The Springborn

SABELLA

FEbrUARY 11, 1886

T he idea of someone knocking at our door is so foreign to me that it takes a quarter minute for me to connect the sound with its meaning: there is a visitor upon the doorstep. My chest tightens as if my corset strings have been yanked firmly enough to crush my lungs. Had I not already been sitting at the kitchen table, my legs might have given out.

What should I do? I wait, holding as still as a cornered rabbit. No one ever calls upon my family. It is as if some sign has been posted outside, a warning of plague or danger.

The knocking stops, and then starts again.

I stand and set my mending on the table. I linger there with my hand on the wadded fabric. I stare at the door and continue to think. Mother is dead-to-the-world asleep upstairs and Father is at work. Surely it would be most prudent to pretend no one is at home.

The visitor knocks again. Harder this time. What if it is someone coming to report that Father has been in an accident? But no, if there were a problem in the mine, they’d sound the company whistle. Wouldn’t they?

A shiver of dread passes through me. I call out, “Who is it?” I must know. It is torture not knowing.

A male voice replies, muffled by the thickness of the door. “Hello? This is the Jenkins house, is it not?”

“What do you want?” I know full well that the stranger cannot see through the door, nevertheless my hands fly up to make sure my cotton cap still conceals my antlers’ stubs.

“I’d be happy to explain, but I would like to get out of the cold, if you’d permit me,” the man says.

I bite my lip, still indecisive. A trio of trumpeting angels couldn’t wake Mother, and our nearest neighbor is stone deaf. If this fellow has wicked intentions, no one would answer my cries for aid.

A notion makes my breath catch: what if he’s the man who was watching me in the woods a few weeks ago?

“Please,” the caller says, sounding younger now. “It’s terribly cold out here. I swear by all the saints and angels I’ll not cause you any trouble.”

His voice is so pitiful that my resolve to turn him away starts to melt.

“Go to the window so I can see you,” I say. I must be sure he’s not clad in all black, as the man in the woods was.

“With pleasure,” he replies.

I adjust my cap again and peek through a tiny gap between the curtains. The caller appears to be a boy near my own age. Any local boy’s face would be indelibly sullied by coal dust, but his round-cheeked face is as clean as a Sunday morning. He holds a basket of apples with one of his bare hands and grips the handles of a leather case in the other. This stranger wears a tan tweed coat and a red scarf—and not a stitch of black. His eyes are acorn brown, and the hair sticking out from under his cap is a few shades lighter. I imagine if it were spring rather than winter, the town girls would be trailing behind him, giggling and remarking upon his handsomeness.

He leans close to the glass, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of me. His breath fogs the pane. “May I come in now, miss? Do I pass inspection?”

I step back and consider once more. It would be kind to let him in, but would it be wise? The black-clad man could have changed his clothing. Nice-looking fellows can hide hearts full of evil. The villains of fairy tales are often well-disguised. But…something about this boy convinces me to take a chance and let him in.

“Come to the door,” I say. I grab a large, scuttle-shaped, green bonnet and jam it over my cotton cap before turning the lock.

“Hello there,” he says as soon as the door swings open. He smiles as if he’s truly happy to see me. It’s like being slapped with sunshine. He glances at my oversized bonnet as he sets his leather bag on the floor. “I’m sorry. Were you on your way out?”

“No, but I have a knife,” I blurt. The part about having a knife is an untruth—unless you count the dull-edged dinner knives in the drawer eight feet away. Mortification surges through me, heating my cheeks as I step aside so he can enter the kitchen. I suspect there are countless reasons for this flare of embarrassment, but I can narrow the list down to three: the shame of telling a falsehood, my lack of experience in society, and this boy’s too-pretty face.

He pulls one faultless apple from the basket, his smile unfaltering. “Well, maybe you could use your blade to slice this rather than my poor skin.”

“Oh,” is all I manage to say. Still flustered, I take the fruit with one hand and point to the woodstove with the other. My ability to think and to speak eludes me for a moment. I am unaccustomed to surprises, especially surprises that stand in my kitchen looking pleased with themselves. I shove some words out of my mouth. Inane words. “If you want to get warm, the fire’s over there.”

“Thank you. This weather is cruel indeed.” He sets his basket on the table and strides across the room, where he holds his open palms a few inches above the blackened top of the iron cookstove. “You don’t get many callers here, do you? You look…startled.”

“My mother has been ill for some time, so no, we do not get callers. I am too occupied with her care to host tea parties.” Although my words sound rude to my ears, he does not flinch.

I try to remember the rules of hospitality. Ought I to offer this stranger some refreshment? He looks so pitiful rubbing his chapped hands together that I decide to err on the side of generosity. “Would you care for some tea?”

“I’d give my left ear for tea,” he says. I must look befuddled—or startled again—because he quickly adds, “Not in the literal sense, of course.” He sinks into Father’s green upholstered armchair near the stove like he owns it, while I make tea like I’ve never made tea before—sloshing water everywhere, dropping the spoon, and scattering precious leaves across the counter.

Finally, after several exasperating minutes, I press a mug into his grasp. I back a few feet away from him, my arms folded over my chest. Worry simmers inside me, a roiling fear that extra-large antlers might suddenly surge forth from my skull and send the boy into the streets screaming my secret to all.

I push my fear down and try to speak calmly. “You can’t stay long,” I say. “My father will return soon, and he’s not fond of entertaining strangers.”

A playful smile appears above the rim of his mug as his gaze meets mine. “I could try to be less than entertaining, if that would help.”

“Oh,” I say flatly. A second passes before I realize he meant to be humorous. My already hot face grows hotter still.

I want him to go. And I want him to stay. He is too bright for this dark house. There’s a ravenous sort of feeling in my belly, as if I’ve been physically starving for human companionship and he’s the embodiment of a tantalizing supper. I think I prefer the nausea of unease he first caused to this raw hunger.

His face turns serious. Heavens, was I staring at him like he’s supper?

“We’ve just met, but I can already tell you’re a good daughter, taking care of your mother. Respecting your father. But you should still have friends. At least one person who knows and appreciates the other aspects of you. Someone who wants to share your hopes and dreams.”

My mouth opens but I cannot cobble together a reply. I keep my gaze on the steam rising from his tea. It’s impossible that he read my mind, is it not? But then I remember my antlers and my parents’ granted wish for a daughter. Nothing is ever impossible.

He takes a few leisurely swallows from his mug, oblivious to my internal debate and mounting panic. “You make a fine cup of tea,” he says. He sits up straight, cradling the mug between his hands. “Now that I’m warmed through, I suppose I should state my business.”

“Business?” I scowl at him, remembering the sizeable leather satchel he dropped near the door. “Allow me to guess. You’re a traveling salesman. You cajole housewives into buying overpriced soap and scrub brushes.” I feel mean saying this after his kind speeches about friendship, like the spirit of my oft-cranky mother has possessed me.

“A worthy guess, but no.” He stands. He pulls a letter from the pocket of his jacket and holds it out for me to take. “It’s from the housing officer. I’m your new boarder.”

I shake my head and take a step backward. “There’s been a mistake. We don’t take boarders. We never have.” And then…all the blood and breath seem to leave my body. With horror, I think of how slow-moving my father has become of late. How he daily complains of backaches and leg aches. Miners are paid according to how much they produce. If Father has become less productive, his pay has fallen. And if a miner makes too little, the company places boarders in his house to make up the difference.

The young man steers me to the green chair he abandoned less than a minute ago. I sit down hard.

“I apologize, miss. I thought they would have warned you that I’d be arriving today.” A wrinkle of worry creases his forehead. He crosses the room and returns with a cup of water. “Here. Drink this and try to catch your breath.”

I obey. I miss the sluggishness of mind I had when I first let this young man into the house, for now my thoughts come fast, on dark and terrible wings. We cannot have a boarder. He will find out about my antlers. It is inevitable. I can be careful, very careful, but someday, I will make a mistake and he will see them branching from my head. And then I will be ruined. My entire family will be ruined, cast out of this house and this town without a penny.

The end-of-shift whistle rends the air as I gulp the water. Father will be home soon.

“Can I get you something else, miss? Another drink? Something to eat?” The young man stands close to me, watching me with more concern than anyone else has in years. “Do you need a blanket? You’re shivering.”

“I need nothing,” I say. Something hits the floor of the bedroom above my head and I nearly jump out of my skin. My mother must have dropped her hairbrush or book. If my heart beats any faster, I will surely die.

The boisterous sound of homebound miners carries in from the street. The men are a block or two away at most. Time seems to both slow and speed up as my mind churns out images of what might happen if my father finds this boy here alone with me. None of these imaginings have happy endings.

“How about this?” the visitor says, crouching beside the chair. “I’ll go, and I’ll come back tomorrow instead. Give you more time to get a place ready for me and to let your parents know I’ll be boarding here.”

“Yes,” I reply. Now I can draw a breath in. I have been granted something like a stay of execution. “Tomorrow would be better.”

“Is that a smile there? I was hoping you had one of those in you,” he says. He gets up. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

I stand and follow him to the door. He picks up his bag and reaches for the doorknob, but hesitates. He faces me again. “Forgive me. The cold must have affected my mind earlier. I neglected to introduce myself. My name is Calder Hadrian.” He takes my hand quickly. In a heartbeat, he lifts it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles like a knight of old from a storybook. The gesture is outdated, but there is nothing vulgar in the brief press of his lips to my skin, only a sweet tenderness that terrifies and charms me in equal measure.

I yank my hand away as if burned. Never in my life have I so desperately wanted someone to leave and to stay at the same time. Has he cast some spell upon me?

Just outside, the miners’ voices rumble as loud as thunder.

“Calder Hadrian,” I say. The five syllables fall from my mouth with the heaviness of a vow and the lightness of a song. I do not understand myself. “Please go.”

“Enjoy the apples, Sabella,” he says. He ducks outside, leaving the door ajar. Wind keens through the opening. I rush to shove the door shut. But before I do, I peek through an inch- wide opening and watch Calder cross the still-empty street. He jogs past Mr. Driscoll’s house, uphill to a patch of pine trees, and joins someone there. His acquaintance is scrawny, with wind tossed hair as black as a crow’s wing—but that is not what makes me gasp.

In the place where his boots should be, the young man has the feet of a bird.