The Springborn

CALDER

I have become a proper author, or close to it. This is hard to believe, as I have always detested any task requiring pen and ink. Monkeys probably have better penmanship than me.

Of late, I find I cannot stop writing notes to Sabella. I press them into her hand when we pass in hallways. I slip them under her door before dawn. I tuck them into the pockets of her dresses as they flap on the clothesline. I ask Sparrow to hide them under her pillow.

This morning, before breakfast, I left a note under her teacup. All this waiting for the full moon has left a permanent wrinkle in her forehead and made her laughter a rarity. These things are almost intolerable. Also, since our walk in the maze, we have not spent five minutes unaccompanied by little boys or needy friends.

While Robbie and Sparrow discuss berry picking plans and nibble toast, Sabella unfolds the note in her lap, reads it, and then nods in my direction. I push my plate away. The very thought of being alone with Sabella is enough to wreck my usual voracious appetite for bacon and eggs.

And then, after what seems like an age and a half (less than two hours, in reality), I find myself waiting for her behind the hay barn. By “waiting,” I mean pacing and biting my nails as my pulse does ridiculous sprints. The note I left was simple enough: a brief request for her to meet me in the hours between breakfast and luncheon. If I had spelled out my intentions, would she be walking toward me now, smiling sweetly as her skirts swish through the clovers?

“Hello,” I say. The word sounds stupid, but it is all I have at the moment.

“Is something wrong?”

I step closer to her and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“You have made that quite clear with your fifty-three notes.”

“I wrote fifty-five. Some must have gone astray. Blazes, is that why the cook has been looking at me like that?”

“She does blush whenever you’re in the room.”

“Want to fly?” I blurt. “Just over the next hill? There’s a stream, and a little waterfall.”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“Good. Well…” I turn my back and unbutton my shirt. This is scandalous behavior, of course. But I have a new and brilliant plan to lessen the immodesty of the situation. I slip my arms through the shirt backwards, as if it’s an apron.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I let my wings unfold and use oft-neglected muscles to move them. Flutter them. Strength spreads through their veins. I turn back toward her and open my arms. “Ready?”

Seconds later, I lift her off the ground. Her arms are around my neck. She holds her head back a little, as if she’s afraid she’ll harm me with her antlers. Blazes, I could take the injury of it—and much worse—for the joy of holding her so close.

We do not fly high, for I am wary of being seen by people wandering the countryside. But we are well above the ground, kissed by a light breeze and warm sunbeams. Below us spreads a field of wheat speckled with blue cornflowers. Even with the air rushing past, I catch the scent of Sabella’s soap and whatever it is she washes her hair with (lavender or rosemary?). The sound of her laughter makes me weak in knees I’m not even standing on.

“I see it,” she says, pointing at the small waterfall surrounded by pines and ferns.

My feet touch down on a flat rock overlooking the stream, but my heart is still soaring. I release her from my arms—not without a pang of regret. We are inches apart. She reaches up and attempts to straighten the collar of my backward shirt. I catch her hand and kiss it.

“You’re shaking,” she says in a voice barely louder than the rushing water. “Did the flying tire you?”

“Are we still friends?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I do not think it’s possible.”

“I agree. You drive me to distraction.” I’m swimming in her eyes. Drowning.

I cannot say she’s smiling, but there is a glow about her, as if she’s a saint in an old painting—but one who’s gazing at me in a way unfit for church. “If you brought me here to kiss me, I think you should get on with it,” she says.

“You coal town girls are forward creatures,” I say.

“Lucky for you.”

Blast if she doesn’t put a hand behind my neck and pull my mouth to hers before I can move to kiss her, just like the last time. I feel the kiss to my toes, to the ends of every one of the hairs on my head. Her mouth on mine is bliss. Perfection.

I pull her closer. Her fingers tangle in my hair. She makes a sound between a sigh and a whimper.

I take a half step away and ask, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but we should go home.”

“We should.”

Again, we kiss. Slowly this time, tenderly. I might shed a tear for the beauty of it. When she pushes away from me, some of the worry has left her face. As for me, I have never been happier. Never.

“We should go,” she says again. “We really should. The wind is picking up.” As if it’s in some secret alliance with her, a strong breeze pummels my wings.

“Wait.” I take her hands in mine. “I want to say…you mean everything to me, Sabella. I told you before that I love you, but what I felt then was nothing compared to this. I love you so much that I can barely tolerate my own company.”

Here is a moment I swear I will never forget, not even after I’m dead so long there’s nothing left of me but dirt: the wind toying with a loose lock of her hair, tree-filtered sunlight dappling her rosy cheekbones, the slow smile that teases the corners of her freshly kissed mouth, and her sure words, “I love you, too, Calder Hadrian.”