The Springborn

CALDER

I can breathe again once we’re outside and well away from whatever is happening between Yonaz and Delphine. The air actually moves out here, and the birds hop about on the grass as if there’s not some colossal, life-or-death conflict going on. They don’t care about betrayal or botched plans, just worms and berries—and I am a bit jealous.

Sabella is biting her lip. I’ve never seen her so unsettled—but I’ve never been this unsettled, either. Her eyes survey the edges of the property.

“I don’t see Robbie,” she says quietly. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

“He’ll come,” I say. I take her hand and squeeze it. “Robbie is the most reliable person I’ve ever known.”

“Unless he can’t come. What if?—”

“Stop,” I say. “We cannot ‘what if’ right now. Not in a negative way, at least. Let’s keep walking and looking for clues. Maybe a message, or a hole in the hedges.”

The vine tether scrapes against my skin. Blazes, I hate vines. I might have been able to fly us all out of here ages ago if not for the stupid plants.

Rhys tugs at my sleeve. “Yonaz put something in my pocket,” he says. “Not candy, though. Paper this time.”

At the farm, Yonaz often sneaked small gifts or treats into the pockets of the boys’ jackets—with all the deftness of a pickpocket, only in reverse. He doted on the boys like a good father. But was he? Delphine has made me wonder if he’s been playacting all along, keeping us together to be used by her for who-knows-what wickedness.

“May I see it?” Sabella asks, and Rhys passes her a small, folded envelope. A message. It’s too small to explain everything, but maybe the right size to explain enough.