Beastkeeper by Cat Hellisen Page B

come back for her. If he was gone—gone the way her mother was—there might be no escaping, ever. He might have left her here for good. That thought was so enormous, so terrible, that Sarah had been skirting it for days, pretending it wasn’t really sitting in the middle of her mind like a sharp rock. There was no running away from it now. It was too late; she’d looked at that rock and she couldn’t unsee it now, or pretend that it didn’t exist.
    She had no idea where her father was, or what had happened to her mother.
    Without them, she was truly alone. Nanna hardly counted, since there was not the slightest hint of grandmotherliness about her at all, and Sarah didn’t know if her other grandparents were even alive.
    A hot prickle filled Sarah’s eyes, and her lip began to tremble. She missed her parents. She missed them so much that it made her throat tight and her whole chest feel like someone had wrapped rubber bands around it until she could hardly breathe.
    A sound of feathers brushing together made her turn quickly, wiping her face as she did. She didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for her—or worse, feeling nothing at all.
    â€œOh, it’s just you.” Sarah scowled at the raven and tried to keep the quiver out of her voice. “You’re sneaking up on me now.”
    â€œSo I am. How did you hear me?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just did.” She shook her head. “Raven, I need to know … is my mother dead?”
    The raven didn’t answer her directly. Instead it pecked at the ground, as if it had been distracted by plump, wriggling worms. But the earth in this patch was empty. Sarah knew, because she’d just been digging it over earlier. The raven was trying to ignore her. Perhaps the question made it uncomfortable.
    â€œDo you know?” Sarah prodded at it with a wisp of old grass, and the raven hopped back, feathers ruffled. “You don’t, do you?”
    The raven clacked its beak. “Of course I do. I certainly know more than a little monster of a girl like you.”
    â€œSo tell me.”
    The raven puffed up its breast, and gave a sigh that sounded far too human. “She’s not dead yet. But like all creatures, she will have her allotted span.”
    Sarah frowned. Whatever that means. The curse, of course—but what about it? It was all too complicated and messy. It made her think of the time when her mother had tried to take up knitting and how that sad little ball of wool (which was supposed to have become a scarf) had become a tangle of knots and bits of dirt, oddly intertwined with a small key that didn’t fit any of the locks in the house. The curse was like that—it had turned something soft and jewel-bright into a snarled mess of filth. The thing was to find the loose ends and slowly unpick it. To try to find a truth in the lies, and smooth it out and follow where it led her. “And … my dad?”
    It occurred to Sarah that the truth might not be something she wanted to hear, and she swallowed, waiting for the answer.
    The raven calmly straightened its feathers with its sharp beak.
    Impossible thing! Sarah tried for a different thread. “What happened to my grandfather—now that my mother is gone, is it happening to my dad?”
    â€œUndoubtedly,” said the raven. “He will begin to change, faster and faster, until there is nothing human left in him at all, except for the memories of the man he was.”
    â€œCan—if he falls in love with someone else? Someone who loves him back? Could that save him?”
    â€œBy the terms of the curse, only the first love counts.” The raven looked down its thick beak and prodded at the ground, as if it couldn’t face Sarah. “I’m sorry.”
    Sarah’s trowel fell from her numb fingers to land on the soil with a soft thunk . “But why did he bring me here, then—why leave me and run