My dad picks up the phone after only the second ring.
It's my fault—I'm late to call again. Have been every Sunday for the past three weeks in a row. The first time, it was because another study session with Alexei ran over. Then, I just lost track of time in the library.
Today, I slept through it. Would've missed it entirely if Holly hadn't shaken me awake.
"Hey, kiddo," he says.
"Sorry," I answer, doing my best to sound fully awake. "I was in the library. Won't happen again."
"That's alright. I know you're working hard."
He must not notice my mumbling, or care, because he doesn't mention it. It's just the usual weekly check-in:
"How's school?"
"Fine."
"Your friends?"
"Not bad. What about work?"
"It pays the bills."
Part of me is annoyed by these calls. They're a distraction from my studies, my friends, the new life I'm building here.
But another part of me knows that I wouldn't have made it through September without them.
After all, it's not like I was used to much more than this at home. We lived together through little more than clipped exchanges, on the rare occasions when neither of us was sleeping or working: on the sofa watching late-night television, in the car when he was able to drop me off at school, during walks to the chip shop down the block.
And as much as I want to resent him for that distance, I can't. This is our language. It's our home.
Acknowledging how much I need this little reminder feels like a kind of surrender—an acknowledgement that Bragdon isn't the mythological place I had made it out to be in my mind. That I still need something more.
I don't think that's entirely true, though. Things genuinely are better here. I have friends, and I'm bettering myself, moving toward a life of dignity and class. I want to move on from that little apartment in Manchester. I do.
It's just that this road is a difficult one: I grind myself into dust every week on homework and studying and ballet. I need the comforts I can take just to stay sane: picnics with Holly, study sessions with Alexei, ceremonies in that moonlit grove.
And, yes, conversations with my father.
This time is different, though.
After we've run through our usual cycle of questions, we say our goodbyes, and I move to hang up the phone. But he interrupts me.
"Wait, Sophie."
"Yeah?"
The line goes quiet for a moment. I can picture him on the other end, pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he's tired or thinking.
"There's... something I wanted to ask you."
My stomach drops.
"... Okay."
"Since you moved out, I've spent a lot of time alone." He speaks slowly, with clear and measured effort. "I've been thinking a lot. About how much I miss you, and how much I miss your mother. I... I love you both. Always will."
I know what he's going to say before he says it and squint my eyes shut, in some strange, mistaken impulse to block out his voice, to pretend he's not there.
"Sophie, no one will ever replace your mother. I hope that you know that. But I've started seeing someone. You may know her, actually. Mabel. She works at the pub downstairs."
"Doesn't ring a bell," I say dully. I would probably know her if I saw her—there are only a handful of waitresses there, after all—but I don't want to admit that to him.
"I like her," he says. "I really do. You wouldn't believe how much I've been smiling lately. Every time I see her. I look a bit of a clown, really."
He clearly expects me to respond, but I don't—out of spite or shock, even I'm not quite sure—so he clears his throat and continues.
"Well, you're my daughter, and I can understand that you might be confused or upset by this. So before things get any more serious, I wanted to ask how you felt about it."
There's a pause, only filled by the distant static of the phone, before I understand what he's asking.
"You want me to give you permission to date this woman."
"... Yes."
I'm confused; and I'm angry, too. Angry that he gave me no warning, no indication of wanting to move on before now; angry that he would put this decision in my hands.
But most of all, I can't believe that he would betray my mother's memory, our family, like this.
Before I can stop myself or even process what I'm doing, I'm spitting into the receiver. "If my feelings bothered you so much, you wouldn't have put me into this position in the first place. What do you want me to say? That it's fine that you're forgetting about mom? That I don't care? Well, I do."
He sighs, so quiet that the receiver hardly picks it up, waits for a moment, and then says, "I understand. I'm sorry."
I know that I should apologize too, tell him that it's okay, he has every right to move on. But it wouldn't be true. Maybe I regret the words I chose, the tone I used, but I meant what I said, and it's cruel to apologize when you don't truly mean it.
"...I'll talk to you next week?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry," he says again, and the line goes dead.
After that, all I can do is curl up on my bed and sob. At some point, I process the mattress dipping as Holly sits down beside me. She's been here this whole time. She doesn't say anything, just wraps an arm around my shoulders and rub my arm with her thumb as I cry.
｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ
Bright and early before class on Monday morning, I'm standing at Alexei's door.
It was a long, sleepless night, and it shows in the rings under my eyes and wrinkles on my uniform. I spent most of yesterday crying; trying to understand how my dad could possibly find someone new, or why it made me so horribly angry. I cursed, I spat, I threw books across the room. And Holly just stayed, quiet but unwavering, until I managed to calm down.
Since then, I've done nothing but read.
Alexei opens the door, clearly annoyed to be disturbed so early in the morning, but his glare softens as he takes in my frazzled appearance and the stack of books and papers in my arms. Without a word, he steps out into the hall, quietly shuts the door behind him, and leads me back down into the common room.
"Sorry." He curls up in a plush chair by the window. "I would let you in, but my roommate's still asleep."
"I know it's early," I say, a hasty apology. "It's important." Alexei watches blearily as I set my stack of books down on the center of the table. "I want to read the hymn at the next ceremony. I want to be High Priestess."
He seems to awaken at this, leaning back in his chair a little, eyes narrowing. "You realize there's no way you can do this without rocking the boat, right?"
I swallow the lump in my throat. Christine has yet to treat me with the same kindness that she did the day we met, but there's an uneasy truce between the two of us. We only see each other at ceremonies. I don't acknowledge her presence, she doesn't acknowledge mine.
But this is too important. I can't think of any other way to untangle the mess in my head.
"I've been having nightmares," I say, dragging a hand through my hair. "And my dad—" My voice cracks, and Alexei doesn't press further.
"If you think it's important, I'll take your word for that. Just be warned." He leans forward, elbows propped up on his knees as he scans the stack of library books I've accumulated over the past several weeks: Ovid, Hesiod, the encyclopedia I found when life first started to bleed into my nightmares.
I nod, pushing back the tears, and flip open the encyclopedia to a dog-eared page.
"Look," I say, tapping my finger against the word MNEMOSYNE. "It's—I couldn't pronounce it if I tried, but look, there are two pools in Hades. The Lethe, which erases the memories of those who drink from it, and the—you know—it returns them. Allows the dead to remember what they saw on their descent.
"And here," I add, gesturing toward the Theogony, its hard cover worn soft by years of wear. "She was also a Titan. Goddess of memory and mother of the Muses."
"You want to read in her honor?" he asks.
I nod, looking down to my hands. "I—I don't know how I can move on before I remember. There's got to be something that'll help me."
"Of course," Alexei says softly. "That's what we're here for. How about this, you help me prepare the hymn and ritual for this Friday, and I'll talk to Christine for you."
"This Friday?" I ask, and he nods.
I sit quiet for a moment before shaking my head. "I'll talk to Christine."
"Are you sure?"
I nod. She barely tolerated my entry to the group; even if it is only for one week, she's not going to take this usurpation easily no matter who tells her. This is the least that I can do.