or fell in love with a town that made us feel like we’d lived there forever. But leaving was worth it every time—to see Vivienne emerge from her blue funk or whatever it was that brought out misery in her. Beginnings were always exciting.
‘He can give you things I never could,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so tired. I can’t run anymore.’
‘Tell me why you left.’ I could feel the familiar frustration of unanswered questions warring with my need to protect her.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said. Then, as usual, whenever I asked the wrong question at the wrong time, she steered me off in another direction. ‘Everything you need for the rest of your life is right in here.’ She pressed her finger into my chest. ‘When I’m gone, never forget who you are.’
‘Who’s that, then?’
‘Friday Brown, you are a twentieth generation direct descendant of Owain Glyndwr, a man revered in Wales during the fourteenth century. He was the Welsh equivalent of King Arthur. Or William Wallace.’
I’d heard this one before. So many times. ‘William Wallace?’ I asked to keep her talking. But that night I had no desire to play along.
‘Braveheart,’ she said. ‘The guy with the blue face. He turned back a whole army. He led a revolution.’
‘Well, shit,’ I replied. ‘A dude with a blue face would frighten the crap out of anyone.’
‘Don’t swear.’ She swatted my shoulder. ‘Owain Glyndwr was the last true Prince of Wales, before the English claimed the title. Shakespeare wrote about him in Henry IV two centuries later. They say he was as brave as Hector, as magical as Merlin, elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel.’
‘The Scarlet Pimpernel sounds like a skin eruption.’
She sighed. ‘Owain Glyndwr was a hero to his people.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is that all you have to say? Oh? Friday Brown, you are descended from kings.’
‘That’s like saying a flu capsule is pure heroin.’
‘I didn’t raise you to be a cynic,’ she huffed and withdrew her arm.
‘You used to tell me there was magic everywhere. There’s no magic here. I don’t want to stay.’
‘So, now you’re a sceptic, too,’ she said. Her tone was heavy with exhaustion. Or perhaps it was disappointment. ‘I didn’t say magic was always a good thing. Others will give it another name, like serendipity, or irony. Bad juju, good luck, premonition, omens. It’s all magic to me. When there are things we can’t explain, we give them a name. I call it magic. It happens.’
‘Shit happens. That’s the original bumper sticker. I’m starting to think it’s all in the interpretation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Shit happens to us all the time. It’s only after it’s happened that you say it was a sign. Did you see this coming?’
She knew what I meant by ‘this’. This thing that was killing her.
‘This is normal,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘You growing away from me.’
‘There’s nothing normal about what’s happening to us,’ I cried.
She stroked my hair again. ‘It would kill me if you stopped believing in me.’
We both fell silent at that.
‘You’re growing up,’ she said firmly. ‘It takes time to believe again. It took me sixteen years, but I hope it takes you less. That’s where you’ll find your peace.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’ve had our differences, my father and me, but we’ve forgiven each other. There are things you need to know.’
‘Like what? How to make good choices?’ I said bitterly.
She shook her head. ‘You can’t always make good choices. Sometimes you have to settle for making a choice you can live with.’
‘Can’t we just go back? Let’s go up north. I liked it there.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve come full circle. He’s not such a bad old guy and you’ll be able to finish school. He’ll look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after.’
‘It’s too soon,’ she said fiercely. ‘You have to be brave now. This is the last new beginning
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