The Springborn

SABELLA

MARCH 9, 1886

EVENING

Y onaz sits at the head of the dinner table like a tattooed, mustachioed king, a proud grin on his ashen face. I hardly know the man, but I can scarce contain my joy at the sight of him.

“Good evening, my friends,” he says as we file into the room one after the other: first Calder and me, then Robbie and Sparrow, and finally Branna and canine Cleona. “How I have missed you all.” I’d almost forgotten the richness of his Slavic-accented voice.

His eyes fix on Calder’s hand at my waist. “I see you have not squandered your time here, Calder, my lad. Well and good, I say. Love can fashion any wilderness into a home, can it not? Even an inn where one is waylaid by ill chance.”

If my face grows any hotter, I fear my hair will catch fire.

“Welcome back, Yonaz,” Robbie says. “You gave us quite a fright.” From Robbie’s arms, Sparrow waves gleefully.

Branna rushes over to hug Yonaz’s neck; Cleona wags her tail and licks his proffered hand. Conversations begin as we sit and pile food onto our plates: chicken pie, roasted potatoes, carrots glazed with honey, rolls as soft as pillows. Renewed hope makes appetites flourish. The simple meal becomes a celebration.

Time passes quickly. When the clock chimes nine, Sparrow is asleep on my lap and Branna dozes with her chin resting on her fist.

“Tomorrow,” Yonaz declares, “we will resume our journey.”

“But the doctor—” Robbie objects.

“The doctor has done his duty, and I am healed. Now, to bed. In the morning, we shall pack our belongings and be gone from this place before the sun climbs halfway up the sky.”

Under the table, Calder finds my hand. He slips a piece of paper into my grasp. I gaze at him askance. When did he have time to pen a note? I know for a fact he spent all day repairing a wall in the barn.

Everyone stands. Calder kisses my hand and then helps a rather wobbly Yonaz out of the room. Branna takes Sparrow from my arms and, yawning, follows Cleona and Robbie upstairs. As for me, I must wash a mountain of dishes before I can retire for the night.

Alone in the quiet kitchen, I unfold the note. Calder has sketched me—poorly but endearingly—with my antlers full of little birds and squirrels. Underneath, the scrawled caption says To My Antler Girl , from Your Devoted, Moth-Winged Admirer .

The note brings a smile to my lips. It is a great surprise to be admired. Something like a miracle. Years spent with parents who found me repugnant did not prepare me for the possibility of being held dear by anyone, ever.

And yet, he must care deeply for me, for he has soothed me with kind words and he has worshiped me with his eyes when words could not be said. He’s given me a token of his heart, and he has entrusted me with the secret of his wings. He has, in spite of his deep hatred for the task, sawn the antlers from my head to preserve my safety. What other evidence should I require as proof of his devotion?

Oh, how I want to believe we might have a future together. It would be too wonderful.

Mother’s voice invades my mind—no matter that I banished it over a week ago. You hardly know this boy. No doubt he’s hiding things from you like he hides his wings. He’ll be your ruin, Sabella, and you will be his. Think of your baby instead of yourself for once.

I hide the note in the pocket of my skirt and don a sauce-splattered apron. As I wash the plates and cups, Mother’s voice fades away. But for the rest of the night, I cannot shake the feeling that disaster is about to fall upon me.