The Springborn

CALDER

T he night air is laced with frost, but I am warm as toast. At least metaphorically—for Sabella has fallen asleep beside me. Her head leans back so that her shawl-covered antlers bounce against the canvas wagon cover whenever we hit a bump in the road, but not hard enough to damage anything. Her body slumps ever-so-slightly in my direction, enough that her shoulder jostles mine. From her hair or clothes, the scent of violets or lavender emanates. I am no good at identifying flowers by smell, but the name of the bloom does not matter one fig. What matters is that the scent is nigh unto intoxicating. Or maybe it’s just her nearness that’s making me dizzy.

I could be wrong, but I think my explanation of Springborn matters went over well enough. She didn’t shove me off the seat or scream with terror, anyway. Nothing in my speech bothered her enough to keep her awake, either. This is quite encouraging, even if she does insist we remain friends.

The road curves sharply. Sabella murmurs in her sleep and leans more heavily against me. I swear my actual heart aches with the sweetness of it. A yearning for the road to lengthen settles into the pit of my stomach. Why would I want the wonder of her nearness to end?

Tame yourself , Robbie’s imagined voice chastens. But I cannot.

If I was falling for her before, I am plummeting now. It was one thing to watch her from afar, to pity her in her suffering, but in the last day, I’ve witnessed firsthand her selfless devotion to Sparrow, her bravery in setting out among near-strangers for who-knows-where, and her rather charming stubborn streak—and I’m moving with the speed of a shooting star toward either utter bliss or total destruction.

At this moment, I don’t care about the ending. This present time with her is all I want, here on this wagon seat under the sparkling winter sky.