The woman pushed the door open. The hinge shrieked—dry, ungreased iron biting into wood.
Ikarus stepped over the threshold, expecting the rot of the exterior to follow him in, but the smell of beeswax and shaved cedar teased his nose instead. His eyes caught the table in the center of the room; the kid's trinkets were sprawled across a pale oak so fresh the grain still looked wet.
Arnette turned to him, smiling softly. "Please, come in, Master Ikarus," then she gestured toward the heart of the room. "Bear with our humble arrangements. We'll depart for the island at first light."
She threw open the window, and Paradiso forced its way in. Brilliantly white-washed walls caught the sun, turning the room into a glare of chalky light. The sea breeze followed, thick with salt and the cloying sweetness of hibiscus. She held her straw hat against the gust, eyes squeezed shut as her chestnut hair whipped across her face.
Ikarus watched a single bead of sweat track down the pulse of her neck, disappearing into the shadows of her sky-blue bodice. He couldn't tell if it was the midday heat or if he'd simply rattled her.
He hadn't meant to terrify her, but the most wanted man in the Empire didn't have the luxury of patience. Still, there was something unsettling about her. Most people broke under his gaze; she just stood there, breathing in the salt air.
Thud. Thud.
The boy bolted toward them but skidded to a halt at the sight of a stranger trailing behind his mother.
"Who are you?" He scrambled back, hands thrown up in a sharp, defensive guard.
Ikarus offered a thin smile but said nothing, letting the boy's imagination run wild. There was something commendable in that defiant stance—enough to stir a flicker of genuine amusement. Like mother, like son, he thought.
The woman stepped toward her son. She didn't hug him this time; she gripped his shoulder with a firm hand, pivoting him to face Ikarus like a soldier being presented to a general. She looked down at her son.
"Raphael, sweetheart," she said. A sharp, narrow smile tightened her angular jaw. "From now on, you will call this man Master Ikarus."
The boy–Raphael, glanced between Ikarus and his mother in a comical, wide-eyed blur. Sensing his hesitation, the woman's fingers dug deeper into her precocious son's shoulder. Raphael winced, he caught her look and immediately bent at the waist, a stiff, formal bow.
"It's a…a pleasure to meet you, Master Ikarus," he stammered to the floorboards.
A thin, satisfied look settled over the woman's face. She didn't let go of the boy as she turned back to Ikarus. "From this moment on, we are here to serve you," she said. She inclined her head, a shallow, respectful bow that felt more like a vow than a greeting. "Please. Call me Arnette."
Ikarus didn't answer right away. His mind was already pulling at the threads—why his grandfather's dying request had landed him with two "servants" in a sun-bleached shack. He had a dozen other questions, but they could wait—he had more pressing matters to attend to.
"Likewise, Arnette," Ikarus let a smile touch his lips before he sank into a crouch. He brought himself level with the boy, his blond hair catching the harsh glare of the window. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Raphael," he said.
Arnette finally loosened her grip. The tension bled out of Raphael instantly, his face lighting up with a sudden, frantic hope.
He spun toward his mother, his eyes wide. "Does this mean we're going back to town, Mother?"
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, nodding once. The boy let out a small, breathless cheer and began to bounce on the balls of his feet, his energy filling the small room.
He turned back to Ikarus, a toothy grin plastered across his face. "I'll show you all my friends, Master Ikarus!" he chirped. Then, his head tilted—a sharp, bird-like motion of pure curiosity. "But...can all grown-ups just swap their faces like you do?"
The boy stared at him as if he were some strange, exotic specimen washed up on the tide. He looked at the boy—this little bundle of sunshine—and smiled, some things better left unsaid.
Arnette cleared her throat—once, twice—dry, deliberate coughs that sounded louder than they needed to in the quiet room. She leaned over, placing herself between Ikarus and her son, "Raphael," she said, her voice reclaiming its steady, commanding lilt. "Be a sweetheart. Turn on the fan, then go fill the kettle for some tea."
The boy's curiosity snapped like a dry twig. He chirped a "Yes, Mother!" and darted toward the wall. With a heavy click—the ceiling fan began to turn, slow at first, then steady. A thin breeze spread through the room, nudging at the stale heat. Then he bolted toward the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the wood.
Arnette watched her son with a quiet softness, her hand trailing along the edge of the heavy oak table as she walked. She turned toward him.
"To think you're actually here," she said, her eyes flicking past him to scan the street. "Holding that sketch, sleeves rolled down even in this Paradiso heat." She gave a dry, knowing huff. "Master Daedalos knew you well. Said his grandson was as resilient as a cockroach and would crawl here eventually."
She pulled out a chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and gave him a once-over that lingered a second too long—a mischievous smile etched itself across her face, pulling at the corners of her mouth. "And I have to admit... you're a much better-looking cockroach than I expected, Master Ikarus."
A short, dry snort escaped Ikarus's mouth. "Your taste in men is appalling," he said. Ikarus
Arnette laughed—soft, quick, like she'd been expecting it. She gestured to him to sit, her hand gripping the back of the chair as if she wouldn't let go until he sat first.
Ikarus muttered a thanks and sank into the chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He draped his coat over the backrest—the fabric felt stiff, still carrying the faint, metallic tang of the Capital's smog.
He leveled his gaze at her. "Can we skip the pleasantries? I want the talk we're here for."
Arnette didn't move away. Instead, she reached out and ran a hand over his jacket, smoothing the deep creases in the heavy wool. Ikarus stiffened, his jaw tightening at the uninvited intimacy, but she ignored the flash of heat in his eyes.
"Relax for a moment, Master Ikarus," she said, her voice like silk. "Let me get you something cold first."
Arnette walked to the kitchen, leaving him alone with the faint spin of the fan and the feeling that he'd just been handled without quite knowing how.
Ikarus sat in the salt-heavy air, his blonde hair tangled by the breeze. The synthetic skin of his mask lay slumped on the table next to her straw hat. Without that layer of silicone and chemistry, the sunlight stung. It bit into his pale, hollowed-out cheeks and made his tired eyes ache.
He watched Arnette as she took the kettle from her son, her hand lingering a moment to smooth his hair. The boy swayed as he stepped back, a little unsteady, droplets slipping from the kettle and tapping softly against the wooden floor.
Where did you pick her up, old man? Ikarus wondered. Fifteen years was more than enough time for his grandfather to build himself a new life—new family and all—but still…wasn't she a bit too young?
His gaze drifted to the boy.
Wait. That would make the kid my uncle. Ikarus grimaced. How absurd. He shook his head. It had to be the heatstroke. No other explanation for his mind spinning such ridiculous webs.
Ikarus watched Arnette's back through the kitchen. She reached up, gathering her chestnut hair into a high ponytail. The movement revealed her damp sky-blue dress. I really did rattle her, he thought.
He leaned back and let his eyelids fall shut, trying to block out the invasive white glare of her strap against her slightly tanned skin. Somewhere near the window, shells and bits of driftwood knocked softly together, the sound light and hollow in the breeze—steady enough to take the edge off, if only a little.
Pat. Pat.
Soft, careful footsteps came up beside him.
A small hand pressed against Ikarus's forearm. Raphael leaned in, a tiny finger pressed firmly against his own lips. "When you're done talking to Mom," the boy whispered, his breath smelling faintly of the tea, "I'm gonna show you the shell I found last night. It was this big."
The kid held up his hand, pinching his thumb and index finger together to show a gap barely an inch wide. To Raphael, it was a titan.
Ikarus smiled, matching the boy's conspiratorial tone. "I can't wait."
Raphael's grin flashed, revealing the dark gap of a missing front tooth. The moment Arnette's shadow lengthened across the floor, the boy scrambled away. He bolted toward a bedroom door adorned with strings of bleached shells that clattered as he disappeared inside. Ikarus let out a low, rough chuckle.
Arnette returned, the tray in her hands rattling softly with the chime of ice against glass. She set two condensation-beaded glasses of lemon tea on the table and sank into the chair opposite him. She fanned herself with one hand, pulling at the collar of her dress to let the air reach her throat.
Ikarus watched a single, cold droplet as it escaped the rim of his glass and trailed down the smooth surface, but his mind had drifted elsewhere. He watched the way the light caught the damp curve of her neck, tracing the same path the water took. It looked tantalizing—the kind of cooling relief that had nothing to do with the ice lemon tea…..