POTOMAC: ARBOR HALL
The sun rose, and the sun set, and the Beholder carried us downriver.
We took Märyäm to her home, a peninsula called Qirim, and Skop hired a horse and cart to take her to her village. She had sent letters there, and her sisters had responded in disbelief; they had feared the worst for Märyäm after she’d been captured more than a decade before.
Märyäm had cried as she read their replies. She hadn’t stopped talking since about the nephews and nieces she’d be meeting for the first time, about how she couldn’t wait to cook with her sisters again.
They were all home, waiting for her.
Märyäm had been a hearth for freezing women, a barred door against wolves. She was a good person, generous and kind and hospitable to strangers.
I hoped the fairy tales proved true. I hoped it came back to her a hundredfold.
“Spasibo,” I said into her shoulder as I hugged her goodbye.
Märyäm smiled at me, her chapped palm cupping my shoulder. “Safe travels, Selah.”
We sailed on. I kept my radio close. My godmother said the Rosary every morning.
And seven weeks after we had left Yotunkheym, on a chill day in mid-November, I guided the Beholder into the mouth of the Potomac with Torden and Homer and Skop at my sides.
It was a gorgeous afternoon, clear, with a blue sky and a steady wind. Cobie clambered through the rigging; Jeanne and Basile and Vishnu worked the lines, and J.J. scampered across the deck, in everyone’s way, giddy with excitement.
Movement on the banks caught my eye, and suddenly, there were cries on the air. I startled at the sound at first.
And then I heard their words. “She’s home!” one of them hollered.
From an outpost on the banks of the Potomac, a runner began to sprint upriver, alongside the ship.
I’m home.
And they were waiting for me.
From one outpost to the next, the runners outstripped the Beholder, racing west toward the setting sun. Torden kept one hand on my shoulder, one around my waist.
The wind blew my hair into my eyes, and the river washed over the hull of the ship, and my heart sang in chorus with it all as my city came into view.
Arbor Hall. My home.
I ceded my place at the helm, and Homer docked just as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. A massive, silent crowd awaited us on the pier.
My eyes searched them, scanning and discarding face after face that was not my father’s.
“Selah!” A familiar voice called my name.
My heart stopped.
I raced down the gangplank and threw myself into my godmother’s arms. She smelled like incense and the air smelled like earth and I was home, I was home, I was home.
I pulled away slightly, glancing around. “Where is he?”
Godmother put a hand on my shoulder. “He’s at the house,” she said, nodding in the direction of Arbor Hall. “I will explain everything. But you’re tired, and I want you to rest, and not to worry. What matters is—”
“Godmother, tell me,” I said more sharply than I meant to. “I’m sorry. But I—please.”
She pursed her lips, clasped her hands as if in prayer. The world tipped sharply beneath my feet. “He’s in bed, baby. The doctors don’t know what to do.”