The Springborn

SABELLA

OCTOBER 1, 1886

MIDDAY

I could not return to the farm with Calder and Robbie back in July, after the spring vanished and Sparrow transformed. I would not go with them, no matter how they begged and bargained.

It was time, I told them, for me to face life on my own. To nurse my wounds in silence and solitude, to discover what was left of me without Sparrow or my parents. To learn who I might be now.

And so they left. They returned the next day with food and supplies, and then left again—neither of them looking pleased that I had not changed my mind about staying. Calder kept his feelings bottled until they were out the door, but through the cracked window glass, I saw the quaking of his shoulders as Robbie shepherded him away. I felt then as I feel now on dark days: like the ashes of the girl I once was.

After their departure, I swept and scrubbed every inch of the house’s insides. Next, I weeded and dug until the gardens and orchard could be called tidy—or at least reasonably well-tended.

This is my world now, this cottage and these gardens. It makes for a cozy home, bordered by maples and pines, hemlocks and oaks. The two hens Calder and Robbie brought me lay golden-brown eggs almost every day. My well yields as much cool, clean water as I need. The forest and my garden provide a wealth of fruits, vegetables, and herbs.

Sometimes, a little sparrow watches me from the branches of an apple tree or the edge of the roof. I leave her breadcrumbs and bits of cake, hoping she is my Sparrow paying a visit.

When the tide of my grief ebbs, there is room in my heart for missing Calder. I compose letters to him in my mind. I draft apologies, love letters, records of my days, musings on life and nature and magic. Does he still think of me fondly, or have I ruined what we had by choosing to be here instead of with him? I could not blame him for trying to forget me—or for seeking comfort in the arms of another.

On this first day of October, the dear little bird sits on a nearby twig as I fill a basket with speckled yellow pears. She lifts her head, puffs out her brown and white feathered chest, and trills brightly. Her song pushes aside the curtain of my lingering sadness to let in some light.

When my stomach complains that I ate too little for breakfast, I head for the house and plan a noontime meal of leftover egg and mushroom pie. But as I enter through the back door, someone knocks at the front.

My pulse gallops. I set my basket down and cross the room. After all this time, I still sometimes foolishly imagine my father coming to steal me back to a life of coal-town drudgery.

When I open the door, Robbie and Cleona are standing on the doorstep like a pair of miracles. They pull me into an enthusiastic embrace before I have a chance to speak.

I step out of the hug and grin at Cleona. “You’re not a dove anymore.”

“I won her back,” Robbie says. “I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist me forever.”

A blush spreads over Cleona’s freckled cheeks as she slips her arm through his. “I was a field mouse for a time, and then a gray rabbit. Once I took a notion to be a girl again, I found I could shift easily. I can be anything I choose now, whenever I like. The magic yields to me.”

“Comes in handy when you need a fresh horse,” Robbie says. She swats his arm playfully, and he adds, “Didn’t say I don’t prefer the girl, did I? I’m not so dumb as that.”

“Come inside,” I say. “And tell me all the news from the farm.”

We sit at the table. I serve them mint tea and applesauce.

Robbie’s persistent smile warms me like sunshine. He takes a bite of applesauce before beginning his report. “Well, the crops were excellent this year. We’ve enough potatoes, pears, and apples to feed an army of giants. And…let’s see. Calder brought home a new girl. She’s probably the last of us, if Delphine’s records are right. She’s sixteen and part tree. Twigs and leaves grow in her hair and out of her shoulders, but she’s awfully pretty. Not as pretty as Cleona, of course. I think she’s sweet on Calder, the way she carries on. Ow!”

From the look on Cleona’s face and Robbie’s reaction, I reckon she’s kicked one of his bird legs under the table.

“Anyway,” Robbie continues. “The boys burned down the tool shed not long ago, but no one was hurt. The roan mare had a foal last week, and Rhys named it after you even though it’s a colt and not a filly.” He stops to catch his breath and slurp his tea.

“Everyone sends their love and best wishes,” Cleona says. She reaches into the purse in her lap and takes something out. “For you. Fabian carved it and Rhys painted it.”

She presses the present into my palm: a length of twine connected to a roughly carved wooden pendant, a heart painted blue and decorated with a splotchy daisy. I tie the string at the nape of my neck, remembering the wooden heart Calder gave me long ago. I have often regretted leaving it behind in my dressing table when Sparrow and I fled Miners Ridge.

“Thank them for me,” I say. “It’s lovely.”

“You ought to come thank them yourself,” Robbie says.

Cleona gives him a withering look. “Maybe she’s not ready, Robbie.”

“Fair enough,” Robbie says. He adds timidly, “Do you ever see Sparrow?”

“I believe I do. There are dozens of sparrows here, but one in particular stays close. There’s a sparkle in her black eyes that’s quite familiar.”

“That’s lovely,” Cleona says.

I glance out the window at a few sparrows hopping along the bare branches of a maple tree. “It comforts me, having her close.”

Cleona pats my arm. “Of course it does. All of us miss her at the farm.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Robbie says as he rummages in his coat pocket, “Calder sent this.” He slaps a letter onto the table. “He has terrible handwriting, so don’t be surprised if you can barely read it.”

I stare at the folded paper, wanting it desperately yet fearing its contents. Robbie slides it closer to me. “Go on. It’s only a bit of paper. It won’t bite, you know.”

Cleona stands. “Why don’t we take a wee walk while you read your letter? Robbie’s been telling me about the unusual coloring of your hens.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” I say. “I’ll read it later.”

She kisses my cheek. “Nonsense. A letter’s best enjoyed fresh, to be sure.”

They’re out the door in seconds, leaving me alone with Calder’s letter. I carry it to the rocking chair by the fireplace and sit down.

This paper he touched, these pen strokes he fashioned with his hand.

Drawing in a deep breath, I unfold the page.

Sabella,

All I will say is this: I miss you.

For if I say more, you might accuse me of trying to coerce you to return to the farm. If I say more, you might know that the sun shines less brightly since you left, that food tastes like dirt and ashes, that music makes my ears itch, and that I sleep too much—always hoping to see you in my dreams.

Were I to say more, you might discern all the secrets of my heart, and that simply would not do.

I remain, as ever,

Your Calder

When I look up from the page, Robbie is watching me from the doorway. “Cleona lost her bracelet,” he says. He bends to claim a slim bangle of silver that lies just over the threshold. “Found it. Are you all right?”

Unable to speak and contain my tears at the same time, I nod.

He comes close and crouches beside my chair. “No, you are not. You’re miserable. And do you know who else is miserable? Calder Hadrian, that’s who.”

My tears drip onto the letter in my lap. Robbie takes my hand between his. “This, my dear, is ridiculous. Does it give the two of you joy, this suffering and pining? Can you not find a way to be together again?”

“I’m only crying because…because he still loves me. I thought I’d ruined everything. But he loves me. And I love him.”

Robbie jumps up and whoops like he’s won a prize.

“What in the world is going on?” Cleona asks from the doorway. She laughs and shakes her head at Robbie’s bird-legged jigging.

“I’m the world’s best matchmaker, that’s all,” he boasts.

“You are delusional, that’s what you are,” Cleona says with a laugh. “You no more made this match than I made the mountains. They never stopped being in love, you dolt. A few miles of separation cannot kill real love.”

“I do love a spring wedding,” Robbie says, jigging his way toward his own beloved and spinning her around. “Perhaps we’ll make it a double wedding.”

“Dream all you wish, Robbie Hallsey,” Cleona says saucily. “It will be a good many springs before I marry the likes of you.”

“Oh, really?” Robbie takes hold of her face and kisses her squarely on the mouth.

“We shall see,” I say, but I do not think they hear me.

Before they leave, I pen a message for Robbie to deliver to Calder: the most beautiful two words I have ever put to paper.