The Springborn

CALDER

I t’s like taking an unexpected punch to the gut, seeing Sabella waiting by the front door without her antlers. It’s as if she’s standing there missing one of her arms. My mouth gapes open. Meanwhile, she looks unconcerned as she ties a blue and white kerchief behind her neck to secure it as a head covering.

“Don’t scold me. It had to be done,” she says, grabbing a satchel from the floor.

“I would have helped.” I’m sure I look miserable, because I feel wretched.

“I did fine myself.”

“Did you?” I reach over and touch a dark, spreading spot on the kerchief. I show her the red stain on my fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s hardly more than a scratch. It will heal.”

“Sabella.”

“Calder,” she replies impatiently. “Let’s go.” She is all business now, and it is true that we ought not to waste time debating while our friends are in danger.

She grabs my hand when I do not move quickly enough. She tugs me out the door and down the lane, and keeps tugging until we’re outside the stone walls of the farm. The whole time, I’m wondering when she’ll let go, and dreading the thought of my hand being just mine again—and not a sacred connection to the girl I cannot stop loving.

You’re friends, Calder , I remind myself.

And then I tighten my hold on Sabella’s fingers in a quiet act of rebellion.