had done, but he had relived this enough times to know that she had probably rewound the conversation, up to the turning point, as she called it. He struggled to recall what exactly he had said as Quinn glared at him, clearly expecting an answer.

He settled for something safe. “Fine. I’ll take you training tomorrow, after school. Sound good?”

The glare dissipated into a cheerful, excited smile. “Yes! Thanks, Sal!”

She scarfed down the rest of her dinner and jumped up to deposit her plate in the sink. That was when she looked up and noticed the vase.

The rest of them tensed. Had she noticed? Was she aware that something was wrong?

“When did you change this?” She asked, fingering the vase.

“A few days ago,” Sasha answered, measuring her reaction carefully.

But all Quinn did was smile at the flowers. “I like this one better. It makes the carnations prettier.” And then she skipped away, with all the carefreeness of a thirteen-year-old girl, rounding the corner and presumably heading upstairs to her room.

When he was certain that she was no longer within earshot, Salvatore turned to his parents. “Doesn’t that ever make you sad?”

“All the time,” his father replied. “But it’s necessary.”

“And you’re going to have to do it, too,” his mother added. “If something happens when I’m not around. You know that, right?”

Salvatore nodded reluctantly, and speared another piece of meat with his fork. “For how long, though?”

“Until she’s old enough to control it and appear mortal naturally,” Chiaro answered.

But Sasha was wearing a pained expression, and she said, “For as long as we can.”

She gazed at the doorway Quinn had so merrily exited through, and Salvatore could see a deep sadness in her light brown eyes. He knew what she was thinking.

Quinn was her little baby, and mothers never want to see their babies grow up.