The Short Life of Sparrows (24 page)

As he spins me back in, he strokes the back of my hair. My urge to drive my elbow into his ribs is only trumped by the trepidation of a drunken Nightblood casting because I angered him. He grits his teeth, breathing labored, raspy breaths. “Well, truth be told, I’d prefer a girl who doesn’t care about those sentimental formalities anyway. I’d love to see that red hair of yours against nothing but that peachy soft skin. You needin’ a fix tonight? I’ve got an itch that needs scratched, if you get my meaning.”

I feel trapped
. I look over the crowd, hoping to find anyone to interrupt his clumsy attempts to pull me up to him. If I excuse myself in the middle of a song without a good reason, the insult will be too plain. Daphne and Mildred are too busy clapping for a Seer who’s doing backflips down the cobblestone walk. Lil’s back is turned as she laughs about something Odella tells her. I’d have to yell to get anyone’s attention. Rowe glances up from his drink, and I’m relieved he doesn’t seem to hear his friend’s story anymore.

He pushes his way through the mess of dancing couples. Normally I’d be annoyed with Rowe acting like he’s some sort of shield, but my throat constricts with fear at how Lazar rubs at the sides of my dress. Rowe stands beside us, with his glass in a grip so tight that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “I think you’ve danced just long enough, Lazar. Here. I brought you a drink. Maybe you should take it and go cool off.”

Lazar sways around, biting his tongue as he grins at Rowe. “Did I somehow offend you?” he snipes, taking the glass. He drains the wine from the cup, spilling it into the dirt in front of Rowe’s boots.

Rowe’s cheeks stiffen, but he doesn’t step out of the way as Lazar shakes the last drops of wine on Rowe’s white shirt. Lazar leans into him, lifting a bushy eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m thirsty for something else. And seeing as the lady says she isn’t attached to you, you’d best leave it between Calli and me.”

“Listen,” Rowe says, tapping his fingers at his side repeatedly. “I’m losing patience here. Turn around, because if you even roll her name over your lips again, my fist is going to be attached to them.”

I try to take Rowe by the arm, but it’s as if he’s forgotten I’m there—that anyone else is there. “Let’s go,” I say, trying to calm him. People begin to glance our way, and I worry about more Nightbloods feeling the need to be a part of it. “Lazar would’ve been severely disappointed with my answer had the conversation continued. But I’m okay. Come on.”

Lazar seems to forget I’m there too, and my stomach sloshes when I realize he’s settled for another kind of fun in the absence of my affection. He puffs his sweaty chest out, tucking at his red shirt. “Every Seer loses her glow eventually. I guess when she pales from casting, she’ll rethink her pretentious chastity. Won’t you, sweet little minx? And until then, I’m very capable of satisfying certain things with just the thought of her under me.”

Rowe’s right hook barrels into Lazar’s mouth. He crashes to the dirt. I hear the crunch of broken glass under him.

“Stop it,” I scream at Rowe as he kicks Lazar again and again. Magic is never far behind any Nightblood fight, and I’m pulling at Rowe to keep him from getting hurt. We instantly have more men closing in, hollering and cheering them on. Lazar shoves a shard of glass into Rowe’s ankle, sinking him to the ground beside him. While Rowe rolls on top of him, throwing another punch into his chin, Lazar chants.

“Rowe!”

I cry out, as slivers of pointed glass drift upward from the dirt. The razor sharp pieces encircle him, twisting around him faster and faster. Lazar mumbles more words despite Rowe’s hands squeezing his windpipe.

“Cease,” a voice bellows. The glass freezes in the air. Murdoch flings his arm sideways, and the broken bits of crystal fly the same direction, wedging into a tree. “If you two want to kill each other go do it somewhere else.”

Rowe stumbles to his feet, a slash on his neck trickling red. “Sorry Murdoch,” he pants, his head down.

Murdoch growls. He has dark marks below his eyes, and he seems even more tired than usual. “Does anybody want to tell me why you’ve both chosen to interrupt a perfectly nice evening?”

Lazar pauses on his knees, bracing himself against the ground with his hands. He shakes his head as he sucks in deep breaths. “I had too much wine. I apologize.”

Murdoch studies me, his eyes noting my torn sleeve. “Wine, huh?” He pierces my gaze with his discerning expression, and I resist the impulse to blink. “Is that the way of it, girl?”

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my arm to my side so the rip in the material is less noticeable.

Murdoch glares as he puts a hand up. “Music.” With his hood pulled back over his face, he lowers himself into a chair. “Enough of this distraction. Our ancestors would be so pleased with their descendants’ use of time.”

Four Seers hurry to pick up their flutes, and the drums resume. Everyone laughs and dances, as if nothing ever happened. Rowe bends over to pick up his coat, ignoring the bloodstain on his collar. I hear giggling when I call after him. He doesn’t look back at all as he heads for the woods.

Bunching my skirt in my hand, I have to jog to keep up. The darkness grows thick without a lantern. His moving silhouette is scarcely visible, although the way he shoves through the brush helps me to follow him. I sigh, plodding over rocks and around decaying tree stumps. I lift a low, skinny branch over my head, ducking to get past it.

“Rowe. Wait. Please.”

He stops walking, but he doesn’t turn. “I’m in no mood for our usual scrappy discussions, okay? I—I need to be alone.”

I don’t do as he says though, because he looks lonely when he takes a seat on the rotting log. My sleeve is ruined anyway, so I shred the fabric from its stitching at my shoulder. Winding it around my hand, I sit down beside him. He holds his coat in his hands, staring at it as he hunches. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to say sorry.” I put the cloth to the gash on the side of his neck. He winces, but he doesn’t scoot away. “And I suppose thank you, too.”

He laughs, but it’s a quiet sound that’s more of an irritated hiss than a chuckle. “You make everything so difficult. I really wish I could get inside of your head sometimes.”

“Aren’t the dreams enough?” I ask, putting my hand back in my lap.

“Sometimes I wish they’d never started.”

“Me too.”

He rolls his coat into a ball, hesitating. “I think I should ask the Elders if somebody else can take over as your Caster.”

“Why?”
I know why
.
I’m spineless to act as if I don’t
.

“The things I see,” he starts, “of you and me—they’re getting distracting. And I know you aren’t choosing it either. But I don’t know how much longer I can do it.”

I watch the way he refuses to look back at me, and it stings. His head stays tipped toward the ground. Locking my fingers, I search for the words—to acknowledge that despite the oddly intimate dreams I have of him, that I still don’t want another Nightblood to be responsible for my nightmares. “Rowe,” I say, my heart pumping quickly. “I wouldn’t choose a different Caster. I’m only going to say it once. Tomorrow I’ll probably wish I hadn’t. But you make me feel safe. More than that—”

He turns his gaze to me, a strange ache in his eyes as he listens. My stomach flutters, and I have goose bumps as I decide to say it. “The dreams of the two of us are confusing for me too, but they’re the only respite I’ve had since my Awakening. They always soften the blow of the other things I see. You could’ve been really hurt tonight. And I was terrified at the thought of something happening to you.”

Through the stubborn black of night I make out the lump in his throat as he swallows. He brings a hand to my face and my eyes instantly close—unprepared for him to touch me.
I’ve wondered against my better judgment how it would be if he did
. I feel it coming without having to see it. His lips graze mine. The tingling sensation spreads from my mouth and through my body as I kiss him back. I give in to the softness of his every movement—to the collective warmth of being alone with him while I’m awake. One of his hands covers mine, splaying my fingers apart in his. My mouth responds in turn as he supports the back of my neck, working his hand in my hair. I shudder as he leans his taut upper body in closer to me. His kiss deepens, his tongue plunging into mine when I dare to see how it feels to rest my other hand on his leg.

All thoughts have vanished from my mind until he pulls back a little. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

He’s looking at me with a starved look. The cool night air and the faint clip of shouting in the Willow Circle brings me back to my senses. I pause, realizing I haven’t thought any of this through. My face flushes with the frustration and embarrassment of being the one to interrupt something we were both enjoying moments before. I wait for him to be spiteful, for his temper to get short like it did when I refused his flowers.

“We don’t have to. I’m sorry. I thought—”
His eyes furrow.

“No,” I stammer. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t give him any time to note how mortified I am at not knowing exactly what it is I want. My eyes blur as I rush back through the trees and into the well-lit opening of the Willow Circle. While my body feels as exasperated as his, I’m doubtful if it would end well—doubtful that he’d keep coming back to just me. Nightbloods are meant to lust after Seers, and it’s something this night has forced me to remember. But I refuse to let him or anybody else see just how breakable I am. If I gave my heart to him, he’s the one person whose betrayal would shatter it beyond repair.

May Cressle is the first unwelcome face I see. She snorts at my torn dress, clearly gleeful about my missing sleeve. “You two deserve each other. You’re as gross as he is.”

“Shut up, Cressle. Don’t you have some other man or broom to be riding right now?”

I plant myself in a chair next to Daphne, hoping to become invisible to all of those in the coven who’ll continue dancing for hours. Daphne slides a glass to me. Her mouth flattens as she sees the state of my dress. “Did you ruin your clothes or did somebody else?”

“I did,” I say, sipping the cider in covetous gulps.

“Good,” she says turning her attention back to watching the dancing. “I’d much rather that Lil scold you tomorrow than think I have to resort to casting something horrid on someone.”

My cousin puts her arm around me as she sees my eyes fill up, and I’m thankful for it.
If I went back now, would he still be there?
No. I’ve ruined it, and I can’t explain myself to him now. I leave my head on Daphne’s shoulder as we mutter about all of the ways everyone is making fools of themselves. Murdoch spins Odella, taking her cane as he holds her weight up. We all clap, hooting at the ridiculousness of one of the Elders serenading us all—his voice off-key and several beats behind the music.

As someone chips a wine barrel open with an ax, even Lil laughs when the burgundy spray sends Mildred running for cover under an empty platter. Mildred picks up a pastry and lobs it at Lil’s back. Daphne and I leap from our seats to hold Mildred long enough for Lil to get her back with a frosted cake, and I wonder if it’s possible to both loathe and love the ways of my coven more than I already do.

30

ISAIAH

T
he whole mountainside and valley have an invisible stiffness to them tonight, from the looks of it through my window. I push the curtains back together, still catching bits of the warbling notes the witches play. Unrelenting drumbeats hint that if I set even one foot into the Willow Circle, I’d intrude on something archaic. I’ve had quite enough of their rituals, so I tend to my fire and scrape the leftover remains of the roasted chicken Lil saved for me. I’m too restless to eat.

Instead of blowing out the half-melted candles, I add one more to the several burning on the table beside my bed. If she shows, I don’t want it to be dark in here. Before the dance tonight, I whispered to her over Mildred’s fence, saying she should knock five times if she came tonight. So I’d know it was her. Daphne found it funny, and she’d asked me if I was actually attempting to be spontaneous.

Yeah, I suppose I was
. The desire to kiss her, to let her hands explore my body—the insanity of my hands possibly traveling hers like the other day—it’s devastating my ability to concentrate on my work or anything else. I’d taken some soap to the river too, washed and combed my hair once I was sure everybody was gone. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know I’ve tried far too hard at this point. The silliness of it all makes me rethink any of these efforts, and it feels more absurd when I analyze whether or not I should be wearing my best shirt when I haven’t been invited anywhere.

I’m about to change into a different shirt and rough up my hair when those five knocks rattle my windowpane. Sliding the curtains apart, I’m met with her fingers drumming on the glass. I laugh, noting the bottle she’s waving ceremoniously as she waits. Daphne slides through the door as soon as I’ve pushed it ajar, and I inspect the outside through the window before pushing a chair underneath the door handle.

“This is cozy.” She grins, biting her lower lip as she turns the bottle anxiously in her hands.

“Want me to open it?”

I let my hands stall on hers before I take it and work to uncork the jar of wine. “This is a very nice looking bottle. Is this going to be noticed if it’s missing?”

Her shoulders shrug. “I like your hair.”

Now I’m positive I’m blushing as much as she is. “Thanks. Your blue dress is very pretty.”

With a quick turn, she models the back of it, which ties in many little white ribbon bows. My grip on the bottle slips. I manage to catch it, but not before I splash some and send the cork rolling.

“Are you that nervous?”

I take a healthy sip of it, squinting an eye as I gulp it down. It clinks as I set it next to the candles. “When you’re wearing something like that? And standing here in my room? Yes.”

She takes a step up to me, and I muster enough confidence to touch my mouth briefly to hers. It doesn’t have to be said, and it shouldn’t either—that she seems to know more about how we’ll proceed than I do. Occasionally, I’ve had women look at me with a deliberate glance, but social status knows how to undermine a conversation before it has even started.