The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 3, 1886

MORNING

I n the stillness of the early morning, I roll over to find Sparrow asleep in my bed. She must have crept in during the night. She did seem nervous when we retired to our separate (although connected) rooms last night, for rarely have we slept more than a few feet apart since the day I found her in the basket. I am most surprised that I did not awaken when she crawled under the covers beside me. Running away from home must have fatigued me more than I knew.

She sighs in her sleep. There are little lines on her forehead and fanning from her eyes that were not there yesterday. Along her hairline, silvery white hairs intermingle with the flaxen strands. How old is she now? Thirty? Thirty-five?

If she ages five or ten years a night, how long will she remain alive?

My heart sinks as I realize she has never seen Christmas, and probably never will. Why this makes the short span of her life seem crueler, I do not know. Perhaps because she, of all people, would love bedecking the rooms with greenery and singing sweet carols.

The old panic of losing her returns with a vengeance, making my pulse surge and my body tremble. I take deep breaths to try to calm myself, but it does little good.

Sparrow’s eyes open. “Mama? Why are you shivering? Are you unwell?” She does not wait for an answer before sliding closer and wrapping her arm around me. Her warmth and familiar scent bring both comfort and deeper pain. I cling to her as if she can save me from drowning in sorrow.

A bloodcurdling wail echoes through the house.

We sit up, breath bated. Again, the sound rents the air.

“Oh heavens,” I say. “That was Yonaz, I think. Quick, Sparrow. Get dressed.”

I vault from the bed and pull a new dress from the wardrobe. Too rushed to fuss with laces and tiny holes, I leave my nightgown on, forego a corset, and step into the lavender-and-white-striped cotton frock. The row of buttons vexes my trembling fingers, but in the end I claim victory over them.

“Sabella!” Calder shouts outside the door. He knocks so hard that I think he’ll have bruises from it later. “Sabella? Are you awake?”

I rush to open the door. Calder’s eyes are wide with panic. One side of his cotton night shirt is stuffed into his trousers and the other side droops to his knees.

“Rhys has been taken,” he says, gripping the doorframe like it’s preventing him from falling off the earth. “Yonaz is beside himself. If someone cannot calm him, I fear his heart might give out.”

“Do you have the medicine chest we traveled with?” I ask.

“I think it’s in the pantry. I’ll fetch it.” He turns to go.

“Meet me in his room. Oh, heavens. Where is his room?”

Halfway down the hallway, he calls to me, “Second floor. First door on the left from the landing.”

“Hurry,” I say, although he’s already gone.

Sparrow tugs my sleeve as if she were five years old. “Button me?” She has thrown on a pale pink gown. She spins to show me her back.

My voice shakes as I say, “Did I ever tell you how much I despise dresses that button up the back? Who has time for such nonsense?” Calder’s terror-stricken face and Yonaz’s miserable howls haunt me as I struggle to force a row of pea-sized mother of pearl discs into the proper holes.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Sparrow says. “All of the other dresses were too small.”

I spin her to face me and kiss her cheek. “I am not displeased with you, dearest. Only worried for our friends. Now, come. Yonaz needs care, and you have a talent for medicines.”

“Hawthorn or lavender may help,” she murmurs as she follows me into the hallway. “Or perhaps a tisane of celery seed and tassel flower.”

“Thank heaven for you,” I say. I take her hand and we run.