Ignited by Lily Cahill Page A

give him.
    There was the sound of a sputtering motor, and Henry turned to see his grandfather’s Buick turn onto the street. It was an eyesore, blindingly blue with white-wall tires. No matter how many times Henry asked him to get a newer, safer car, Dr. Pinkerton refused. He’d had the Buick for years, and he liked it, no matter what kind of sounds it made.
    Knowing that his grandfather would be just moments behind him, Henry finally knocked. A moment later, Louise Porter appeared, still putting on her earring.
    “Hello,” she said, moving out of the way so that Henry could sweep past. She had always been a striking woman, tall and thin, with the kind of posture that made it clear her back never touched her chair. She had the same bright blue eyes as he did, but that was where the similarities between them ended. She finished putting on the back of her earring and patted her hair, making sure it was still in place. “How was your walk?”
    Henry fought back a sigh. Years ago his mother had made clear the only thing worse than her father’s car was her son’s refusal to buy one at all. “It’s not like you can’t afford it,” she’d told him. “You’re a doctor.”
    Which had not been true. He’d been a student at the time, and in Denver, where the tramway system could get him anywhere he needed to go. Now, he lived in a town so small that it seemed like a silly luxury. He could always borrow Bill’s car … or his grandfather’s, if he really needed one.
    He hadn’t told her that, though, instead biting his tongue and letting it slide. She had not stopped making veiled barbs since.
    “It’s a lovely night,” he told her, making sure to keep his voice even.
    “Well, that’s nice.”
    With that, she turned and made her way toward the kitchen.
    Henry sighed as he trailed behind. This was going to be a fun evening, he could already tell.
     
    “—And poor Henry had to listen to her talk on and on about her stomach issues, right there in the waiting room, in front of God and three families.” Dr. Pinkerton guffawed, but it turned into a cough. He took a sip of his water.
    Louise smiled. It looked different than any expression she’d ever turned Henry’s way. With her father, she was warm and genial, but with him, her own son, she fell into a cold mask of indifference. It was like she was two different people, and that was never so highlighted for Henry as it was during these weekly dinners.
    “Well,” Louise said, pushing away her plate. She had barely touched the meal she’d cooked, and leftovers in porcelain bowls littered the table: boiled carrots, hot rolls, scalloped potatoes. There was even a steak that had not been touched. Henry sighed. His mother had hired a cook on the recommendation of Mrs. Briggs some weeks earlier, and ever since she’d gone out of her way to make sure the man was used—usually to excess—at every opportunity.
    So much waste. He looked around the house where he had grown up and saw the thick Persian rugs and heavy velvet curtains and wished he were back in his own house. He’d mostly copied his home out of the Sears catalog, but at least it didn’t feel like a museum installation.
    “What’s going on with all those weirdos who can do things? You know who I mean.” Louise waved a hand dismissively.
    “They’re not weirdos,” Henry corrected. He hoped he sounded more patient than he felt. Even though he wished he were, he was not surprised that she, of all people, would be prejudiced against the powerful people around town. “A lot of what they can do is pretty amazing. Ivan Sokolov grew this entire tree out of nothing, and—”
    Louise cut him off. “That’s nice. Especially since everyone knows he’s the one who caused all this.”
    There was no evidence that the Sokolovs had anything to do with the powers, or the fog, or anything . They’d lived in Independence Falls for years—Kostya was only a few years older than Henry, and they’d had occasion to