Third Solstice CALIBRE with cover by Harper Page B

morning. You slept a long time.”
    “Just about long enough?”
    “Maybe. Here’s Zeke.”
    Ezekiel stumbled through from the side room, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Did somebody call me?”
    “Neither of us.” Lee sat up, smiling. “How’s the demon child?”
    “I suppose there’s just the outside chance that you and my rotten brother might let me forget that some day. She’s still asleep. What I don’t understand is how I could have slept so long. I didn’t think I’d close my eyes.”
    “It’s okay. Come and sit down with us.”
    “Lee, you’ll think me a coward. I rode with her in the ambulance, and I stayed with her while she was being admitted. I don’t want to look at her as she is now.”
    “Nevertheless.”
    Lee was holding out his hand. The gesture was affectionate but somehow peremptory, a summons. Gideon was aware of Zeke obeying it, moving to stand at Lee’s side. He was losing track a little, starting to drift. His husband’s negotiations with his brother were important, but he had no part in them. Still, there they were, the pair of them, arrayed opposite to him on the far side of his mother’s bed. Gideon had heard that a triangle was the most stable structure of all. “What time is it now?”
    “Twenty to five. It’s time.”
    Zeke shifted nervously. “Time for what?”
    “A journey I’d have taken for your brother if I could. He knows that—don’t you, Gid?” Gideon looked up in response. He gave a brief, smiling nod, and Lee went on: “He has to find the point in the past where things changed, so they can be different tonight. I can’t do that. I don’t know Ma Frayne’s trackways.”
    “Her trackways? Is it dangerous?”
    “For someone who hasn’t seen both sides of the veil. But Gideon has. He’s walked there often now, with the Beast and the witch and Old Penglas. And...” He paused, voice roughening to a chuckle. “Darren Prowse, the Lord of Misrule? That’s kind of perfect.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this sounds crazy, Lee. Why can’t I do it? I know our mother’s trackways, better than Gideon ever could. I’m the oldest. Why—”
    “It’s not a competition. You have to forgive him for being born. He’s forgiven you.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind. Just stay close.”
    “I can’t. I can’t watch this.”
    “You can, Ezekiel. Because he needs you to.”
    Gideon let their voices fade. He had no need of them anymore, though he remained conscious of their presences, like great trees on the edge of a river. He was five years old, walking home through the village with his mother after school, and he hadn’t a care in the world.
    Nor had Ma. Gideon knew her thoughts as completely as his own, and she was elated—day in, day out, dawn till dusk—at having another child. A cheerful little boy, so different to his taciturn teenage brother that Ma was sure the pastor’s shadow would never consume him. She loved her elder son—of course—but these days he was so hard to reach. And Gideon, sturdy and affectionate, was there, surprising late fruit of a womb beginning the syncopated dance of menopause. Running down the lane now, never so far ahead that she felt he didn’t need her. Just bold and independent, testing the boundaries of his world.
    Some things could still scare him. The lane ran along the back of Pellar Street, a rough council block much haunted by lads coming home from afternoon sessions at Bodmin college. Normally Ma brought Gideon through earlier, but today Mrs Waite had detained her with gossip in the shop. A cluster of the young thugs were blocking the path ahead, laughing and throwing stones at some unseen target. Gideon had stopped in his tracks and was looking back at her, eyes wide. “Ma! Ma!”
    As if she could fix everything. Well, that was her job, as long as he believed she could. She scooped him up, grunting a little at his solid weight. She cleared her throat, settled herself more firmly on her heels.