It was evening when they finally reached Chengton. For the third time, Nhika made her way up the path toward the Ven house. This time, with Kochin at her side, she hoped it would stick. Once, she’d imagined a life here, with a heartsooth family, never thinking it a possibility. Now, she was choosing it.
“How did my brother react to your return?” Kochin was asking as they walked.
“Shocked, more than anything. I don’t think he expected you to actually do it,” Nhika said. “I … still can’t believe you achieved such a thing.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me.”
She laughed. “I just mean that you achieved the impossible.”
“Not impossible,” he corrected with a shake of his head. “Not if it’s for you.”
Her cheeks warmed and she tamped them down; he gave her an endearing smile, as though he somehow knew she was blushing despite her attempts to hide it.
They reached the front door. Inside, they heard sounds of a dinner—conversations mumbled through full mouths, the clink of silverware, the scrape of chairs against hardwood. With an incredulous breath, as though he couldn’t believe where he now stood, who he now stood with, Kochin raised his hand and knocked.
“I’ve got it, Ma,” came Vinsen’s voice. Footsteps, and then the door opened.
For a tense breath, there was only silence. Nhika could see down the hallway to the dining room, where a stunned Ven family stared at her, at their son. Then Vinsen drew Kochin into a tight, fraternal hug. The rest of Vens bolted out of their chairs in their haste to greet them.
They pulled Nhika in—fingers pinching her cheeks, a hand clapping her back, an arm over her shoulder. Auntie Ye clucked her tongue at the bruises on Nhika’s forearm, making a promise to heal them later after dinner. Bentri leaped in excitement at Kochin’s return, while Vinsen gave Nhika a slow, grateful nod.
I did it, she told him through a look. I brought him home.
Very much against Nhika’s and Kochin’s protests, the Ven family dragged them in, pulled them up chairs, set plates before them. Soup was ladled, rice was scooped, and dishes were moved around the table. Somehow, the best parts of the fish, the fried head and crunchy tail, ended up on her plate.
“How are you home, Kochin?” his father asked.
“Did you really go to war?” Bentri added. “Did you drive any war machines?”
Auntie Ye was still fixated on Nhika’s arms, the many welts and bruises. “I’ll have to heal these soon, or they’ll scar.”
Through it all, Vinsen said, “Kochin, Nhika, I’m glad you’re both back.”
A dinner table had never felt so inviting before. Even the dog tangled himself in Nhika’s legs, begging for scraps. Kochin tried to answer all their questions in turn, but they only asked him more. Between words, he snuck looks at Nhika, his smile soft, dark eyes warm. Underneath the table, he reached out and caught her fingers with a squeeze. The two of them were sharing the same thoughts, Nhika knew, the honeyed feeling of being safe after so long.
And the slow-burn realization that they would never have to be alone again.
It was the first time the Ven household had been complete—and, more than that, full—in years. They didn’t have an extra bedroom for her, but each of the boys, Kochin included, offered her their bedroom in turn. Nhika declined them all. There would be time later for sorting out bedrooms, especially with Bentri headed to Central to study at the university, but for now, Nhika wanted to see their home as it was meant to be.
When the night came, the daytime buzz of cicadas yielding to a cricket lullaby, the household retired to sleep. Bathed and soothed, Nhika was lying on the plush couch downstairs. She wasn’t tired, having napped in the airship. Instead, she was antsy—every time she knew peace, it was never for long. But she had hope that this could last forever.
When her fidgetiness forbade sleep, Nhika stood and stepped outside, steeping herself in the coolness of an autumnal night in the country. Here, without the interference of so many artificial lights, she could see so much of the Star Belt twinkling overhead. She wasn’t accustomed to a sky that felt like it belonged to her.
“Couldn’t sleep?” came a voice behind her, and Nhika realized Kochin had joined her outside.
“I slept on the airship.”
He furrowed his brow, looking troubled. “Not thinking about leaving, are you?”
For once … “Not at all.”
His shoulders eased. “Good, because there’s something I wanted to show you. Follow me.”
“In my night linens?”
“It’ll just be us,” he promised—but he draped her with his jacket and she had no choice but to follow.
Kochin guided her down the hillside path, through Chengton’s now-quiet main street. Beautiful, she thought, that somewhere in Theumas could be truly quiet at night. She might grow to miss the constant urban burble, but being so close to water, in a family of heartsooths—those were the best parts of her childhood, come to life again.
The walk was a familiar one, so she knew where Kochin was taking her even before he untied the dinghy from the docks and helped her down. Unlike when he’d hidden the houseboat in Central, they didn’t need to row far before she saw it, docked beside limestone cliffs. And if she squinted, she could even see the Ven household on the hill, overlooking it. Like there wasn’t any reason to hide anymore—and there wasn’t.
Kochin tied up the dinghy and helped her on. As he gassed the engine and turned on the lights, the houseboat returned to her with the warmth of a summer rain: those earthy scents of houseplants and river water, the sun-warmed wood, the gentle sway of the hull. He took her to the veranda, where they could see the Vens’ house on one side of the water, the vast Star Belt on the other.
“There,” Kochin said, “The houseboat is yours. You know, in case my family is ever too much for you, or you want someplace of your own.”
“I…” Nhika didn’t know what to say. “I can’t repay you.”
“Since when have you ever cared for settling debts?”
“Since I decided to go home with my creditor.”
Kochin huffed out a laugh. “You gave me your life, I give you a boat—let’s call it even.” Then, in a sober tone, he added, “And you chose me when you could’ve had the Congmis. I might spend the rest of my life wondering why.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, and those words tugged at her lip: peace, freedom, love. She didn’t say them aloud. “I love your family. You, on the other hand…”
Kochin stepped toward her, smile wry, eyes on her lips. When he leaned down for the kiss, his hand on her cheek, she rose up to meet him. It reminded her of their first—just the two of them on the water, a world alone, something blithe and hopeful burning in her chest.
When they parted, he gave her a satisfied look. “That sounds dreadful.”
“I can learn to endure it.”
Despite her insults, his expression grew soft, and he said, “I never thanked you properly for giving me your life. I owe you in perpetuity. The rest of my life for yours.”
Nhika gave him an amused look. When she thought back to the night in the operating suite, she remembered adrenaline, and grief, and … love. She’d simply been the last heartsooth for far too long, passing on the mantle. But now she wasn’t; neither of them were.
“Did you mean what you said when we were hanging off the railing?”
Kochin gave her a playful look. “When I thought I was going to die and there were no consequences to my words? Hmm, let me think…”
“Ven Kochin.”
“Yes, yes, I meant every word.” He laughed. He curled a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “I love you, Nhika. Even when I thought I only had half a heart, it was yours.”
“I love you, too.” Her admission paled in comparison to his poetry, but she’d never been one for words. She realized that was the first time either of them had said it back—their declarations had never left any room for reciprocation. “Did you find everything you wanted? Peace, freedom, love?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “And are you happy, Nhika?”
“Yes,” she echoed, though the word fell short of how she felt. Happiness was ephemeral—she was happy after successfully selling eucalyptus oils as cure-alls, happy to gorge herself on Congmi dinners. But here, with Kochin and his family, Nhika was no longer the last heartsooth. She didn’t need to fear being the last of her kind, nor did she worry about being forgotten in death—not when he’d gone to war to bring her back. Here, to exist at all was to be loved.
So yes, Nhika was happy.
But more than that, after all she’d mourned and lost and fought for, Nhika was home.