The Springborn

SABELLA

FEbrUARY 28, 1886

LATE MORNING

A week and a half passes. Yonaz is recovering at a snail’s pace—and a lethargic snail’s pace at that. The doctor says he must not leave his bed for a few more days, and ought not to travel for another week. Yonaz calls the man a ninny, but submits to his orders nonetheless.

In return for room and board, the innkeeper requires Calder, Robbie, and me to help with cooking, cleaning, and barn chores. Whichever twin is human also does her share (the innkeepers think the twins are one girl called Cleona). We take turns looking after Sparrow in between our tasks. Plump and content, she is passed from loving arms to loving arms. Thank heaven her growth has slowed, so we need not justify her unusual development to our hosts.

Daily, one of the twins saws the antlers off my head, a slow and joyless process they detest as much as I do. The pile of evidence lies wrapped in an old blanket under my bed. I would discard them or bury them in the night—were it not for fear of meeting Calder in the kitchen again. I have managed to avoid being alone with him since our early morning collision, and I mean to continue keeping my distance from him and his potentially magical voice.

Mondays are laundry days. By midmorning, my fingers wrinkle like raisins from too much time in sudsy water. The air in this windowless outbuilding is steamy, my apron and face as damp as the wrung-out linens strung across the room on the clothesline. No matter how hard I try to conjure the sensation of being knee-deep in the snow, I cannot convince myself to stop sweating.

I wipe my wet brow with my sleeve and stare at the tempting chair in the corner. If I sit, sleep will overcome me. Blessed sleep. The thing that eludes me each night as Sparrow insists on playing for hours rather than slumbering. But I must keep working, just a little longer. I must do my part to earn our keep here.

I hear footsteps as someone enters the room. “Almost done, Darlis,” I say.

“It’s me,” Calder says behind me as I peg the last towel to the sagging line. “Edgar and Darlis are sending us to the mercantile for a few things.”

My stomach sinks with dread. A trip to the mercantile with someone who might be manipulating me with his voice seems unwise. I wipe my hands on my apron and face him. My cloak, bonnet, and shawl are draped over his arm. He already wears his heavy coat, wool scarf, and knitted hat.

“Us? Need I go? I’m certain you do not require my assistance to buy nails or flour.”

“Darlis insists you go. She needs thread and yard goods, and said she doesn’t trust ‘a male eye’ to choose well. Come on, Sabella. Some fresh air and a change of scenery couldn’t hurt. Anyway, we’re allowed to use the horse and cart, so we’ll be back before the laundry’s halfway dry.”

“Oh, all right.” I untie the apron and hang it on a hook, for I cannot disobey our hostess. “But we must hurry. I’ve hardly seen Sparrow all day.”

Calder points to my head. I reach up to find my cotton cap askew. I feel sick. Anyone—Darlis, or the hired help, or another guest of the inn—might have seen the short spike of my exposed left antler if I’d left the laundry shed without adjusting my head covering.

This is why my parents kept me confined to their home. One careless move and calamity could ensue.

I adjust the cap, then check its position with probing fingers just to be sure. “Better?”

“Depends on your definition of better.” Calder passes me my cloak and watches me wrap it around my shoulders. “Personally, I’ve missed the sight of your antlers.”

“Hush,” I scold, whisking my bonnet out of his hand. “Someone might hear.”

“Well, it’s the truth. And for the record, I’m not flirting, merely stating my humble opinion. A tree without branches is just a…a big pole.”

I attempt to scowl at him although I find his clumsy analogy more comical than insulting. “I resemble a pole? When you said you weren’t flirting, you were definitely being honest.” I take the shawl from his arm and use it to secure the bonnet in case of strong wind. Cap, bonnet, and shawl. I am fortified against even the unluckiest of weather-related circumstances.

Calder turns red as a radish—and I like this color on him. “Apologies,” he says. Without another word, he escorts me through the door, his hand firm against the center of my back. Even through all my layers of clothes, I think I feel its warmth.

Whirling snowflakes surround us as we cross the yard to the waiting horse and cart. The smallest sliver of sun peeks out coyly from behind gray clouds. The frosty air feels good on my face and in my lungs. I shall not miss the hot laundry shed one bit.

“Did Edgar give you a list?” I ask as I climb onto the driver’s bench of the cart—with all the grace of a minnow trying to climb a tree. Of course Calder leaps up with the ease of a young cat.

“Don’t need one. It’s all in here.” He points to his head.

“Very reassuring.”

“Your faith in me is nothing short of inspirational,” he says with a wry smile. He tosses the loose end of his scarf over his shoulder and commands the horse to walk. The cart lurches forward before settling into a smooth roll.

Calder glances at me. “You’d be astounded to learn of all the wondrous workings that go on within the confines of this handsome head.”

“Please do not assail me with such knowledge. The loftiness of it all might cause me to swoon.”

He laughs. “Well, aren’t you full of sass today? And I expected you to be gloomy company after you tried to avoid coming along.”

The truth is I expected the same. I might have even intended to be. But his predictions about the effects of the fresh air and change of scenery were correct. I feel quite enlivened although still cautious. I must be wary of his charms—whether they are natural or magical in origin. And so I let silence fall between us and look for chickadees and sparrows in the roadside hedges.

“You know,” Calder says as we travel around a bend, “I’ve been wondering about you. If you’re still happy with us. It’s no easy thing to leave home and take up with strangers. How are you faring?”

In spite of the frosty air, heat creeps across my cheeks. I am unused to questions of a personal nature. Certainly my parents never inquired after my feelings or opinions.

When I do not answer immediately, Calder says, “I didn’t mean to offend you by asking. Friends do discuss such things.”

“I’m not offended.” I pause, watching snowflakes fall and cling to the horse’s fluffy mane as I choose what to tell him. “I feel…different. Everything is different. Mostly better. And then there’s Sparrow. Her arrival was a shock, of course, but now…the joy she has brought me cannot be measured. Every minute we play together is precious. She loves to listen to my stories, and she even tries to sing along with the songs the twins and I sing for her before bed.”

“She is a marvel, our Sparrow,” he says. “You know, I think I dreamed of her once, long ago. A girl with pointed ears and an aptitude for healing.”

Now that he has me talking, I cannot seem to stop the flood of words. “I only hope her aging will continue at a usual pace. It was alarming to see her growing and changing so quickly. I was afraid she’d pass me in stature before another month was out.”

He is quiet. Perhaps he too fears Sparrow’s life will be brief. Perhaps he knows it will. This is not something I want to hear, even if it is true.

“And you?” I say, anxious to change the subject and forestall the tears that well in my eyes. “Are you pleased with your life?”

“I am.”

“Your gifts never inconvenience you?” I want to ask him if he does indeed possess a magical, manipulative voice in addition to his gift of prophetic dreaming, but my courage fails me.

He stares at the road ahead. “Strangely, my dreams have been scarce since we left home. Not that I mind much. A solid night’s sleep is far more refreshing than seeing the future. As for my other gift…it is no bother. I learned to control it by the time I turned nine—well enough to keep it hidden. Too late to appease my beleaguered parents, unfortunately. They’d already handed me off to a mostly blind, roving tinker who used me as his servant boy. He was a cruel master. I ran away first chance I got and was lucky enough to be found by Yonaz in the woods.”

I imagine him as a little boy, wide-eyed and round of face, with the same eager smile and friendly nature—yet burdened by his failure to be what his parents wanted. This pain I know.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He smiles and scratches his neck. “Well, it all worked out all right in the end. I think I turned out quite splendidly.”

“But your gift. Is it so appalling that you must keep it hidden?” Inside my mind, I chide myself for assaulting his privacy—all the while imagining traits of a terrifying nature: limbs swathed in snakeskin beneath his clothes, spider-like appendages folded close to his sides, a talent for transforming into a lava-spewing demon-lizard.

Or perhaps he does possess a voice that can alter the thoughts and feelings of others.

He turns his face toward me. His smile widens and lights his face, banishing my dark notions. “My gift is astounding. But it takes up a fair bit of room, even more than your antlers—so I’m better off keeping it concealed most of the time. Would you like to see, Sabella? I’ll show you if you’d like.”

Part of me, the irrational part which leans toward being infatuated with him, begs me to say yes, but the sensible part of me subdues her. “We should keep going. We were given an errand to complete.”

“Come on. It won’t take long. Edgar will never notice if we’re gone five extra minutes, and if he does, he’ll assume we were mesmerized by the mercantile’s baubles and sweets.” He steers the horse to the side of the road, toward the edge of a tract of woods. “Whoa,” he commands.

“It really isn’t necessary to stop,” I say. “You could just describe it.”

He hops down from the seat and proceeds to tie the horse to a tree.

“Would you rather view the Sistine Chapel or hear someone speak of it? Some things must be seen to be properly appreciated.”

The excitement that has crept into his voice proves irresistible. I say, “Well, I suppose, since we’ve already stopped.”

I jump to the ground and follow Calder into the cover of the trees, ignoring the voice in my head that shouts, “Impropriety!” and “Danger!” As if he too has chosen to ignore that voice, he doffs his coat, tosses it onto a patch of frost-touched moss, and starts to unbutton his shirt.

A hot flush of embarrassment floods my entire body and I turn away from him. “Calder, stop. I may have had a rather rough upbringing, but I do have morals.”

“Oh. Sorry. I beg your pardon. I ought to have warned you. I must remove my shirt. Will your modesty permit you to look at my uncovered back?”

“If you really think it is necessary.” I have seen my father’s bare back on countless occasions as he huddled in the washtub and endured Mother’s overzealous scrubbing, but this feels a thousand times more intimate. My stomach flutters. I should have said no.

“All right,” Calder says. “Stay as you are until I tell you to turn around.”

Half a minute passes. I hear Calder draw several deep breaths behind me, like he’s preparing to dive into deep water. Finally he says, “You may look now.”

I turn slowly, my heart pounding hard, my eyes squeezed shut. When I open them, when I behold his gift, my knees fail me, and I must grab a tree limb to remain upright. The beauty before me is too much.

Calder Hadrian has the wings of a moth.

Translucent pale green etched with veins of gold and bronze, the wings extend well beyond the edges of his back. Their gently arched tops reach just past the tops of his ears. A single circle of black, yellow, bronze, and white—like the eye of an exotic cat—decorates each upper and lower section of wing. They look soft, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over them.

“Sabella? What do you think?” He maneuvers one wing in an attempt to get a glimpse of me over his shoulder. The wing’s golden veins catch the muted forest light.

What do I think?

I think he is too magnificent for words.

I say, “They’re…lovely. The most beautiful wings I have ever seen.”

The way he’s standing, I can only perceive part of his face, but I’m sure I’ve never seen him look this happy and proud. “Told you my gift was astounding.”

“You spoke the truth.”

Again, I wonder: how could his parents have rejected him? How could they have looked at him and seen anything but splendor? Why had they not loved him enough to embrace his uniqueness? My heart breaks for the rejected little boy he was; my throat constricts as I hold back a sob.

He bends forward and grabs his coat from the ground. He gathers it to himself, covering his chest, and spins to face me. “Your antlers are every inch as special as my wings, every bit as exquisite. It’s a crime you don’t know that.”

He takes slow steps toward me, as if I’m a fawn he might scare off. I neither move nor breathe, because I cannot. With one hand, he continues to clutch his coat to his body. With his other hand, he unties my shawl and bonnet. He lifts them off my head and then removes my cotton cap. He drops them all to the ground in a heap. Stunned, I forget that I should protest such familiarity. But without being told, my hands rush to cover the short spikes of my antlers.

“Please don’t,” Calder says. He takes hold of my wrists and coaxes my hands to my sides before releasing them. “There you are,” he says adoringly. “That’s the real you.”

His eyes meet mine and suddenly I am dizzy, reeling with a fierce longing to touch him that I must resist. I drop my gaze to the groundcover of frost-crusted brown leaves. I clench my hands together at my waist.

“Sabella?” He lifts my chin with his fingertips.

“Yes,” I say. The word is both a question and an answer. Because I know he understands me, has endured the same pain as I have. And because I think I could fall in love with him for it, dash it all. Honestly, it might already be too late.

“Will you trust me now that you know my gift?”

His acorn-brown eyes are guileless, but I will not answer this question without asking one of my own. “Do you have another gift? A voice gift of some kind?”

He laughs and lets go of my chin. “If you ask Robbie, he’ll tell you I’m the worst singer in the world.”

“Please, I have to know. When you say my name, do you add some enchantment, something to affect me unnaturally?”

“You’re serious? You find my voice enchanting?” His expression takes a turn toward mischievous. I want to smack him for being overly amused by my theory, but instead I try to burn him with a glare.

His amusement fades as the implication of my question sinks in. “You think I would use magic to make you fall in love with me? I’m not that much of a cad.”

“I didn’t mean… I only thought…” Embarrassment renders me as hot as I was back in the laundry shed. “We should return to the road.” I start to turn away from him, but his hand catches my shoulder. My senses grow strangely keener as he coaxes me to face him once more. I hear dead leaves rattling above me, feel the press of each of his fingertips on my shoulder, and inhale a hint of the hay he unbaled for the horses this morning.

“Wait,” he says quietly.

All I can manage to say is, “Sorry.”

His eyes. Oh, the depths of them. I see in them that he has already forgiven me, and that he would forgive me a hundred times more. I am mired in regret but full of reckless hope. He holds me with his gaze in a way that I have never been held.

The moment imprints itself on my soul, as random moments do in life. I am a girl with antlers standing before a boy with wings, and nothing will ever be the same.

He takes a deep breath, then says, “I’m trying, really trying, to behave as you wish, Sabella. To simply be a good friend. I may not be succeeding in that regard, but I swear I’d never try to trick you.” He takes a step back, his fingers still resting on my shoulder. His delicate wings spread wide behind his pale body. A ribbon of sunlight stripes his dark hair. He is unlike anything or anyone I ever imagined.

His hand leaves my shoulder. Without a word, he bows to retrieve my cap, bonnet, and shawl from the forest floor before he gives them all to me in a pile. My pulse pounds as he traces my cheekbone with one cool finger. Finally, he moves to the far side of a wide hemlock, presumably to fold his wings and to don his shirt.

While he is gone, I miss him. Heavens above, I am a fool. More incautious than I ever suspected. But sorry for it? No.

Not yet, anyway.

In this cathedral of woods, I have seen a moth-winged boy. My heart still beats within my chest, but I feel as if it has given me notice of an imminent departure. My inner voice gives up warning me of danger, packs its bags, and leaves me standing here half afraid but entirely alive .

Calder comes from behind me, catches my hand in his, and starts to escort me back to the cart. “This is over the friendship line, I suppose?” he says.

I open my mouth to say yes, but instead I say, “It’s fine,” and tighten my fingers around his.

“Good,” he says smugly. “I like this kind of friendship.”

“Perhaps you should stop speaking before I change my mind.”

“Sealing my lips.”

He helps me onto the wagon seat, untethers the horse, and gets us back on the road in only a few minutes.

The cart bounces over the uneven ground. A few snowflakes flutter around us. I want to enjoy the warmth of Calder’s hand and his unusually quiet presence, but I find I must speak. “Whatever may happen between us, Sparrow must come first in my life.”

“Understood,” he says. He smiles so broadly that it must hurt.

I think back to his earlier question regarding my happiness. I wish he would ask me again if I am happier now than I was at home, where I was trapped in a joyless house, where I spent every day trying to be good, or good enough but pleased no one.

And in spite of my jumbled feelings, I would answer without hesitation: yes.