The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 12, 1886

DUSK

T hree days ago, we buried Branna at the far end of the rose garden. The little boys stacked a cairn there in memory of Yonaz. Fond words were said, along with tearful words of farewell. The days since have been spent in somber silence, staring at walls or aimlessly wandering the gardens.

And then, as evening falls, the little housemaid, Evaline, delivers messages to everyone in residence: Come to the hay barn without delay. She refuses to say who summons us, but if her barely contained giddiness is any indication, this assembly will not be of a solemn nature.

Sparrow leans heavily on me as we trail behind Rhys, Tiberius, and Fabian. Her shuffling gait is no match for their excitement, but they stop now and then to politely wait for me and “Granny Sparrow” to catch up. In their waiting, the boys jostle and joke. They have set aside their sorrows with childish ease, and I envy them. Grief hovers about me with the tenacity of a buzzing mosquito.

The path to the hay barn takes us through the apple orchard and past the horse stable. And then I hear music. A fiddle plays scales then moves on to something lively. Sparrow gives me a questioning look. “Go ahead,” I say to the boys. They cheer and race to the barn door.

Just as they arrive, the door slides open and Calder steps out. He wears his widest grin and a bright blue velvet jacket with matching trousers—something so outlandishly fancy that I know the twins are to blame for it. He bows low and declares, “Welcome, dear ones!”

The boys dash into the barn. Good smells waft out of the building—not the expected sweet scent of dry hay, but the aromas of sausages, fruit pies, and spiced cakes. I peer over Calder’s shoulder into the lantern-lit room. On a platform built of crates, a young man sits with a fiddle tucked under his chin. He was Yonaz’s valet, if I remember rightly.

I bite my lower lip. Although Yonaz’s true intentions remain a mystery, he was good to me, and I miss him. Tears crowd my eyes, and I do not want them. I must take a deep breath in and let it out slowly before I can ask, “What is this?”

Calder’s face lights up like it used to before our shared tragedies. “This, dear Sabella, is a surprise birthday party for the boys. Of course, we have no idea when they were actually born…I just thought we could all use a bit of fun after…everything.” He places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a knowing look. “Before you scold me for not properly observing the mourning period, Cleona and Robbie approved of the idea. Branna would have wanted us to remember what joy is.”

I lean in and kiss his cheek. “What a puzzle you are, Calder Hadrian.”

“A puzzle. I like that,” he says in a way that warms me to my toes. He moves a step closer. “Have you forgiven me now? Am I finally free of the plague?”

Behind me, Sparrow clears her throat. “I’ll go in, if you don’t mind.” She sidles past us.

“Sorry,” Calder says to her. His eyes meet mine. “So?”

“Mostly.” It is the best I can do. I’m afraid to admit I have completely forgiven him for the letter incident. What might he do if I say the words? What might I do? Heat rushes to my face and spreads down my neck as I imagine the possibilities.

“Good enough,” Calder says. He takes my arm and drags me toward a table laden with platters of food and pitchers of lemonade.

“Thank you,” I say. “The boys need this. We all do.”

“You can thank me by dancing with me. After we eat, naturally.”

“Oh, naturally,” I say. “Stomachs first, as all the great poets say. Even Shakespeare.”

He gives me a squinting, quizzical look. “Truly? Shakespeare?”

There is such delight in teasing him and seeing him fall for one of my jests.

“Shakespeare?” Robbie says with a mouthful of something as he joins us. “A birthday party is no place for schoolish talk.” He smiles but the circles around his eyes are almost as dark as the black mourning bands tied around his shirtsleeves.

“Agreed.” Calder snatches a piece of cheese from the plate in Robbie’s hand.

“Hey, get your own!” Robbie tries to slap Calder but he leans out of range. At least grief has not stolen their brotherly banter.

“Care to dine?” Calder takes an empty plate from the table and offers it to me. Suddenly, I am ravenous.

“We cannot let all this food go to waste,” I say.

And so I eat biscuits, cheese, sausages, cakes, and pie until I cannot swallow another bite. Afterward, Calder and I dance with the three little boys, skipping and twirling across the floor to jigs and reels sawed out by the fiddling valet. Cleona and Robbie watch from chairs along the wall with one of the black-and-white farm dogs curled at their feet. Robbie clutches her hand. From time to time, he lifts it to kiss her knuckles. In spite of his affection and the boys’ antics, she remains somber.

The boys declare imminent starvation and scamper to the food table. The valet retunes the fiddle and then begins to play a slow, sweet melody. Calder bows to me. “May I have this dance, madam?”

“Yes. But I must warn you, I have never before waltzed with a gentleman.”

“Well, you know I am no gentleman,” he jests. “Waltzing is easy enough. You just meander around like you know what you’re doing. Besides, this is no ballroom; no one will judge your missteps, least of all me. And let us face the facts. If anyone is ridiculous here, it’s me in this gaudy suit.” He tugs at the thick sleeves. “This thing is as stiff as a dead woodchuck.”

“I like your suit. You might be mistaken for an actual grownup, dressed in such finery.”

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Not fair, Sabella. I don’t know whether to feel complimented or insulted.”

“I do like the suit,” I insist. “Very much. Now, is this how it’s done?” I rest my left hand on his shoulder as I remember seeing a lady do at a mine town dance before I grew antlers.

“Perfect.” He places one hand on my back and clasps my right hand with the other. His hazy-eyed gaze makes my stomach somersault. “And now we glide.”

We do not glide. Our time on the dance floor is replete with stumbling and giggling. My heart drums a rhythm far faster than the song’s. If the music were to never end, I would remain happy here in Calder’s arms, under his adoring gaze. Adoring him in return.

All of my past grievances with him have fled. I acknowledge to myself that I do not want to be his friend. I want to be much more. Later, if the opportunity presents itself, I will tell him. At this moment, we are dancing and I will take joy in it—as Branna would have wanted me to.

As we whirl, I catch sight of Sparrow. She sits in the corner with a cup of tea in her wrinkled hand. Her smile is sweet and serene.

This is happiness, this here-and-now. I wish I could bottle it, or press it between pages like a flower so I might keep it always.

The song ends. Calder rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. He looks as contented as I feel. He continues to hold me as if we’re dancing, with his fingers clasping mine and his other hand lingering at my waist. I do not dare to move. He whispers my name in a gruff way that makes me shiver most pleasantly.

“Yes?” I answer.

“Promise you’ll stay with us. With me.”

I start to reply but someone tugs the back of my dress.

“Dance with me now,” Rhys demands, his face upturned and charmingly serious. “Granny Sparrow says I have to go to bed after this song.”

His face and sleeves are smeared with pie, but I cannot resist the boy. “Of course I will dance with you.”

“Well, then. We’ll talk later,” Calder says. He takes a step back. “I must claim a dance with Sparrow before the dancing’s done.”

But when he approaches her, she refuses with a shake of her head. I watch Calder escort her out of the barn as Rhys swings my arms and hops on my toes. Sparrow’s gait is slow and shuffling—worse than it was yesterday. My heart sinks from great heights to a terrible depth.

The final note fades. Rhys skips away to join the other boys, who are stuffing their faces with sweets while the valet puts his fiddle into its case. I should help clean up leftover food and dishes, but they can wait.

I rush toward the house and my age-stricken daughter. How many more times will I tuck her into bed with a kiss before…before she will no longer live on this earth. The thought is too much to bear.