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Julia wakes to a tone, a middle G, soft and coming from her wooden hippie alarm clock, a triangle with the chime bar across the bottom and the clock face set into the warm maple. The tone will increase in frequency and volume over the next seventeen minutes, until the chime bar is struck almost continuously if she hasn’t yet turned it off. She knows it’s pretentious, but she doesn’t care; it’s just for her, a peaceful way to wake up.
She stretches and feels the cool cotton of her bedding against her bare feet, swings them over and pads out of her small bedroom and across the apartment to start the electric kettle for tea. Bright morning light floods in through her south-facing windows, strong but not harsh, and illuminates her small forest of plants, turning some into silhouettes against the window and making others come alive with glowing, translucent greens. As she waits for the kettle, she checks her plants and sprays them with a small brass mister. “Good morning,” she whispers.
Saturday morning is warm and bright in early June in West Harlem. Julia opens her windows to let in some fresh air and leans out over the city street, feeling the breeze on her face. After her tea, she puts her hair back and does a little yoga before making herself breakfast. She’s enjoying some brown rice and black beans with fried tofu and an amazing pico de gallo from the bodega two corners over when her mother calls. Julia gives it a couple of rings, and answers.
Cynthia Wicker is concerned with appearances. She serves on boards-- the presbytery, an art museum, a couple of charities-- and Julia’s dad is in local politics. Well, New Jersey local, thank the gods (which Julia rarely does.) Cynthia looks impeccable at all times. She hosts dinner parties. Julia is deeply pleased to be far removed from her world.
“Hi Mom,” she begins, “hold on, I was having breakfast.” “Yes, at this hour… oh my god, is it nearly ten? I hadn’t noticed!” She smirks to herself.
“Um Mom, no thank you,” Julia stands and begins to pace in circles. “We’ve been over this… ok, that’s great that you’ve met a nice curator… yep, and enjoy the opening, but I don’t want to meet any eligible men… No, nor women… well, in the past, yes a bit, but I don’t want to confuse the issue, who I dated in college is not the point.”
She grits her teeth, takes a deep breath. “Yes Mom, I’m still ‘on that,’ you know it’s been a while, right? Like, eight years? Could you please stop trying to set me up? I don’t want a romantic relationship. At all.” She listens for a minute, taking a couple of deep breaths and popping little sparks from her fingers into the kitchen-- remain above it, she reminds herself.
“Mom,” she says, “I love you. And I’m sorry if this is disappointing to you. But I’m not interested. Still. Probably ever. I’m happy with my life, and I think our relationship will be better if you can work on trying to accept that.” They’re almost done, she can sense it. She does some lunges against a kitchen chair.
“Ok, that’s ok, I know it’s not easy, but trust me, I’m happy, all right? Ok. I love you too. Talk to you later. Bye.”
She sets down the phone and flops back dramatically on the couch. Exhausting. At least Mackenzie has a husband and kids, so their mother can feel fulfilled. Jesus. After a few minutes Julia shakes it off and goes to get dressed. She pulls her hair up and twists it into a knot. Unable to fully escape the weird mood her mother has put her in, she texts Quentin.
Hey Q, mom called to set me up again. you around?
He texts back: Fuck, again? yep, come over
Julia leaves her apartment, locking the door and setting her wards, and heads up the hall-- four doors up and across to the north side of the building, to Quentin and Eliot’s place. She lets herself in.
Q is sitting on their couch, a book in one hand. He wears his hair long now, pulled back from his face, and has on dark jeans and a soft tee shirt; her oldest friend, looking happy and relaxed. He gets up when she walks in and heads to the door, pulling her into a tight hug. Quentin is not a big guy, but he’s bigger than Julia is, and strong. His hug is grounding, and brings her back to herself, a bit.
“Thanks, Q,” she says, as they relax apart. “My mom can be really… something.”
“Cynthia? Nooooo...” Quentin fixes her with a smirk, “she’s a delight. Remember how she asked my mom if being gay ran in our family at my wedding? That was so perfect, I think Eliot sent her a gift.”
Julia can’t help it, she has to laugh at that. It feels good. She puts her arm around Q’s waist and leans into him as they walk into the kitchen together and he pours them each a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” Quentin leans over the kitchen island on his elbows, “You’re awesome, Jules. Don’t let her judgement make you question that, ok?”
“Yeah, ok,” she relaxes a bit more, “thanks for that.” The coffee is good and hot. Julia grips the cup, tries to let the heat remind her of herself.
“You know, Q, I don’t think she’s ever going to get it. I doubt that she can. And when I try to explain myself to her, it’s like she doesn’t want to know.”
“Maybe not.” He takes a drink of his coffee and looks at her over the top of his mug, “Healthy boundaries. And maybe, you know, don’t move back to New Jersey. I hear it’s full of eligible bachelors.” He gives her a soft, wide grin, and Julia rolls her eyes and comes around the island to give him another squeeze.
Eliot emerges from the hallway then and sort of dances into the kitchen, graceful as ever and light on his feet. He hugs the both of them from behind and kisses the tops of their heads. “The ongoing saga of the boundaries and the bachelors, I hear?” He asks Julia, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, shaking her head. “I just feel a little, um, squicked out, I guess. I think I need to go for a run.”
“Oooo!” says Eliot, “can I come with?”
“Sure,” she cracks a slight smile, “that’ll be nice. We can run, we can chat, I won’t get harassed.”
He gives her a knowing smile. “I love a win-win.” He turns to Quentin, “how about you, Q?”
“No thanks, I have some stuff to do around here.” He turns to Eliot, “I’ll catch up with you when you come back to shower.” Julia is positive that Q has just squeezed Eliot’s ass. She rolls her eyes. Age has not made him any more subtle.
“All right,” says Eliot, his voice a little higher, “I’ll go get changed, shall I?” He takes his leave and Julia gives Q another hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks again.” She smiles slightly as she heads out the door.
#
About an hour later, Julia and Eliot have changed and warmed up and are running together, south along Malcolm X Boulevard toward Central Park, past brownstones and churches and storefront markets, and Julia squints behind her sunglasses every time the sun comes out between the bright white clouds. She looks over at Eliot, jogging along so much more slowly than she is, to keep the same pace. He seems absolutely at ease, and she shakes her head at how far he’s come since they all moved to the city and started over, her with the beginnings of her new power, and Eliot and Quentin with their messed up bodies and their trauma and the shaky foundations of their old/new relationship.
“Hey, it’s only about three weeks until Pride.” She puffs out sentences, staccato, as she runs. “Are Margo and Fen coming this year?”
“I hope so, not sure, they haven’t committed,” Eliot ducks as they go around some pedestrians and veer near a tree, “I know I’ll see Bambi soon, but Pride parties aren’t the same without her.”
“Heading to Fillory right after?”
“A few days later, but yes,” he says, “you’ll be out, second week of August?”
“Yes,” she huffs. They run around a handcart of street newspapers and under a market awning, “we’re all going to the parade together, right?”
“Of course.”
“I’m gonna confuse everyone with my flags,” she says. “I still wanna keep the bi one, and I have the aro one… thinking about adding in an ace one, just because I’m leaning that direction. Do you think that’s too weird?”
“No,” puffs Eliot. “Not at all. Fuck ‘em if they don’t like your flags.” He takes a beat. “Or don’t, as the case may be.”
Julia can feel herself smile at that. “Still queer, still going to pride.”
“Good,” Eliot says, “you’d better.” He breathes. “I’ll see if I can find you a shirt.”
Running feels good. They continue in comfortable silence for a few blocks, and Julia’s mood is improving. She enjoys the architecture, the energy of the city around her, and the feeling of power in her legs as they approach the park. The trees are beautiful, and the air smells nicer as they make their way onto the path.
“Can we slow down a bit?” asks Eliot. Julia nods and slows her pace, she shoots him a questioning look. They run together often enough, she knows he can’t be worn out yet. “So I wanted to talk to you about something,” he begins. Ah. She holds up a hand. That’s fine, but if he wants to have a serious conversation she’d rather stop. She likes to see people’s eyes.
“If we’re going to “talk” talk, let’s stop for a while, okay?” They do, after a few minutes cool-down, on a bench with some water, not looking into the sun. Sunglasses off, Julia says, “Ok, thanks for waiting, what’s up?”
Eliot looks… nervous. Interesting. He’s fiddling with his hands, and looking down and to the side-- very unusual for Eliot, and now she’s curious. Just as she’s starting to scoot into worried, Eliot finally meets her eyes. “Q and I want to have a family, Julia. I know we’ve mentioned it before, but we think we’re about ready.” His voice is quiet and sincere. “We want to be parents.” He doesn’t say “again,” but Julia is certain that he thought it.
She gives him an encouraging smile. “I think you and Q will be great at that.”
“The thing is,” he continues, “we’re probably going to want to move. Upstate, near Brakebills. Like, in the next year or maybe a little more.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
And what is she supposed to say, to that? She doesn’t know… that sounds nice? I’m happy for you? What is going to happen to my life? Julia isn’t really good at emotional conversations, not when they’re real, although she’s trying. She bites her lips between her teeth, taking a minute to try to think, looking out into the distance with heavy eyes.
Eliot brushes her hand, and catches her eyes when she turns. “We’ll set up a private portal,” he says. “We don’t want everything to change.”
Okay, she can… she can latch onto that. She’s still looking at him, and he continues, “Julia, we want to make sure we’re all still a big part of each other’s lives. I consider you my family, you know that, right? As much as Q does.” Eliot swallows. He looks vulnerable. Julia can relate to that, she can, and she knows what he means. She nods and reaches for his hand.
“Sorry for being awkward,” she swallows around a lump in her throat. “I should have thought, some day… I just don’t want you guys to disappear from my life.”
“Julia,” Eliot’s voice is gentle, “we won’t. I promise.” He smiles, sadly. “We should plan regular times to hang out, at least a few times a week. We can still run in Central Park, we can do…” he waves his free hand aimlessly in front of him, “whatever it is people do in the suburbs? Movie nights. Q can still come for lunch when that works, and you’ll see him at work sometimes, of course. And we won’t stop doing spellwork together, either.”
She smiles, a tight smile. Maybe they can make this work, but she’s worried. “Eliot, do you think Q is going to be ok if I’m not across the hall? I know he’s doing better, but I’m not kidding about being here for him. That’s not going to change.”
“I think he is, but I don’t want to break up Team Quentin,” The words sound light, but his face and tone are serious. “He might be ok, mentally, without you across the hall, but he loves you. You’re his best friend.”
Eliot sighs. He looks so sad, and Julia is trying to parse this emotional reaction. She always feels like she’s a step behind, missing those feelings-sensing god powers that had so briefly been part of her life.
Eliot turns to her and continues, “If you weren’t in our lives on a regular basis it would be a huge loss, for both of us. Um, that includes me. It would be a huge loss for me.”
Well, it doesn’t take a goddess to understand that. “El,” Julia begins, and the nickname feels strange on her tongue, but not wrong, “you don’t have to ask me to stay in your life. I was ready to practically beg you to stay in mine.” She takes a deep breath and blows it out with maybe a little too much force, feeling her reality wobble a bit. She tries to keep her voice steady. “You and Q are more family to me than my bio family, anyway. I want it that way.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, letting this all settle. Eliot finally speaks. “We won’t be able to keep the apartment, but we’ll make sure you have a room at the house. And if Q hits a major depressive episode, maybe you could stay for however long? We’ll work it out, okay?”
“Okay.” That sounds like it will work, like she can live with it. She swallows.
“Think you’ll be comfortable being ‘Aunt Julia?’"
The tension breaking at last, Julia rolls her eyes and smirks. “Yeah. But only if I can be ‘crazy Aunt Julia.’ Or ‘spooky, witchy Aunt Julia.’ And definitely ‘sneaks you off to do cool stuff your parents don’t know about or approve of Aunt Juila.’” She laughs a little and Eliot squeezes her hand.
“It’s a deal,” he replies with a grin.
“About ready to get going again? I’d hug you, but that would be disgusting right now,” she points out, reasonably.
“Yeah,” he says, “and agreed. Super gross.”
#
The spring semester is over at the City College of Magical Arts, hidden behind wards and illusion spells in the Bowery district of lower Manhattan, but Julia still has a lot of administrative work to do. She has a small office behind a door with an old-fashioned frosted-glass window, “Julia Wicker, Assistant Dean” written on the glass, and she sits inside at an ugly old oak desk, working at her laptop with a philodendron keeping her company.
Her staff healer is off for the summer, and the clinic is closed, so she won’t be seeing Quentin on campus for any of his medical minor-mending appointments. It’s always a little disappointing-- a couple of months of curriculum committee and contracts and paperwork without her bestie to break up her day. Maybe that’s what it will be like, once they move: seeing each other will have to be so much more deliberate. She can’t quite shake the sense of impending loss. At least, as Assistant Dean, she has scheduled time for her own magical research; time which she is currently using to look up surrogacy agencies on the internet, rather than develop spells.
She had finally worked up the nerve to ask Quentin about it a couple of days ago, about how they were going to do it. Why had it never occurred to her that this was a whole thing? He had explained carefully about how an agency helps a couple find an egg donor and matches them with a surrogate, how the artificial insemination process works, the whole deal. They haven’t settled on an agency yet, so maybe she can help them figure it out. The weirdest part to ask about had been who would be their kids’ biological dad. Quentin had given her the strangest look, soft and far away and both sad and happy. She knows him extremely well, and considers herself a good observer of people, but the way he had looked had been almost inscrutable.
“That’ll be me,” he’d said. Sad and happy. Eager and… resigned? That’s not quite it.
“Eliot wants it to be me, and I’m… good with that? I want to. I wish they could be his, biologically, too, but of course they can’t be both, and that doesn’t really matter, you know? But it’s still something I wish.” He’d looked determined, then, and she had nodded, encouraging him to go on.
“Um, Eliot’s a really good dad. He was… amazing, with Teddy. I was his biological dad, but honestly, I think that just made El more devoted, you know? And Ted was perfect, and we’re not trying to like…” He’d faltered, looking down, “I mean, I know he’s gone,” he’d said softly, like he might cry. Julia had put her arm around him. “I think he was perfect mostly because of Arielle, but Eliot thinks I had something to do with it, too.”
Julia had just held on to him, looking at his sad, strange, far-away smile. He never talks about his wife from that other life, who had died so young, and seldom about their son-- she suspects it hurts too much, or he just feels things that are too complex to deal with-- so this was rare and kind of precious.
Finally, when it had been clear that Q was done, she’d said, “I suspect that Eliot’s right, Q. You probably had a lot to do with it. And I know you’re going to be a great dad.”
“Thanks, Jules,” he’d smiled, small and wistful.
She hadn’t been just trying to comfort Quentin; she’d really meant it. He’s going to be such a good parent. It isn’t something that Julia wants for herself, but she’s excited for them, and so she’s researching.
About an hour later, Julia’s deep into the process when a knock comes on her office door. She gets up to open it, because yelling “come in” won’t work if it’s the Dean.
“Julia?” Harriet both said and signed, stepping sideways through the doorway.
“What is it?” she signs in return, sitting back against her desk.
“We have a problem,” Harriet signs. “Fogg is trying to poach another faculty member, and I need that to be resolved before we can all prepare for the meeting with the library.” She looks agitated, in an “I don’t have time for this stupid bullshit” kind of way.
Julia groans. The nerve of that man. He no longer guards the gates of magic, and he’s never going to get over it. No more mind-wiping, no more deciding who is worthy of magic itself. He can choose his own students, but they all have to work together on multiple levels now. “It’s Hughes, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll handle it,” she signs, “she’ll show me the offer and I think I can get her to stay. I’m pretty sure she’ll decide the academic freedom here is worth it, and I think she wants to help dismantle the magician/hedge caste system… but it would help if I could offer her a raise?”
“Offer her a five year tenure-track, and up to ten percent. Use your discretion, but I want to keep her. Henry Fogg can suck my dick.”
Julia smirks at that mental image. “You’ve got it, boss.” Surrogacy research will have to wait. Administration might be dull sometimes, but she believes in what they have created. Magic should be available to everyone, to the extent of their ability to learn it or create it. Brakebills is a useful institution, but the old guard is on its way out, and she’s going to be there to shut the door behind it. She sends a quick text to Professor Hughes, grabs her notepad and pen, and heads for the door.
#
That night, Julia tells Eliot and Quentin all about the drama as they share takeout, clustered in the living room of the guys’ apartment. She sits sideways on the end of the sofa, her feet up and her curry balanced on her knees, looking at Q sitting weirdly on the other end, his hair down now, and Eliot looking genteel as usual in his leather armchair. The place is cozy-- a mix of Quentin’s taste for comfort and Eliot’s taste for, well, taste. This is a pretty regular occurrence, sharing meals. For now, at least.
“You know the elitism of Brakebills isn’t going to fade any time soon,” says Eliot, a plate of food balanced on his lap and teak chopsticks in his hand. “The degrees we hold are prestigious. We both know there’s a lot to be said for classical magical education, and now that restrictions are being lifted in dangerous fields of study, particularly for post-graduate research, the academic freedom distinction is becoming less of a draw.”
“For professors, I agree,” Julia sets her bowl of green curry on the coffee table and picks up a little dish of the communal pad thai. “Keeping our star faculty is a challenge. I turned Fogg down because of our history, and because he’s a dick. Plus, I had leverage and a great opportunity. But this poaching is obnoxious. He knows we don’t have the same resources.”
I know we’re all “colleagues” now, says Eliot, “but has it occurred to you that he’s doing it partly to spite you?” Yeah, she knows. She nods.
“I don’t suppose you have any sway, do you?” she asks.
“No, sadly,” says Eliot. “Not as junior faculty. I’m fairly confident I’ll be offered tenure eventually-- my dissertation was well-received and my research translates into classes and I’m a popular teacher-- but until then I have to keep my head down. No politics.”
He takes a bite of stir-fry with his chopsticks and looks thoughtful. “But you know, as soon as I have any real power or leverage, you can count on me. Particularly in regard to curriculum reconciliation, transfers, and accepting your grads to our post-grad programs. Magical knowledge shouldn’t be hoarded.”
“Thanks El, I appreciate it.” She loves how much he and Quentin believe in and support what she’s doing, even though Eliot works on the other side of the divide. “You know I won’t mention you in any negotiations or anything. I try not to even discuss Q. Our thing,” she gestures around at the three of them with her chopsticks, “it’s none of their business.”
“Good, that’s for the best right now. But I do love being privy to the gossip,” Eliot grins.
Quentin, who has been busy with his noodles, looks up. “I try not to interact with Fogg unless I have to. I mean, I’m like, cordial , but Anne handles my contract negotiations for the infirmary.” He reaches for his glass of wine on the side table. “I like being freelance with both schools. That’s not an option for professors, though, is it?”
Julia has an answer for that, although it doesn’t make her job easy. “I won’t contribute to the breakdown of academia by relying on adjuncts, so no.” Eliot nods, obviously on the same page. “Once in a while we’ll get someone in to teach a special seminar or something, and they could technically do that at both schools, but I’m committed to having our faculty be full-time. It’s better for them, and helps our reputation, too.”
“You’re a special case, Q,” Eliot supplies. “I really think you can pretty much write your own rules. Neither school has enough injuries to need your work full-time, but your specialty brings prestige to both. Honestly, I think being married to you improves my position at Brakebills.”
Quentin huffs at that, incredulous. “And here I thought I was the eye-candy husband of the charismatic young professor,” he teases.
“To my students, yes,” Eliot smiles at him, fondly. “Please continue to be that.”
Quentin blushes, a bit, and they eat in companionable silence for a while.
“Um, soooooo,” Julia thinks she may as well bring this up now, while everyone’s relaxed with their dinner and a glass of wine, “how are you guys going to handle taking care of a baby? With your work?”
She looks back and forth between her friends. They both have kind of a deer-in-headlights look, for a moment, before Eliot says, “We haven’t entirely worked that out, to be honest. I probably won’t be in a position where I can take much time away from teaching, or not for very long. Although I may be able to teach with the baby while it’s an infant, occasionally, while Quentin's on campus healing. I can get one of those front-carrier things?” He tries to pantomime a baby carrier with his hands, looking a little bit befuddled, and Julia chuckles as she imagines him pulling that off with his three-piece suits.
“What if we have twins?” asks Quentin, and Eliot, it appears, loses the ability to speak as that thought sinks in. Quentin has finished his dinner, and is sitting on the sofa with his feet pulled up and crossed in front of him. He puts his hands on his knees and looks around seriously. “At a certain point, we’ll probably be looking at daycare, or maybe a nanny? If we can afford it? But I’d like to be mostly home with them when they’re little babies. I’ll want to keep working, just not as much.”
Eliot is nodding at that, and he shoots Julia a meaningful look as he does. The looks says, “We have to figure out a way for Quentin to work; being trapped at home with an infant will not be good for him for long.” She nods at him.
“I’ve been thinking about trying to set up some kind of nursery at CCMA, at least part-time. It’s kind of a resource issue, but if we could figure out how to make it work … would that help, Q? For when you’re on campus?”
“Yeah,” he says with a broad smile, “that would actually help a lot.”
“Thank you,” says Eliot. When did they get so good at sharing looks? Julia’s chest swells, a bit. Team Quentin will figure this out.
#
It’s a week before NYC Pride when Julia finally has the guys over to talk about her big idea. She’s nervous, and hasn’t told them what this is about. They probably think it’s Pride planning; even though they do this every year, even though they pretty much have it down, the build-up has become kind of its own ritual.
Eliot bought her a shirt for the parade, and presented it to her a couple days ago with no small amount of excitement: a black tank with small triangular flags printed in a line down the back: rainbow, bi, aro, ace, and “queer” in white script with a rainbow heart around it at the bottom, above her hips. She doesn’t know how he ever found it, but it’s perfect. The city is warming up for Pride, has been low-key celebrating all month already. Julia has a small rainbow flag mounted underneath her windows, overlooking the street, contributing to the communal joy of it all.
She picks up clothes and books and puts out some salsa and chips. There’s beer and cider in the fridge. Like this is no big deal, right? No big deal. Sunday afternoon, casual… can you guys come by later kind of a not-big deal. So okay… she’s nervous. She chews her lip and continues to tidy.
When they show up, Julia tries not to act weird. She gets everyone a bottle, and they congregate in the kitchen, around the salsa. The guys are leaning against the stove side by side, each with an arm around the other’s back. Quentin raises his eyebrows and grins expectantly at her nervousness. Sometimes it’s annoying how well he knows her. She tries to let the familiarity of that calm her, a little bit.
“So,” she says, leaning over the counter and picking up a chip, “having babies.”
“Hmm?” says Eliot, as they both look at her.
“You guys want to do that, and I don’t.”
Quentin smirks. “That’s… accurate.”
She sets her beer down. Into the abyss, then: “Do you want to use my eggs?”
Eliot drops his cider.
Quentin’s eyes are briefly enormous, but he springs into action as the loud pop of the bottle breaking and slow fizz of cider escaping make the only noises in the kitchen. Julia watches as Quentin squats down and all the pieces of glass rise up toward his slowly revolving hands and resolve themselves back into a bottle. He grabs it and sets it in the sink, then nudges Eliot, who seems to come back to himself enough to perform a cleaning spell, and the mess is gone. They make an impressive team. Julia goes to the fridge and grabs El another cider. He takes it, inclining his head slightly in thanks.
Everyone drinks. Julia breaks the silence. “Sooooo… no?”
The guys exchange a look.
“Maybe,” says Eliot.
Quentin takes Eliot's hand and begins leading them out of the kitchen. “We should talk about this. Um. Sitting down?” So they move further into the apartment and sit on the high-pile rug, around her low coffee table. There are some cushions they could grab, but no one bothers. They bring the beers but leave the chips.
“Jules,” Quentin asks, “why would you want to do that?”
They’re both looking at her. They don’t look upset, but they do look serious. She takes a breath and tries to relax. “Well, I’m not going to use them. But, I mean, I still could, if I wanted to, but I don’t. I’ve researched the egg donation process.”
They are still listening, patiently.
“It’s just that, if you had a magician for a donor, it would increase the chances of your kids having magic. And they’re going to grow up around it, so wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
The guys share a brief look. Eliot allows, carefully, “Yes, it would.”
Quentin turns his full attention to her, “But you wouldn’t want to be a parent?” He squeezes Eliot’s hand a little tighter.
“No,” she says, “I wouldn’t. They would be your kids.” She looks pointedly at Eliot. “I would give up any possible parental rights, legally.” Taking both of their hands and looking at both of their cautious faces, she tries to be clear: “They would be entirely yours, and if you didn’t want to, you would never have to tell them I was their donor. It would be up to you, it could be a complete secret forever.”
Quentin swallows and glances at Eliot.“You wouldn’t feel you needed to tell anyone?” he asks, “What about your family?”
They’re all holding hands around the coffee table now, which is maybe a little weird, but Julia feels like it’s strangely appropriate. Like they’re trying to invoke something. She tries to match their seriousness.
“ Definitely not my family.” Julia is very sure about that. “And I don’t think so. Maybe if I ever saw a therapist again, I wouldn’t want to keep it from them, and it would be part of my medical history that I had donated eggs, but otherwise no.”
“What if…” Eliot began, “we did want to tell them, when they were older? How would you feel about it if our kids knew that they got half of their DNA from Aunt Julia? That can be a really big deal, to some people, and we couldn’t control how they would feel about it.”
“We might not want that,” Quentin puts in, “this is just ‘what if.’”
“Well,” she tells them, “I’m hoping to be close to them, either way. But yeah, I’d be ok with that.”
Quentin squeezes her hand, then lets go. “Jules, do you think El and I could have, um, a few minutes?”
She agrees and excuses herself to the rooftop to give them some time to talk. It’s bright up here, and warm, but some potted plants and mismatched outdoor chairs and tables break up the space. Julia can see a lot of city from here-- it spreads out around her in every direction: the jagged, uneven skyline and, lower down, the bushy crowns of trees tucked in between the buildings. She breathes in the warm, thick city air and thinks about all of the different places she’s lived with Q.
After a while, Quentin and Eliot join her on the roof. Eliot doesn’t come up here often-- it makes him want to smoke too much-- but Julia and Quentin like to sit up here and read, when it’s not too hot, or sometimes make little fireworks, when they’re alone. They come and stand next to her, on either side. “Hey, Jules,” says Quentin.
She gives him a smile and a little wave, grins at Eliot.
“So, funny story,” says Eliot. “Q and I have already discussed this idea, before. When we were hatching our plans, originally, you definitely came up.”
“Oh?” she says. Well. They must have decided at that point that they didn’t want a friend as a donor, or maybe just not her? Julia swallows. Bit of a bitter pill, but she can take it. This wasn’t about her, anyway. At least, mostly not.
Eliot interrupts her as she’s looking away. “We decided it was too much to ask.”
Julia opens her mouth to respond, and doesn’t know what to say. She closes it, and looks between them, hoping for a further explanation.
Quentin takes over. “Jules, are you sure that it’s not?”
“Yes,” she swallows, “I mean, no, it’s not too much. I thought about it a lot before I offered. I know about the process, and I’m sure I can handle it. But also, you know, emotionally… it’s ok.”
Eliot gives her a warm smile, takes her hand again and squeezes it.
“I have one more question,” says Quentin. “We told you we wanted to have two kids, ideally, right? If I was able to talk El into being the bio-dad of one of them, would you be comfortable being the donor for both?”
Julia smiles. That’s a really good idea. She squeezes Eliot’s hand back. “Yep, I would,” she tells them, “I think that would be awesome.”
Something happens then, between them, Julia feels it like a change in the air as they all let out the breaths they’ve been holding. Each of them puts an arm around her shoulders, and she reaches up instinctively to hold them both at the waist as they look out over the city together, as Quentin says, “Ok, Jules. Any of us can change our minds, and we’ll have to figure a lot of details out, but for now, yes. The answer is yes.”
#
Julia comes home from work a little early, a couple of weeks later, eager for some solitude, the peace of her own space, the feeling of not having to do anything for anyone for a while. She drops her keys in a carved wooden bowl near the door and kicks off her shoes, absently lines them up against the wall. She pours herself a big glass of water from the britta pitcher in the fridge and downs half of it, then turns toward her apartment and moves her hands through the sequence of tuts to dispel an illusion spell. Stepping onto her plush throw rug, she bends to pick up a fat, grey and white Fillorian rabbit. Cradling it under its feet and heavy bunny rump, she pets its head and ears.
Quentin and Eliot always make sure she has one on hand, when they’re in Fillory and she’s on Earth, just in case. She’ll be hosting mostly invisible rabbits for a few more weeks, until she joins them. She wonders how that will change, once there are children-- Quentin working with the Centaurs while Eliot does diplomatic work and tries to come up with magical and mundane solutions to Fillory’s problems and hosts balls and such with Margo. She wonders whether he misses being a king, but he seems to have struck a balance that makes him happy. Quentin and Julia usually go sightseeing and exploring in Fillory together for at least a week, before everyone heads back to New York. Maybe that will change, for a while; maybe it will come back.
She heads into her space to check on her plants. They’re healthy; some could use a little care, and she looks after them carefully, enjoying the process, circling slowly around the apartment as she does.
Later, after the sun has gone down and dinner has been put away, the apartment darkened, Julia pulls back the coffee table and drags a soft, shaggy pillow to the middle of the floor. Laying on her back, she takes a few deep breaths, grounding herself as she looks up at the ceiling. She moves her hands above her, in a series of intricate tuts that sweep and cut through the air. Her ceiling begins to glow with a soft, golden light, stretching from the door nearly to the windows, and on the background of that light Julia renders shapes and patterns, at first in tones from sepia to shining white. She moves the elements around, directing them with nimble fingers in the darkness, tracing and connecting them with fine lines of glowing gold.
This method of meta-composition is hers alone. The shapes and lines are components of a spell, sub-spells, pieces and techniques from many branches of magic. Arriving at a satisfying balance of the elements, she begins to layer in colors, and then musical tones, building to a complex chord. The spell that she’s creating will be beautiful; once the components are layered with the element of time, it will be part of creating a world within a world.
Julia smiles. She is the artist, the author and composer, and this is her magical work. It takes peace to do this work; it requires equilibrium and an exquisite level of focus. It’s beautiful. This particular spell will require multiple casters, but that’s no obstacle, in this life she’s built for herself. It will easily be finished and recorded in time. In August, she’ll take it to Fillory.
fin