The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 12, 1886

AROUND MIDNIGHT

“ W hy are you still awake?” Sparrow whispers from the other side of the bed. The room is deeply shadowed, but her hair is so white it almost glows.

As usual, she has eschewed her own room to be with me. It is better this way. We belong together. Whoever ultimately decided to send her to me—Delphine, the magical basket, or the universe—did the right and proper thing.

“Too much cake, perhaps,” I say.

“Could it be because you’re in love with Calder?” she asks with a hint of mischief.

“Sparrow!”

She giggles like a young girl. I roll onto my back and cover my head with the blanket. She yanks it away.

“My eyes are weak but I have seen the way you look at him,” she says. “And the way he looks back. Will you marry him? I would very much love to be your bridesmaid.”

If she were anyone else, I would refuse to continue this conversation. But every second we share is a precious thing. “Oh, Sparrow. So much has happened. I do not think we should rush into anything. To be honest, he doesn’t even know how I feel.”

She reaches out to press a cool palm to my cheek. Her expression is grandmotherly, full of kindness and affection. “Time is not something we should waste, and neither is love. But I’m suddenly very tired. We can talk more in the morning.” She rolls over and burrows under the blankets.

“Good night, my sweet girl,” I say. She snores softly. A single tear leaks from my eye as I imagine the bed without her in it. I swipe it away and turn my mind to remembrances of the party. The dancing. Calder.

I remember the way he looked at me as we danced, and the sure pressure of his hands upon my waist as we stood at the bedroom door. Such a longing stirs in me that I fear I might never sleep again.