The Springborn

SABELLA

MARCH 9, 1886

MORNING

M inutes before sunrise, by candlelight and the glow of our bedroom’s fireplace, Branna slowly saws away at the base of my antlers. Clearly, she has had little experience with such a tool. I grit my teeth and grip the seat of the wooden chair I’m sitting on. Cleona is more efficient at this task, but she is now the fluffy dog who sits on the floor beside Sparrow and endures her overenthusiastic patting.

Tears gather along my closed eyelids. I refuse to complain that she’s pulling my hair. Her clumsy saw work reminds me of the times my medicine-addled mother did the job while Father worked extra shifts. Mother’s angry grunts and whispered curses echo in my memory.

Calder clears his throat and rouses me from my waking nightmare. I did not hear him enter, yet here he is, a few feet away from me, frowning.

“Branna, I think you should let me do that,” he says in a pained voice.

“Please do.” She gives him the saw and goes to join her sister and Sparrow. “It makes my arms sore and the dust! I hate it. I’d rather look after the baby, to be sure.”

Calder crouches before me and swipes away my tears with his handkerchief.

I rearrange the old blanket that covers my shoulders, stirring up the antler dust it’s kept off my dress. “Let me do it, Calder. I can manage. I know how much you hate it.” I grab for the saw but he whisks it out of reach.

“I will do it. I will do it knowing that someday soon I will not have to. Someday soon we will live in a safe place, and you can grow antlers as wide and high as you like.” He stands, gripping the saw so tightly his knuckles whiten. “Now, close your eyes and listen to my voice.”

I obey.

He wraps his hand around my neck and starts to cut, smoothly and capably. “Imagine this,” he says. “We’re walking in a white birch grove, just you and me. The birds chirp above us, a bed of moss cushions our steps, and the air is sweet with the scent of ferns. Your antlers spread above you in a magnificent silvery crown, and the hem of your silken gown brushes the tops of your bare feet. You feel safe and happy as we walk hand in hand.”

“And your wings are unfurled,” I add, eyes still shut. “All green and gold in the forest shade.”

“Of course,” he says.

I inhale sharply as one antler breaks free. He massages the base of my neck with his thumb, making my pulse quicken.

“Halfway done,” he whispers reassuringly. He begins to saw the other antler. “Back to our story. My wings are spread, and the moths of the wood flutter around me, admiring them. You laugh because moths are perching on my nose and chin, and I laugh because their feet tickle. And then a strong wind blows through and carries them all away.”

The second antler breaks loose. I open my eyes. He has made what has always been torture into something tolerable, and that is as good as a miracle.

Calder sets the saw on the bed and pulls me to my feet. “There now. You may thank me.”

“Thank you.”

I want to say more. To tell him his kindness is worth more to me than all the riches on earth, and how I long to walk with him always—through moth-filled forests, sandy deserts, or wherever life’s road leads. I want to say that if my antlers must be cut off a thousand more times, I would hardly mind at all, were he the one to always wield the saw. Of course I cannot say these things aloud. Not yet.

Sparrow, bored with harassing Cleona, waddles over to Calder and yanks on his trouser leg. “Up, up,” she demands.

He lifts her and settles her on his hip. “You, my girl, weigh more than a prize piglet.”

“That’s funny, because I’m thinking she’s hungry again,” Branna says.

“I’d better get downstairs and help Darlis with breakfast before she comes looking for me,” I say. I retrieve the antlers, wrap them in the blanket I’d been wearing, and shove them under the bed with their predecessors. And then I hurry for the door.

“Wait,” Calder says. “Your cap, Sabella. You’ve forgotten it again.”

“Thank you.” I hurry to snatch the cap off the dressing table. I set it on my head and knot the strings too tightly at the base of my throat. Anger simmers in my stomach. Such incautiousness is unacceptable. I could have put my friends in mortal danger.

I must do better, be better.

But can I, if I continue to allow myself to be distracted by a starry-eyed, moth-winged boy? Must I take a step back from my own happiness for the safety and good of my child and the other Springborn? With all of my heart, I hope not.