The Short Life of Sparrows (30 page)

He looks like hell
. His clothes are pressed in deep wrinkles, his shirt fastened in such haste that he hasn’t noticed he missed a button. His chains and rings are absent too. “Can you throw something on? I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.” His gaze darts away from my nightclothes. He puts his back to the window as I pull it shut. The chaste gesture infuriates me as I lace my boots and throw a quilt around me. There’s been steady, strained silence between us since Isaiah’s death—but for him to pretend as if he’s never seen me naked seems pointless.

Lil and Mildred sit at the kitchen table, holding their teacups to their lips as if I’m invisible. They don’t bother to ask me why I’m stepping out of the house, dressed like an unhinged woman.
I doubt they have the energy to care
. We’re all the equivalent of rusted clocks, metal gears still turning, but unable to keep the true time. Every day is just another reminder that Isaiah is missing. He’s gone, and Daphne’s sanity has gone with it.

My breath swirls in the September air as I close the front door. He leans on the white fence until he hears me trudging down the porch steps. The dew shimmers on the grass, the ground frosty and crunchy under my feet. His hair hasn’t been combed either, and the wiry strands hang over his cheeks. Still, I’m grateful not to have a mirror to see my own wretchedness due to the miserable way he looks over me.

“If only Lucas had paused for just a moment,” I utter. “If Daphne had tried harder to explain that they hadn’t been intimate yet. I have to forgive Lucas for this. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I have to. He thought he was protecting his sister. He would never have done such a thing if his head had been clear.”

“Stop it.” Rowe spits, his teeth locking. “I know you’re hurting, but stop saying
if
about it. And stop making excuses for Lucas. He did a nasty, brutal thing. He did it because he wanted to. It should be so obvious to you why he did it. Raging—eat you from the inside out—jealousy. Isaiah had your love and respect. Lil’s. Mildred’s. He had Daphne’s. Even I could see that. And even I was jealous of it. Lucas could never have that much affection from any of you, because he only ever played at being good. He’s a flattering little puke that only does nice deeds when he’s sure somebody will praise him for it. Good has never been in him.”

A shudder rings through my body, and I can’t meet Rowe’s stare as he says it.

“You’re avoiding having to look at me, but you still know I’m right.”

My eyes sting and fill up again, but I make myself turn to his face. An exasperated sigh falls from his lips, and it’s his turn to gaze away from me. “Calli … He watched Isaiah and saw a free man, someone without the debts of blood magic—or the impending slavery of giving himself to the Underworld in death. Lucas had so many reasons to cut Isaiah apart. You’re too brave to cover up the truth with comforting bullshit because it’s easy. He smashed something, like a spoiled child who believes everything should be fair. I wish I’d been more open-minded about Ordinaries—that you’d have thought you could tell me about Daphne and Isaiah. I wasn’t Isaiah’s friend, but I’d never have allowed Isaiah to be held down like that—like a pig to be butchered. But that’s just another
if
to dodge the guilt we all share in this. Wishful thinking about what’s been done, it doesn’t hold a bit of power. As much as we’d both like to bring your friend back, blood was poured out. All we can do is mop it up. I’d kill Lucas for it, but there’s nothing I can do to him that isn’t already waiting for him. The Underworld is licking its chops, sniffing around his putrid soul every time Murdoch lights the bonfire at our camp.”

He reaches for my hand, but I stiffen.

“I’ve stayed away, because I haven’t known what to say,” he starts. “I wasn’t sure you’d even talk with me. I know nothing is going to be like it was. I only did what Isaiah wanted. And I know you blame me for listening to him. But—”

I can’t let him continue, because I’m tired of hurting, of crying, of thinking about how we’re bound to become more hardened with time. “Rowe,” I say, pressing my lips. I close my eyes as I pause—grasping for the least offensive words. “I don’t want to hurt you. I think you know that at some point this summer…I…I fell in love with you. But you’re right. Nothing can be the same again. And it’s not just about what happened to Isaiah. I don’t want to wait for the day when the darkness on that mountain overtakes you. For you to either become as unbearable as the rest of them—or for you to be broken and weary like Murdoch. I’m not going to sit down here and pray every night that you’ll be safe from the demons, that casting won’t empty you of your love for me.”

He cups my face, the desperation evident in how his fingertips refuse to move from my skin. “I had a dream about you last night,” he whispers. “And I realized I can’t ever be whole without you. Maybe I just dreamt it because I want you so much. But what kind of coward would I be if I didn’t try for this?”

“Don’t,” I choke, staring at my boots. If I stare at his beautiful face or listen to his talk of dreams, I’ll crumble. “Just don’t. Nothing is worth the pain. And the pain
will
come. I’ll never be happy living the way our kind does. Seers should be alone. It makes sense finally, why Nightbloods and Seers can’t exist under one roof.” I gather the quilt to me, ready to be done with it. “The longer you talk, the more you touch my face—it doesn’t help. Okay? It’s only going to wreck us both.”

“I don’t have a Seer’s ability to know how things will turn out,” he says, his palms settled on my face as he curls his fingers into my hair. “But this dream I had last night was the most real thing I’ve ever seen. You were holding a baby in your lap. She had thick, dark hair. And you—you had this happy glow that made your cheeks pink. You were laughing as you rocked her. I’ve never seen you look so beautiful, so pure. I woke up wanting that. I need it, Calli. The whole picture—with our own fireplace, with a bed of our own. I never thought anything or anyone could claim me. But I can see it now. You belong in my arms. And I’m supposed to be in yours. If we have to leave the coven to be together, it’ll tear me up. But not as much as not having you. We could have something far away from here. We could piece a new life together, something that suits us.”

My eyes blink with more tears, and my chest seizes. “Your dream sounds perfect. But that’s all it is. A dream. I’d never leave Lil, or Daphne, or Mildred. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“You’re not meant to be some martyr,” he says, his expression blazing with irritation. “And if you give up what you want because you think it comforts Lil or Mildred—even Daphne—that’s tragic. Quit making your happiness about what everyone else needs.”

He lifts an eyebrow, drawing in his lips as he thinks. “I’m leaving tonight, after the dance and Awakening ceremony. And I’m not about to go listen to the Elders and Coven Mistresses talk about Isaiah’s death, as if they have any wisdom that helps things. If you decide to come with me, I’ll be waiting at the edge of the village—out on the north road by the wall.”

“And if I don’t?”

He presses his mouth down to my forehead before surrendering his hands from my face. “I’m leaving either way. I’m not going to stay here and be reminded that I used to be able to touch you. And I’m not going to watch you become a shadow of yourself. I’m not sure if this is goodbye, but if it is, well then—”

He walks around me, exiting our fence line. I follow his bent frame with my eyes as he heads across the ripened field. I try to memorize how he moves—how I’m going to miss the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s discouraged. I’m going to miss everything about him, even how he fights with me. But I already knew that before he ever knocked on my window.

40

CALLI

M
y dress is an ankle-length black one, missing frills and accents. I made it myself, and the loose-fitting sleeves show the sloppy rush I was in to finish it. If I’m going to end up as alone as Lil and Mildred, why try to delay what awaits me? I trudge along the path that leads to the Willow Circle, convincing myself that I’ll get used to having my hair pulled into a bun this snug. It’s about time I gave up curls too.

Daphne refused to come at all, and I can’t say that I fault her for it. When I knocked on her door I could hear her chanting until it shocked my knuckles to touch it. She’s turned to chanting for everything, to an extent that’s aged her and taken all of the rosy flush from her cheeks. Mildred’s and Daphne’s house has all of the warmth and charm of a leaky prison cell, changing form every day to resemble something more ghoulish than the previous day. As I left their porch I had to ignore how the windows were dripping red water and sticky moss, like festering wounds.

The sun has disappeared behind the clouds, and the lead-tinted sky is waning to black as the moon rises higher. I’m late to this dance, and instantly I know I should’ve taken longer to get here. The Elders sit in a row of chairs facing the string of Coven Mistresses. If my glare held any power in it, Lucas would be choking for air in the dirt instead of looking bored with these proceedings. The younger Seers and Nightbloods might as well have a crowd of flies over their heads, because they’re just as lively, slumped and yawning in their seats. I’d hoped they’d be done discussing Isaiah and Lucas already. Mildred and Lil have more courage than I do, to have sat through the horrid back and forth of it.

Odella pets the stag’s antlers, which are wrapped in outlandish pink ribbons. “I knew that boy was different. He was too beautiful to be an Ordinary. We should at least plan a tribute for him until we decide how Lucas can make amends for this. Maybe we could have some lemon cakes and turn all of the houses into his favorite color? What was his favorite color?”

Murdoch makes a noise, a growling sound in his throat as he gets up from his chair. He seems changed as well—his cloak missing from his shoulders. Instead he wears a washed-out brown shirt and dark trousers, and the gold links are absent from his gnarled beard. Stealing a glass from the table into his hand, he fills it to the brim. His beard twitches as his mouth flattens. He digs a thumb at the full glass with a fierceness that makes me wonder how it does not break between his fingers.

With a swift motion, he downs it all in one swallow. “I’m done with these meaningless politics. You’ll all do nothing to avenge this boy’s death. And maybe there’s nothing to be done—nothing if we choose to avoid another mother’s mourning. In Mildred’s behalf, I vote that we stop this empty pretense for justice. We all grow lax, not only in our Nightblood duties, but also in remembrance of who we truly are. Must I always be the droning voice of reason—a walking, talking history lesson? No. I’m shackled by the awareness that we’re marked with the greediness of overusing our gifts, and that most of our men will be greeted by the Gatekeeper of the Underworld in death.”

He extends his empty glass in a toast toward Lucas. “And you boy, you’ll not die in a cloud of white as Isaiah did. No. It’ll be a scarlet plume of red. You’ll scream as the demons crowd the Underworld gates, waiting to chew on your fingers and toes. They’ll leave only your tongue untouched, because the screams satisfy them more than the flesh of the soul. There’s nothing to be done here. Let him rest up for what awaits him. I want to dance and drink until this farce is a drowned memory. Music, please.”

Somehow Lil looks upon Murdoch with a pity that consumes her own exhausted sorrow. As the drums pound and the violins cry a high song, I can’t keep my anger for either of them alive anymore. Whatever they did to keep me from Rowe, to push me into Isaiah’s arms, it’s all forgotten—because they’re hurting as much as I am. None of it brings me peace.

My feet carry me to him, and I don’t know what I should say to the man that’s always been my father and yet hasn’t at all. He has a bit of whiskey at his chin, but I stare into the hazel eyes of a Nightblood who wishes against all realities, like me, that we could be better. “Dance with me?” I curtsy a little, my kind smile not fixing either of us—not when we’re part of a coven that seeks to ruin itself.

Murdoch takes my hand as if it were a fragile piece of paper. We find a spot in the center, stepping readily to the rhythm. My father leads me in very deliberate circles, and I note how he moves with the confidence of a man who was once young and broad in stature. “You’re a very adequate dance partner.”

His lined face curves with the suggestion of laughter. “My ability to make the most of the music is some redemption, I suppose.”

“I’m tired,” I say. My palm locks to his. “Tired of being mad at everyone and everything. And I’m tired of hating her for not living long enough so I could know her.”

“Eva?” As he says her name, there’s gravity to the word, like a falling boulder crushing a flower’s bloom. “There are many things I wouldn’t burden you with—about her. She was given to the pull of magic. I loved and despised her for it. But—” He tucks his chin. “Her eyes burned like smoking coals whenever she spelled something. She was intoxicating, because she recited the old language as if it were sacred poetry. And Eva’s laugh was a sweet, soft thing. Like autumn leaves, playing in a gust of wind. I don’t miss her any less now than I did when I found her crumpled in that field. There are many things I regret. And only one thing that I don’t.”

Don’t say it
, I beg silently. I know what he’s implying as he turns me under his arm, and the easy laughter of everyone around us can’t stop my eyes from watering. His eyes are a reflection of mine, misty green pools. Somehow, he wills the tears from falling down his cheeks.
You.
Murdoch’s eyes say
you
.

Murdoch could have never been a present father had he wanted to. He can never be more than the ghost of his younger self. He’s a shell cracking under the weight of lost traditions and present sorrows. But I gather that he did what he could, in his own way. If words were not so difficult between us, I’d thank him now for it.

It’s because of Murdoch’s unbreakable honor that I’ll tell stories of him to my children. I’ll sing the words of the old language to my babes, because I can’t become who I want to be without knowing where I came from. I’ll tell them of how their grandfather refused to kneel for the demon, how his conscience was clean enough that he could kiss the hand of an angel.