The salvageability of the night hinged on admittance, on one admitting what the other one knew quite clearly, but would never bring himself to mention. Something along the lines of:
“Boris, you are insane, and while your wife’s insanity is clinical, yours is self-inflicted, quite possibly highly contagious, and I fear that both Stari and me will join you before long if you don’t stop trying to communicate with wraiths.”
Or perhaps: “Oz, you’ve been spending far too much time in the Midnight City lately. And while I know I haven’t been there for you much as a father-or at all-it is not an acceptable way to forget your circumstances. In fact, it really is rather dangerous.”
Oz didn’t care how his father knew he’d been to the Midnight City, and he cared even less for the reprimand that would inevitably follow. Or he wouldn’t have cared, if his father had been in any condition to act fatherly.
But Boris’s mind was with the wraiths, and from the beginning neither father nor son had harbored any mistaken beliefs that the night-or their relationship for that matter-was salvageable.
So they sat opposite each other in the dark and in silence, the only sound the occasional clink of silverware and the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall.
The dining room had been grand once but the years had faded everything in the house, the silver chandeliers growing tarnished, the gilt wallpaper tearing off in places, and freezing gusts of wind blowing through every few seconds because in --- manor the windows were always open.
“How is she?” Boris’s voice was hoarse and unexpected, directed at his soup. Oz stared at him for a long moment, possible responses running through his head.
“How’s who?” he asked finally, knowing perfectly well who his father means.
Boris’s eyes flicked briefly to his, then back down again. “Her. Maraline.”
There’s another long pause.
Oz set his spoon down with exaggerated slowness. “Oh. Your wife. Well, I’d say she’s getting better, but that’s not what the doctors say. They said she only seems happy because she’s hallucinating. Although you could just go and see her.”
Boris gave no inclination he’d heard.
“Except you don’t like seeing her when she’s so happy, do you? I don’t know what that’s all about, but I’d say it’s rather messed up, wouldn’t you? Most men want their wives to be happy.”
His grip on the spoon stiffened but still his father didn’t look up.
“She’s sick,” he said, barely audible. “Her mind…is ill.”
“And how would you know if her mind was ill?” Oz tilted his chair back and stared insolently across the table. “You haven’t seen her in six-no, seven months. Maybe that’s why she’s so happy. I’d be happy too if I didn’t have to see you for that long.”
“Is it so crazy to want to cure my sick wife?”
“By summoning wraiths? Yes! It’s impossible and delusional-”
“You’d rather she died because I had done nothing?”
“I’d rather you leave it to the doctors, and while you’re at it, get a doctor for yourself, because sane people don’t hear voices in the walls!”
Without a word Boris got up and left the table. Oz slouched back in his seat, unable to feel even an ounce of guilt, not even when Stari’s voice sounded from behind him.
