The Springborn

SABELLA

FEbrUARY 12, 1886

I n a basin of suds, I slosh a rag over Father’s breakfast dishes. The door slams behind him as he leaves for his shift at the mine. Across the room, Mother snores beside the woodstove. She’s passed out in Father’s green chair with a bottle of her special medicine clutched to her breast. Strands of gray-streaked, dull brown hair have escaped from her sloppily knotted bun to frame her sagging, sallow face. Her weakness for alcohol-laced curatives has made her old before her time.

As I continue the washing up, my mind is occupied by three things in turn: our new boarder, Calder (who somehow knew my name without being told), his bird-legged companion, and my failure to inform my parents that we are about to become a household of four. Much as I wish I could banish these thoughts, they buzz around inside my head like nagging mosquitoes.

When the dishes are clean and dried, I slide them into the wooden rack above the cupboard. Thoughts of Calder and his odd friend continue to plague me as I sweep dirt and dust into a pile. I glance at the bowl of apples on the table. If not for them, I might convince myself that yesterday was only a dream. I might quit trembling at the thought of Calder’s imminent return and the perils of having a boarder. I might stop dwelling on the way he looked at me as he sipped tea in Father’s chair. How his lips felt against my knuckles. I might return to sensible thinking.

He will be back, this I know as surely as I know my name. At any moment, he will knock upon the door and assault me with his smile. This time, he will stay.

Mother awakens with a snort and presses a hand to her heart. Her empty medicine bottle tumbles to the floor. “Dear me. Was I asleep?”

“Let me help you upstairs,” I say as I offer her my arm. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

She nods, but before she’s on her feet, the knock comes—loud and insistent.

“Whoever could that be?” Mother asks. She swats my arm away. “Leave me be and go see, girl. No use waiting. That’s a good, thick headscarf you’re wearing. No one will be the wiser.”

I know who’s calling, but I do not say so. I wish I could run into the woods and hide. Instead, I answer the door.

“Good morning,” Calder says. He wears the same tan tweed jacket and red scarf he wore yesterday, and grips the same brown leather bag. His smile is every bit as blinding as before. I glance at his boots as if to avoid damaging my eyes. “Will you not ask me in?” he says cheerily.

“Come in,” I say. It sounds more like a question than an invitation. He must not mind, for he crosses the threshold and walks straight toward the cookstove—and my mother.

“You must be Mrs. Jenkins,” he says, still beaming like the summer sun. He offers his hand and she takes it.

“Do I know you, young man?” Mother squints as if trying to place him, her head wobbling a little. She is far from sober, but in this instance, it may prove to be a blessing.

“Not yet, but you will presently. I’m your new boarder,” he says. “Calder Hadrian, ma’am.”

Mother coughs and fans herself with her hand. Her pasty complexion grows a shade paler. “Never! Sabella? Did you know about this?”

“I just found out,” I say, not adding yesterday . My face flushes. I cannot even tell half a lie without coloring up like a wild strawberry.

Calder takes the blasted letter out of his pocket and gives it to Mother. “The housing officer sent me, Mrs. Jenkins. He should have warned you, but alas, here I am. I promise not to be a burden. I’ll help with chores if you like. I can polish a stove so it’s black as a crow.”

Mother doesn’t open the letter. She waves it in the air, gesturing for me to take it and set it on the shelf. Her hand trembles, as if the danger of the situation is dawning upon her. Her words run together as she says, “There has been a mistake. My husband will deal with the matter after his shift. You’ll have to return then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling quite unwell. Help me upstairs, Sabella.”

I haul her to her feet, feeling Calder’s steady gaze upon me.

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins,” Calder says as I support Mother’s stumbling ascent to the second floor.

In reply, Mother mutters something quite un-Christian under her breath.

After I tuck her into bed, she grabs my sleeve. “This has the makings of a nightmare. You’d best be careful, miss. That one’s as clever as he is pretty, I can tell. If he sees what you’re hiding?—”

“I’ll be careful, Mother. I promise.”

She shuts her eyes and drapes a hand across her forehead. “All this excitement does my poor head no good. Fetch that new medicine from my dresser.”

The bottle is blue glass embossed with the words Jorgen’s Elixir . When I deliver it to her, she drinks straight from the bottle. She sighs, wipes her mouth, and says, “Better.”

I head for the door, but she calls out, “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Be careful, Sabella,” she reiterates. “Hold your secrets close.”

She’s snoring before I reach the stairs.

Well, that went better than I’d expected. Father will be another matter. Mother is a faded flower, but he is a tempersome bull. His metaphorical horns and hooves are a hundred times more dangerous than my real antlers could ever be.

“Why are you not at work in the mines?” I ask Calder as I descend the steps.

He’s standing by the stove, warming his smooth, unsullied hands. Skin like that has no place in a coal town. He glances at me and says, “I start tomorrow. There was paperwork.”

“And your friend? Does he start tomorrow as well?” My boldness surprises me, but I give it free rein and let it gallop.

He raises an eyebrow. “Friend?”

“I saw you with a dark-haired boy. He had…strange legs.”

“Robbie? No, he will not be taking employment here.” He explains no further, as if bird legs are nothing out of the ordinary. He wanders to peek into the parlor. “Will this be my room?”

I nod, thinking, Heaven forbid .

“Nice enough,” he says. He turns toward me. “Do you have anything to eat? My belly is about to glue itself to my backbone.” There is that grin again. Charming, handsome, eager to amuse. I almost wish I could shake it from him. Perhaps if I were an ordinary girl, I might allow myself the luxury of enjoying his smiles and turns of phrase—but I am a girl with a weighty and dangerous secret.

“There’s bread.” I point to a cloth-wrapped loaf on the counter. “Or the apples you brought.”

“Thank you.” Calder slices an inch-thick piece from the loaf, then pulls a chair out from the table. “Sit with me?”

“I have work to do,” I say, but with a huff, I sit across from him. In my lap, my fingers pick at a thread that’s come loose from my cuff. I watch him eat, debating whether I should interrogate him further about his bird-legged friend or leave the matter alone for now.

He finishes the bread. “You look at me as if I’m a snake who slithered into your kitchen.”

“Are you?”

“I do not think so.”

My head itches around the stubs of my antlers, but I do not dare to scratch. I press my palms firmly against my thighs and say, “My father will not be pleased to have a boarder.”

Calder eyes me soberly. “I think we both know that I am more than a boarder.”

The room seems to sway. Could he already know about the antlers? I swallow hard. “I don’t know who you are, but I think it would be best if you’d leave Miners Ridge and not return. If you want mine work, try Lindenville, a few miles east.”

He leans toward me and whispers, “Tell me what you know about the basket.”

“Basket?” My voice comes out higher-pitched than usual. I spring from my seat and hurry to the stove. I twist the handle on the stovepipe to open the damper, grab a stick of wood from the wood box, and feed the fire with shaky hands. I have never been more afraid in my life, because I think he knows .

To my back he says, “The one your parents found you in. Do you still have it?”

“Sabella!” Mother calls from upstairs as if she’s somehow sensed my distress. “I need you!”

“Excuse me.” I rush toward the stairs. I scale them as if Mother’s a fire that requires immediate dousing. To be sure, my own guts feel as if they’re being consumed by flames.

I throw open Mother’s door to find her lying in bed. Of course the urgency of her call does not equal the importance of the task she has for me. She is neither on fire nor in true desperation, having only misplaced a book. My hands will not stop shaking as I search for the thing under the bed and among the blankets. Again, she warns me to be wary of Calder. She need not. I could not be any warier. I trust the boy less than I’d trust the devil himself.

When I finally creep downstairs again, he is gone. And I praise heaven for it—although I know he shall return soon. He will ask questions, but I will not answer. I do not have to, for I have something to hold over him.

If Calder Hadrian refuses to leave town, I will threaten to tell everyone about his friend, Robbie the bird-legged boy. He can leave on his own two feet or wait to be tossed out of town by burly, superstitious miners. Either way, I will be rid of him.