The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 8, 1886

MORNING

C leona’s feet are a blur of motion as she runs toward us.

“Wait,” Robbie says. His pained tone makes Cleona stop. She sees the unmoving girl he clutches to his chest. Her hand flies to cover her mouth as her face pales.

Calder sets Sparrow on her feet. She whispers a prayer as Robbie steps forward to meet Cleona. Rhys tugs my sleeve, but I shake my head, and he understands he must be still.

Robbie approaches Cleona slowly, solemnly, his arms quaking from the weight of his precious burden. Cleona falls to her knees. Robbie crouches before her and places Branna onto the soft grass.

“She is not a fawn,” Cleona whispers. She touches her sister’s face with her fingertips, tracing her freckled cheekbone. “I already knew she was gone. I felt it. Still, I hoped…” She starts to weep quietly, as if loath to bother her lifeless twin.

Rhys wails now that he realizes Branna is gone. Sparrow gathers him into her arms and pats his back.

I turn away and hide my face against Calder’s shoulder. He embraces me, shushing softly as my tears saturate his shirt. A few minutes or half an hour later, he says regretfully, “My legs will not hold me much longer. Robbie is taking care of Cleona. Shall we go inside and rest?”

“Yes.” I back away from him and wipe my eyes with my dirty sleeve.

He reaches out to brush my cheek with his thumb. “You missed one,” he says. A little pink stains his face, but Rhys has wandered over to draw his attention. Calder lifts the boy and gazes at him with unhindered love. “Ready for bed for once, Rhys?”

“Just this one time,” the boy answers.

We start toward the house, slowly. “Sorry about dampening your shirt,” I say. I do not know what else to say.

“It will dry.” Calder’s eyes tell me he wants to say more but knows better. Now is not the time for grand speeches or declarations. It is time to grieve, to rest, and to try to make sense of all that has happened. Everything else can wait.

We enter the house through the grand front door. The place looks bigger and more opulent than I remember. Its straight lines and spotless surfaces stir in me a sharp longing to return to the forest’s leafy wildness. My legs could never carry me back there now. Indeed, when we reach the foot of the winding staircase, I cannot convince my feet to climb it.

I grip the banister to keep from sinking to the floor and tell Calder, “Go without me. I must sit for a moment.”

“I can carry you up after I put Rhys to bed,” Calder offers, and I am too tired to discern if he’s flirting or merely being kind.

“We could rest in the blue parlor,” Sparrow says from behind us, startling me. “The couches there are as soft as beds.”

At the word “bed,” I yawn. “If I can make it that far, it will be a miracle.”

She slips her arm through mine and steers me into the parlor adjoining the entrance hall. Her description of the furniture proves true. I sink into plump, indigo velvet cushions with a sigh—and seconds later, find myself stricken with terror that if I close my eyes, ugly scenes of violence and death will replay in my mind. And so I stare at the painted ceiling, a delicate pale blue expanse embellished with puffy clouds and images of birds in flight.

In spite of my fear, sleep overcomes me like an unexpected storm sweeping over a mountain.