The Springborn

SABELLA

MARCH 14, 1886

BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAYbrEAK

W ithin the canvas-covered wagon, the twins and I listen for the returning horses until long after midnight. Beside the goat, Sparrow sleeps like a caterpillar in a plaid wool chrysalis, warmed by stones Branna and I heated around the fire before dark fell.

“They must have decided to stay at the farm for the night,” Branna says, stroking the feathered head of her falcon sister.

“Well, if they are spending the night inside a snug house and filling their bellies with hot food, I will try to be happy for them.” I lean against a crate and sigh at the thought of sipping hot tea in a room without incessant cold drafts. That thought glides into another, an imagined scene in which I nestle beside Calder on a velvet sofa. We stare into an enormous stone fireplace. He plants a kiss on my head, near the place from which my antlers sprout.

Branna snorts derisively and says, “Yonaz I would forgive easily; he’s unwell. As for Calder and Robbie, I think not. If they come back bragging about hot buttered rolls and roasted ham, I shall behave quite violently.”

“If they mention clean sheets and feather mattresses, I will throttle them,” I declare.

“If they speak of roaring fires and drinking brandy by the hearth, I will stuff snow down their trousers!”

“Branna! My heavens!”

We giggle until we’re breathless. Sparrow reaches out for me in her sleep. With one chubby hand, she grabs onto my sleeve. I slide away from the crate and lie down beside her, mindful of my antlers. She smells milky-sweet—far better than any of the rest of us. She is so good, so lovely, that my heart overflows with love for her.

I look up at the arch of canvas and thank heaven for the blessings I’ve been given: a beautiful child, dear friends, and Calder’s devotion. For the first time in a long time, I can envision a future in which I will be happy and fulfilled.

After a while, Branna sighs and sits up straight. She shoves a lock of red hair out of her eyes as she looks down at me. “To be sure, I am not as forgiving as you are,” she says seriously. “You must have forgiven Calder in a heartbeat for not giving you that letter right away. You never even seemed angry with him. If anyone were to send me a letter—not that anyone ever would—I would be mad as a wet hornet if it was kept from me for even an hour. Was it good news, then?”

“Letter? What letter?” Now I sit up. My stomach sinks as if it knows bad news is coming.

Branna picks at the blanket that covers her legs. “A man delivered it to the inn. I saw Calder take it from him. He told me he would give it to you in a day or two, after things calmed down with Yonaz and all. He thought the letter might upset you and?—”

“Start from the beginning, please, Branna.” A wave of dread crashes over me and I start to tremble.

“Did he not give it…? Oh, no.” Her hands fly to her cheeks. “I think you should ask him about it. I don’t want to meddle.”

“No, he did not give me the letter, and no, I will not wait to ask him about it. Please start again, from the beginning. The letter came…how?” Please , I beg the universe, let her be mistaken about this. But in my heart, I know she’s been speaking the truth.

The lantern light is dim, yet it’s plain to see that Branna has turned a shade paler than usual. “I’d rather we pretended I didn’t mention it.”

“Branna, you must tell me.”

She makes her confession slowly, carefully. “It was a sometime last week, I think. There was a knock at the door. Calder was the one who answered it, but I watched from across the room. The delivery man wore a bluish-gray coat and hat. He said he’d been looking for you for a while, and that your mother had paid him extra not to give up before he found you. He thought you might have stopped at our inn, as there aren’t many along the one and only road around the mountain. I saw him hand the letter to Calder.”

“And then?”

“Well, you’d taken Sparrow to bed, so I offered to bring the letter to you. But Calder said no, that it could wait a day or two as you’d had enough trouble already that week, what with the baby appearing, and your running away, and then he and Yonaz falling ill. I assumed he’d given it to you as he said he would… Don’t be angry, Sabella. Please. He only meant to protect you, I’m sure.”

“He had no right to keep it from me,” I say. “It was not his property, and neither am I.”

All the warmth drains from my body. I might never be warm again.

“Please, Sabella. He loves you, I’m sure of it. You cannot?—”

“Be quiet, Branna. I need to think.”

A tear trickles down her cheek. Too angry and confused to offer her consolation, I turn my body away from her.

What could Mother have said in that letter? The woman never wrote letters, not even to her only sister. Did she miss me after I left? Was she sorry I’d gone? Or had she written to call me vile names and to declare me forever banished from her home?

I could not know which, if any, of these things were true without reading the letter.

But Calder has known for days and days if he was bold enough to open it. He’s known and said nothing.

What game has he been playing with me, stealing my affection, beguiling me with compliments? And why?

My stomach clenches. I run to the wagon gate, lean through the opening in the canvas, and throw up onto the snowy ground.

The lamp fails in the night, out of oil or extinguished by a strong draft. I stare into the darkness until it becomes a living thing, roiling and expanding in waves of gray above my head. I listen to the steady drumming of rain on the arched roof, thanking heaven that it is not more snow. And I wait.

Time ticks by in interminable seconds.

When morning brightens the canvas over my head, I crawl out of my blanket nest, careful not to rouse Branna or Sparrow. For once, my child sleeps past dawn. With trembling fingers, I attempt to smooth the wrinkles out of my dress. I comb my hair and knot it tightly at the nape of my neck. I rewrap my cloak and drape my antlers with a shawl.

I am as ready to face Calder as I will ever be.

More waiting. I milk the goat and cover the pail with a cloth. This will be Sparrow’s breakfast and noontime meal. I have no appetite for food of any kind—even if I were inclined to take what rightfully belongs to my child.

Finally, I can no longer endure being shut inside.

The clip clop of approaching hooves greets me as I leap off the wagon. My eyes widen in surprise as I survey the scenery. The vast whiteness is gone. The ground is brown with mud and decayed leaves. The weather has taken a turn, as it does when spring is nigh. If only my life had also taken a turn for the better overnight…

The returning horses are laden with bulging packs. Calder and Robbie beam with pride as they halt a few yards from where I stand. Falcon Cleona circles overhead, shrieking a greeting. My heartbeat flutters feebly in my breast like the wings of an injured bird. Goose bumps rise along my arms in spite of the morning’s mild temperature.

“We brought food, Sabella,” Robbie announces joyfully. “And cider, and fresh blankets. The farmer’s wife is tending Yonaz, you’ll be glad to know. He’s already greatly improved.” He hops down from his horse. “Where are the others? Inside?”

I nod, and Robbie walks away, leaving me to face Calder. I feel a dozen conflicting things at once, but grab hard onto the anger.

Calder leaps from his horse like a storybook prince. He strides toward me wearing that reckless smile of his. I hold up my palms in front of me to signal him to stop, but he does not. He takes hold of my shoulders and tries to kiss my cheek, but I angle my face away.

He steps back, his smile fading. “Are you angry we stayed away all night? I wanted to head back, but the farmer?—”

I step out of his grasp. “Where is the letter, Calder?”

“Uh oh,” Robbie mutters. I glance over my shoulder to see him scrambling into the wagon as if I’m an imminent thunderstorm.

“Letter?” Calder rakes his fingers through his hair and does a terrible job of trying to look innocent.

“Do not pretend with me. I want the letter from my mother. How could you keep it from me?”

He pokes a rock with the toe of his shoe. “I wanted to spare you pain, Sabella. You cannot go back there. They don’t love you. You deserve?—”

“I will decide what I deserve. Give me my letter.”

He reaches inside his coat and pulls out the folded, crumpled paper. I snatch it from his hand and walk away.

“Sabella, wait,” he says, voice cracking with anguish. “I’m sorry.”

Without answering, I step off the road and enter the woods. Dead, wet leaves shift under my boots as I seek solitude among the trunks of silver birch and pine. A boulder provides a suitably uncomfortable seat.

Dampness has smudged the handwriting but I recognize Mother’s slanted script.

February 21

Dear daughter Sabella,

Your father and I regret the disagreeable manner in which we parted company. He has fallen gravely ill and asks for nothing but your return. You are welcome to bring the wee cousin in your care, should it be necessary. Only come back, daughter. I fear your father may not live if you do not. I pray you will forgive us as we have forgiven you, and that you will choose to be a dutiful daughter who remembers to honor her parents as the Good Book commands.

Your Mother.

Tears course down my cheeks and splatter onto the page. My parents have forgiven me, but for which offense? Running away? Discovering Sparrow? Growing antlers? In the end, does it matter?

At least on paper, Mother offers me another chance to be a good daughter, and Father, who is deathly ill, has expressed a longing for my return. They seem to want me, finally. It is no small miracle, being wanted by them.

If Calder had given me the letter instead of hiding it, would I have chosen to go home? I cannot say. Crushed by the weight of his deceit, I see no other option. I cannot abide his presence. I cannot stomach the hundred apologies he will offer before lying to me again.

Lying is the way of men. Mother was right all along.

We will go home, Sparrow and I. There, we will have a roof over our heads and food to eat. She and I will keep to ourselves, live quietly, and avoid the townsfolk, as has been my habit for all the years of my antler-growing. We will be reasonably safe.

At the sound of a twig breaking, I turn my head. Calder stands still beside a sapling, arms hanging limp at his sides, head cocked imploringly.

I rise from the boulder. The letter falls to the ground but I do not retrieve it. “I want you to take me home, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Please, no,” he says. “You cannot…” A sob interrupts his words, and he covers his face with his hands. “Blast, Sabella.”

“My father is ill, and my mother needs me. If you won’t take Sparrow and me, I’ll find another way.”

“I will do whatever you ask of me,” he says, and then he turns to walk toward the wagons with slumped shoulders and slow footsteps.

The light shifts and makes me remember the hour we shared in the forest. His green wings unfurling, the pale slopes of his bared shoulders, the vulnerability in his face when he peered back at me.

That look in his eyes I mistook for love.

My heart, already broken, breaks again, shattering into even smaller, sharper shards.

At home, within the drab walls of my parents’ rented house, I will be protected from ever falling in love again. And at this moment, it seems like a blessing.