The Springborn

SABELLA

T he wagons are loaded. Yonaz’s is full of boxes and trunks. In the other wagon, Branna and Cleona, Sparrow and Robbie, and our reluctant nanny goat take their places with assorted blankets and a crate or two of food. Calder looks surprised when I climb onto the driver’s bench beside him.

“You’ll freeze,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’d enjoy your company, yes, but I’d rather you were safe and warm with Sparrow in the back.”

“Darlis gave me her old fur-lined jacket to wear under my cloak and shawls, and my pockets are full of hot potatoes. Sparrow is ready to nap, and she’ll happily sleep in Robbie’s arms.” These things I manage to say bravely in spite of a gnawing nervousness in my belly.

“Truly, you need not suffer the cold on my account.”

“Calder Hadrian, have I not just told you I’m dressed well enough for a polar expedition? If you do not wish for my company, please say so plainly.”

He laughs and puts an arm around me. “I want your company, goose. Continually. And in spite of the fact that you’re more stubborn than I imagined.”

I wriggle and throw off his arm, but he only laughs.

“Ready?” Yonaz calls from the other wagon.

“Whenever you are,” Calder replies. He turns toward me and says, “Would you care to drive, my antlered queen?”

“Queens don’t drive wagons; they command coachmen.” I tug his knit hat down to better protect his ears—and remember Cleona’s opinion of their size. I bite my lower lip to forestall a giggle.

“Is something humorous, Sabella?” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me. One of the twins has been making remarks about my ears again.”

“I cannot betray the confidences of my friends,” I say.

“I’m right, then. Those twins look sweet but it’s just a cover for their naughtiness.”

The other wagon trundles forward. Calder shakes the reins and commands our horses to follow. The sky above us is a pretty ceiling of low, blue-gray clouds. The horses pull us merrily along the road. My thoughts ramble as we pass through a patch of woods. What will our new home be like? Will I share a room with the twins again? I have enjoyed our sisterly companionship, our late-night whispers, and sharing the care and the joy of baby Sparrow with them.

Calder keeps quiet as he drives, which is unusual. Perhaps he is simply enjoying the journey. On a day like this, it is a fine thing to ride behind a good pair of horses. The thought leads me to wonder if he’s traveled without the aid of horses or wheels. Are his wings ornamental, or are they strong enough to lift him off the ground?

Impulsively, I ask, “Do you ever use your wings to fly?”

His face reddens. “Well…no.”

“Never?”

“No.” The syllable is clipped. He shifts on the seat. “I’d rather not speak of that, if you don’t mind. It’s my business and no one else’s.”

The startling coldness in his voice makes me cringe like a chastened child. “I’m sorry. I was just curious. You’re entitled to your privacy, of course.”

“Forgive me,” he says formally. “I should not have used that tone. I’m a little tired. On edge about moving again, I suppose.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

But it is not at all fine. As Mother’s imagined voice has warned, this boy has secrets he’s not willing to share. I shove both hands into my pockets and clutch the slowly cooling potatoes therein. Silence crowds into the space between us on the bench, an uninvited and uneasy guest. In the distance, I see storm clouds I did not notice before.

I listen to the clip clop of the horses’ hooves and the faint, muffled sound of Robbie and the twins conversing behind us. If I could start the day over, I would—and I’d keep my questions about Calder’s wings to myself.

Perhaps a mile farther on, Calder tries to make light conversation. He relates a story of getting into mischief with Robbie, but my worries make me an unenthusiastic audience. As the clouds thicken above us and tiny snowflakes begin to descend, he goes quiet.

Carefully, I inch away from him so that when the wagon jostles us, our bodies will not touch.