The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 2, 1886

MORNING

T he swaying of the train car puts Sparrow to sleep after only a few miles, somehow besting the novelty of the experience. She has always had a talent for falling asleep easily—even without the strain of hiking through woods for hours and then along the road for much of the night, as we have just done with Calder. Her body leans heavily against mine; her head rests on my shoulder. An observer might mistake us for sisters and assume that she is the elder by four or five years.

I adjust my big, clumsy bonnet. My hand rests on my neck in the place where Calder’s hand lay not long ago. I remember how carefully he sawed off my antlers in the red-gold light of the sunrise, how his touch lingered after the second antler fell, and how I did not mind but should have.

Now, Calder sits facing me, straight backed and vigilant. He squints out the window almost constantly, as if danger might appear along the tracks at any moment.

So many questions tumble through my thoughts that I cannot choose which one to ask first.

He catches me staring at him and I wait for him to tease me as he used to, to make some remark about his irresistibility. Instead, he smiles sadly and shifts in his seat as if he cannot endure much more travel.

“Branna is a fawn,” he says, voice thick with sorrow. “A helpless fawn, of all things. She and Cleona and Fabian, one of the new boys, were walking in the woods near our farm when someone wearing robes and a mask grabbed her and ran off. Fabian is four years old and scared of his own shadow. All he could do was scream while Cleona tried to catch up with the kidnapper. But the fiend just disappeared. I’ve asked myself a hundred times why one of the twins could not have been a lioness that day, or a bear, or…”

“The twins are not seers,” I say. “They had no way and no reason to prepare themselves for such an attack.”

“What you say is true,” Calder says. “But the facts give me little comfort, Sabella.”

“I’m sorry.” It is a useless remark, but all I can offer.

His gaze settles on my sleeping Sparrow. “She is much changed, and yet much the same.” His mouth curves into a faint, fond smile. “We have missed her. Robbie misses her most of all, of course. When he sees her…do you think he will laugh or cry?”

“I think he will do both at once, and so shall she. I regret that I separated her from Robbie and the twins. From all of you. Almost daily I ask her to forgive me. Without fail, she embraces me and swears there is nothing to forgive.”

“You did what you thought best,” Calder says. “She surely knows that.”

“Let us hope so.”

A wrinkle of concern forms between his eyes. “Was it bad for you in Miners Ridge? As bad as ever?”

“I’m afraid it was.”

“I’m sorry things were not better.” His regret sounds sincere.

“You did not make my parents who they are.” My heart patters, goading me to speak difficult, apologetic words. “I realize now that you were right to keep the letter. You were protecting me. Did you dream what would happen if I read it?”

“I wish I could blame a dream for my actions, but no. My own selfishness made me keep it, because by doing so, I believed I could keep you. I wanted you so much that I lost all sense of right and wrong. I’m sorry, Sabella. More than I can say.”

“I’m sorry, too.” I cannot bring myself to say that I forgive him, although I think I do. If I were to speak words of pardon, I am afraid he would gather me into his arms or break into tears. We must avoid making a scene here on the train, runaways that we are.

He nods soberly and resumes his window-watching.

I pick at the frayed edge of my cuff, realizing how tattered I must look to the other passengers, especially seated in proximity to Calder. In all the fuss and flurry of running away from home, I noticed little about his clothing until now—other than its newness. As surreptitiously as I can, I take a moment to study his outfit. His well-cut navy-blue coat and trousers must be worth a month’s wages. His boots shine like they were carved from polished coal. The whiteness of his starched collar stings my eyes. Nothing in a coal mining town is ever that white, not even freshly fallen snow.

As if he notices my appraisal of his clothes, he clears his throat and tugs at his collar. His eyes fix on my bonnet, his expression lightening by a degree or two.

“The twins ordered the suit,” he says. “They’ve become quite obsessed with fashion. Speaking of which… That hat is…”

“Practical?”

“Is that what you call it?” His mouth slips into a devilish smile.

This is the Calder I remember. The one I have denied missing every day for the last few months.

I roll my eyes heavenward. “Go on. Say it.”

“That hat was meant for a curmudgeonly German governess whose diet consists solely of thistles and boiled radishes.”

“Perhaps I enjoy boiled radishes.”

“That, Miss Jenkins, is a ridiculous suggestion. I know for a fact that you despise radishes. And turnips. And orange marmalade. In addition, you loathe Chaucer and pointy-toed boots. Also, strangely yet passionately, you hate yellow waistcoats. Did you think I would have forgotten these things so quickly?”

I shrug. “I suppose I did. Why retain the memory of such trivialities?”

He replies with silence and a lingering look that almost cracks my wall of resolve. The look says he has forgotten nothing that transpired between us, not one glance, not one whisper.

Neither have I forgotten these things.

I turn my face toward the window. “Could we begin again as friends and leave the past where it lies?”

“Of course, Fraulein ,” he says with excessive cheer. “Let us bury the past six feet deep. To be your friend would be an honor.”

I do not quite believe that this is everything he wishes for, nor do I know for certain what I wish for in regard to our relationship. But we are starting again, and there is every reason to hope for the best.