The Springborn

CALDER

T his cart moves far too quickly. I wish I’d chosen a less energetic horse. A half dead one would have been a better choice. Sabella’s hand is in mine, and I never want this journey to end.

I steal a glance. There’s a smile on her lips. The angle at which she holds her chin hints at contentment. Me, I could cry with happiness. I won’t, but I could.

This afternoon has been one miracle after another. I trusted her with the secret of my wings, and I think she’s starting to trust me, too.

It has been ages since I let anyone see my wings. I almost forget they exist sometimes. No, that isn’t true. I never forget they’re folded close to my back, rubbing against my shirt, tickling my skin. When they itch—a common occurrence in summer—it is first-rate torture. I cannot say that I am ashamed of them, but… Silly as it sounds, I do not think I have forgiven them for costing me the love of my adoptive parents.

I don’t deny that my wings are pretty—at least what I’ve glimpsed of them over my shoulder—but I see them more as untrustworthy companions than constant friends. I would never dare to rely upon them to carry me off the ground for more than a few feet.

But who needs to leave the ground? Here on the earth, Sabella lives and breathes.

My mind rushes toward the future, but I force it to stop. This moment is enough. The cart hits a bump, and her fingers tighten around mine. The fault is probably not the horse’s, but just in case, I will reward him later with the biggest carrot I can find.