The Short Life of Sparrows (11 page)

13

CALLI

L
il’s tea burns my lips, but I’m short of the patience to wait for it to cool. I take careful sips, letting the bitter drink fill my empty stomach as I return to my room. I need at least an hour of sleep before dawn, and it can’t be kind of sleep that accompanies these gory nightmares. Every joint in my body aches from tossing and turning all night. I shiver, failing to forget the carnage of some foreign battlefield. I can still feel the sticky, drying blood on my forearms. My throat rubs together, as coarse as paper despite the tea. I can only hope I didn’t cry out or shout in my sleep this time. As soon as I’ve taken the last sip of it, I set the cup on the floor beside my bed. I burrow into my blankets, shutting my eyes until the herbs force me back to sleep.

Sun trickles down through the tall pines and aspens, landing on the river’s surface in shimmering gleams of white. It’s the river that runs on the north side of our village, but the banks aren’t sticky or steep anymore. A thick carpet of purple wildflower bursts along the river’s rolling edge. I’m still in my ivory nightgown, the warmth of the afternoon settling against the neckline of my clothes. Wisps of my hair radiate gold and copper as I step closer into the umbrella of sunlight.

“Are you hungry?”

I turn to my right. Rowe sits on a brown quilt, popping a grape into his mouth as he eyes me. He acts as if he’s been expecting me for a while, patting the spot beside him. The movement of the river is so hushed and languid, that I’m drawn toward it instead. I shake my head at Rowe, bunching my nightgown as I slip my feet into the comfort of the water. There’s no chill, and I don’t mind if I get wet. The current tickles my calves, and so I let loose of my skirt to watch it dance with the rippling blue surface.

Rowe walks to the edge of the water, sticking his arm down into the stream. A sly grin on his face, he folds his pant legs upward. He leans over the quilt, retrieving two of the most delicate glasses I’ve ever seen. The crystal stems of the chalices sparkle. Slivers of rainbow colored light ricochet and spin through the glass as the sun hits them. He eases his bare feet into the shallow water, extending one of the glasses to me. “Drink,” he urges. “It’s delicious.”

As I lift the cup to my lips, he puts the rim of his glass to his mouth. It tastes of sugar and mild berries. I’m eager to drink it all. He laughs before copying me, gulping the last of his too. I study the small faded gash at the corner of his eye, just above the blond scruff that covers his cheeks. He bends down to rinse his glass, but tilts his head at me when he sees how closely I’m watching. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I smile, tipping my head back to feel the perfect weather. “This is just what I needed after what I saw in my sleep earlier. There’s no blood or crying here.”

Just as I glance at him again, he scoops water up at me. I tense for a moment, blinking as I wipe the water away from my eyes. He jogs a safe distance from me, ready to wield more of the river at me with his cup. I chase after him, kicking the water back in his direction. We use our hands to splash each other, turning our heads away to keep it out of our faces.

As I turn to retreat further from him, one of his arms catches around my waist. He spins me right before dropping me on my bottom. I’m drenched, but I’m giggling too hard to mind that my sleeves are plastered to my arms. I sit there, wringing my hair.

“I misplaced my glass,” I say, peering down into the ribbons of water for it. I forget our game as I search for the goblet. Nothing so elegant should be lost.

“Here,” he says, holding his out to me as he pulls me up. “You can have mine.”

Reluctantly I put my hand to the glossy stem of it, and his fingers wrap over my knuckles. His thumb strokes my hand. I swallow, faltering about whether I should return his firm gaze. I grip the cup, unsure of what to say or do next. I blush, realizing my flesh is quite visible beneath the thin linen fabric. One of his palms takes my chin, coaxing me to look at him. I feel as if he’s detected the way my breathing hitches at his touch—how I’m flustered that I’m so revealed. We stand there in the middle of the river, the clicking of the stream surrounding us.

My shoulders collapse when I gather he wants nothing more than to stare at my face. He doesn’t let his eyes leave mine at all. I lean up onto my toes, my lips brushing the wiry curve of his jaw. He seems surprised by it, and his eyes race to find an adequate answer in mine. But I say nothing, laying my head on his chest and hugging the cup to me. There are no cracks or wear in it. A layer of pearl laces the edges of the goblet. I clutch it to me. It’s the nicest gift I’ve ever been given.

But I know I’m about to wake up, and the elegant glass will be missing. Rowe and I will no longer be this content or kind with each other. There won’t be any wildflowers or the lull of a creek when I open my eyes. None of it is real. I don’t have enough time to pretend otherwise.

The rain wakes me. I hold to my covers as I look upward, listening to the pitter-patter on my window.
Ha. Wading in a river with a man who is incapable of being so gentle
—it gives me pause. Maybe I should stop drinking Lil’s tea. Rowe certainly isn’t sugary enough to conjure up the flowery detail of this dream.
No, this was something entirely else
, I think.
He didn’t do this
. Or he’s entrenched himself in my deepest thoughts and he’s trying really hard to draw from everything that would put me at ease.

I put my feet to the creaking floor, shuffling to my wash basin. I let the water puddle in my hands before I scrub my face. As I reach for a cloth to dry my skin I catch the glint of something through my blurred windowpane. The obscure shape of an object waits on the sill. I unlatch my window to see what it is.

Rain has filled the bowl of the glass, and I almost don’t dare to touch it for fear that I’ve lost my mind. The glass is identical to the one I held in the river. As I take up the crystal chalice in my hand, I notice the small bit of paper wedged beneath it. I scrape the soggy piece of paper from the rotting wood. The black ink runs from it, but I can tell there are no words to decipher. There’s only one letter scribbled on the note. ~
R

I should toss the glass into the bushes—let him ponder how long I looked at it before throwing it. But it’s too stunning of a thing to throw away just because Rowe thinks he’s crafty. He doesn’t strike me as one who’d relish being ignored. I decide to take all of the fun out of his little game by not speaking a word of it to him.

I’ll pretend I can’t remember any part of the dream if he so much as mentions it. Keeping it would mean I’d be condoning whatever he channeled to create it for me though. I consider hiding it beneath my bed, and that’s when I see that Lil’s teacup is missing.
A cup in exchange for another
, I suppose. I’m not about to say anything about it to him. Any further attempt he makes to argue innocence about these dreams will only encourage me to do the same. I smile as I lift it to my mouth and drink the rainwater from it—knowing that while I let him play the part of a fool, I’m also allowing myself to play the part of a hypocrite.

14

ISAIAH

I
stoke Lil’s stove, leaving an adequate reserve of tinder in the tin pail beside it. Crouching, I brush up the little chips of wood I dropped. Lil’s floor might suffer from being poorly fashioned, but I’ve never witnessed it in any other condition save an exacting state of spotlessness. She and I rarely speak as I wander in and out of the house to tend to faulty floorboards and flimsy furniture.

It’s a small convenience that Calli went riding this morning. She’d take definite offense to my fixing things she’s supposedly repaired.
Calli shouldn’t be allowed to hold a hammer, for various reasons
. Least of which is that every time I inspect the underside of a table or a chair I find a scattered massacre of bent nails. I don’t think it’s that she’s unable to do modest repairs, but more like she enjoys swinging a hammer when she’s frustrated. It might not be on my written list from Lil, but I can’t leave this fall without teaching Calli how to drive a nail in at the right angle.

While I keep my exasperation about a certain redhead to myself, Lil mutters hers aloud. She unhands a pile of brown and green fabric onto the dinner table, looking at it with contempt. “She’s going to start mending and patching her own dresses if she’s going to keep climbing out of her window after I’m asleep. A thrashing raccoon would be easier on lace sleeves.” She spreads the casualties out on the tabletop, assessing the damage. “Oh, could you look at the rocking chair in the room to the left?  The right arm of it has a hideous crack through it. If you think it will be too time consuming to replace, it’s not imperative.”

“Of course,” I say, gathering my burlap sack of miscellaneous tools.

“There’s a traveling Ordinary I meet at the wall twice a month. I trade a great deal of my tinctures with him, so if there’s anything you need to make your job easier—or if you’re in need of any necessities—” She raises her chin up from her pinning, massaging the stiff joints in her hand. “Just let me know before tomorrow if I need to request anything for the next time he comes through.”

I give a courteous nod and smile. “Okay. Thank you.” Although I spend most of my day around Lil, all of our exchanges have an apprehensive politeness to them. Her posture bears a constant caginess to it, and I wish I could decide whether she’s mistrusting of me in particular or if she’s simply this prickly to every new acquaintance. The only lightness I have yet to see in my direction was her reaction to the frame I set for the painting on the mantle. I caught a feeble spark of happiness in her blue-gray eyes, but that was quickly substituted with a stern nod of approval and a terse thank you.

Unclear of whose room I’m invading, I nudge the door aside with generous reservation. Other than a bed and a washbasin, there’s not much to the space. The shed I sleep in could perhaps be called more attractive than this. Two woolen dresses hang from a hook on the back wall, and a brass mirror lies on the nightstand. The area has no color or comfort to it, even though a stream of dusty daylight leaves a strip of sun in the middle of the floor. Choosing to inhabit a room this plain appears disturbingly like a form of penance—like the stark and unadorned clothes she wears. A white bedspread covers the narrow bed. If the room could reveal anything about Lil, it would shout one word.
Empty
. Or maybe it would be
lonely
.

The rocking chair doesn’t fit the detachment of the rest of her belongings, unless she takes to the crazy manner of rocking that Mildred does while painting. I jiggle the arm of the rocking chair, and with a second tug, the splitting section of wood comes free. Someone barges into the house, the hefty sound of a person too large in stature to be Calli pounding with each step. The voice carries a gruff firmness. “A beckoning fire, Lil? I didn’t expect to wake up to a summons from you. And I’ve got all of the Coven Mistresses tittering and wondering why I’d make a sudden visit here—in the morning of all times to ask me to come. What is it? What happened?”

Taking a careful seat on the floor, I’m cautious not to interrupt them with any noise. It feels like a conversation that nobody else is meant to hear. Her response sticks high in her throat. “Calli says there’s a Nightblood showing after her nightmares—in her dreams before she wakes up.”

“Who is it?”

Lil’s sigh sounds fatigued and subdued. “That brash, tall blond one. Rowe. And then he showed up here the other day. Like he was completely aware he’d made it into her dreams. He’s her Caster, isn’t he?”

A harsh quiet grinds all of the softness out of the air.

“Murdoch? He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that would happen. Of all things…damn it all. I can try to request a change of Casters for her, but you know it has to go through the Elders. If they don’t feel it necessary, then there’s not a lot I can do short of strangling him with my bare hands. You’ve got to keep an eye on her.”

“Yes,” Lil says, agitation coating her reply. “I thought the situation was taken care of on her birthday though. You assured me you had this handled. Whatever you decided, the spell should have been consistent and stayed in place. It clearly didn’t work. I should’ve done it instead. And now we’ve got to deal with a Nightblood who has the subtlety and good graces of an avalanche. I think he knows what her Awakening means. I’m afraid he won’t let this go.”

One of them drums their fingers at the table.

“I’ll speak with him. As soon as I get back there. Rowe is a great many things I’m not entirely comfortable with, but I haven’t known him to be a liar. I’ll do what I can to convince him that he needs to keep a distance. But this isn’t good, Lil. Not at all. Her well-being may be up to her at this point. She’s not a child anymore. We just have to hope she never puts it together. There might still be time to fix this.”

There’s a shift from the other room, and I clamber to turn my attention back to my work.

“Oh dear. I forgot,” she says. “My walls have no lining, and we’re not alone.”

I’m busy packing up my bag and taking the broken piece in my hand when they crowd the doorway. Murdoch’s black hooded cloak has a faultless satin sheen that makes his hazel eyes a sinister blaze. He wriggles his chin, his long tangle of silver beard falling to the middle of his chest. The old man looks to Lil for some unspoken reassurance before he fastens his stare to me again.

“Isaiah, is it?”

“Yes.” I raise the arm of the chair at them slightly. “Better get to measuring for a new one.”

Lil links her fingers through each other, clutching them until they’re purple. “I’m about to say something very forward. I’m going to have to insist on your word, that you won’t repeat any of that. You had to have heard a great deal of it—and you and Calli seem to have some…attachment to each other. It’s for her sake that I’m asking this of you, to not mention any of this.”