he’s still in the pens, if he’s been sold, or if he palmed that key and freed himself. I don’t want to think about whether or not I’ll ever see him—or the others—again.
I frown as I pull the gingerbread from the oven. It isn’t robust like its brothers. It isn’t anything but gingerbread mixed by a distracted chef. I set it aside. I’ll snack on it later and stow some away in case I change my mind about fleeing.
Perhaps he perceived my thoughts, for just as I finish scraping off the still-warm pan, I spy Fyel outside my window. My chest constricts and my legs prickle, feeling full of wasps. I nearly drop the pan as I limp for the door, wiping sweat from my brow as I go.
Still unsure of how to greet my ethereal visitor, I start with, “I couldn’t find it. The crystal. I looked, but I couldn’t.”
A nod accompanies his frown. “That would be too easy, it seems.”
“Why do I need the other one?”
“Because it is important,” he answers. He studies me, mulling over his words for a moment before continuing. “Because it, too, is yours.”
“But—”
“Please,” he says, and his voice is wispy and husky at the same time, as though it, too, were a ghost. “I beg you to be careful of what you say. Not just with me. Treat your words with care.”
Patches of gooseflesh rise on my arms. “Because of what you said about denying who I am.” It’s not really a question.
He nods. “Follow me.”
The water-like wings above his elbows flap once, and he floats toward the edge of the grove, in the opposite direction Allemas—Alger—took that morning.
I limp after him. My leg doesn’t protest as sharply as it once did, but the cracked, mistreated bones still ache. “He says he’ll know if I try to escape,” I say.
“You are not escaping.” He gestures toward the wood. “Can you make it?”
“The forest is enchanted.”
“I can see through it.”
“What are you?” I ask, limping forward, nearly stumbling when my cane pierces a gopher hole. Fyel moves forward as if to assist me, then remembers himself and pulls back. If he’s a ghost, he hasn’t been dead for very long.
Fyel floats forward once I regain my footing, guiding the way. I haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going, but I said I would trust him, and so I do. And so I must, for I desperately need someone to lean upon during this absurd trial, and he is the only one available.
“Are you dead?” I try.
He smiles at that. “No. I am not of this world.”
“So you’ve said. Then . . . a spirit. A sky spirit, maybe. A messenger for one of the gods?”
He doesn’t answer.
I follow him in silence for a long moment. Save for the buzzing of insects and arguing of fowl, the thump, drag, step, thump, drag, step of my walk the only sound. I have the urge to join them, to chatter as they do, for between all the days I have spent locked in cellars and bedrooms and this strange cottage, I’ve done very little talking at all.
“Did you know he’s making me cover that old house in cake?” I ask, keeping my voice a few degrees below normal. I glance around, almost expecting to see Alger among the trees, but so far we are alone.
He nods. “I feel sorry for the children.”
“What children?” Alger has children ?
“The ones who will eat it,” he clarifies. “This way.” He gestures around a thicket. I grab tree boughs as we walk to ease the burden on my ankle.
We slide down an incline covered in rotting leaves. Fyel hovers and frowns as I try to pick my way down with my cane, wincing each time I bang my splint. We’re going much farther than I expected. I might not make it back to the house before sunset, and then I’ll have to find an excuse for my lack of progress.
A cold, spikelike fear inches from my chest into my belly. What will Allemas—Alger, Alger —do, if that is the case? Break my other leg? Cut out my tongue? Beat me?
He doesn’t seem like a wanton person, so at the very least I don’t
I frown as I pull the gingerbread from the oven. It isn’t robust like its brothers. It isn’t anything but gingerbread mixed by a distracted chef. I set it aside. I’ll snack on it later and stow some away in case I change my mind about fleeing.
Perhaps he perceived my thoughts, for just as I finish scraping off the still-warm pan, I spy Fyel outside my window. My chest constricts and my legs prickle, feeling full of wasps. I nearly drop the pan as I limp for the door, wiping sweat from my brow as I go.
Still unsure of how to greet my ethereal visitor, I start with, “I couldn’t find it. The crystal. I looked, but I couldn’t.”
A nod accompanies his frown. “That would be too easy, it seems.”
“Why do I need the other one?”
“Because it is important,” he answers. He studies me, mulling over his words for a moment before continuing. “Because it, too, is yours.”
“But—”
“Please,” he says, and his voice is wispy and husky at the same time, as though it, too, were a ghost. “I beg you to be careful of what you say. Not just with me. Treat your words with care.”
Patches of gooseflesh rise on my arms. “Because of what you said about denying who I am.” It’s not really a question.
He nods. “Follow me.”
The water-like wings above his elbows flap once, and he floats toward the edge of the grove, in the opposite direction Allemas—Alger—took that morning.
I limp after him. My leg doesn’t protest as sharply as it once did, but the cracked, mistreated bones still ache. “He says he’ll know if I try to escape,” I say.
“You are not escaping.” He gestures toward the wood. “Can you make it?”
“The forest is enchanted.”
“I can see through it.”
“What are you?” I ask, limping forward, nearly stumbling when my cane pierces a gopher hole. Fyel moves forward as if to assist me, then remembers himself and pulls back. If he’s a ghost, he hasn’t been dead for very long.
Fyel floats forward once I regain my footing, guiding the way. I haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going, but I said I would trust him, and so I do. And so I must, for I desperately need someone to lean upon during this absurd trial, and he is the only one available.
“Are you dead?” I try.
He smiles at that. “No. I am not of this world.”
“So you’ve said. Then . . . a spirit. A sky spirit, maybe. A messenger for one of the gods?”
He doesn’t answer.
I follow him in silence for a long moment. Save for the buzzing of insects and arguing of fowl, the thump, drag, step, thump, drag, step of my walk the only sound. I have the urge to join them, to chatter as they do, for between all the days I have spent locked in cellars and bedrooms and this strange cottage, I’ve done very little talking at all.
“Did you know he’s making me cover that old house in cake?” I ask, keeping my voice a few degrees below normal. I glance around, almost expecting to see Alger among the trees, but so far we are alone.
He nods. “I feel sorry for the children.”
“What children?” Alger has children ?
“The ones who will eat it,” he clarifies. “This way.” He gestures around a thicket. I grab tree boughs as we walk to ease the burden on my ankle.
We slide down an incline covered in rotting leaves. Fyel hovers and frowns as I try to pick my way down with my cane, wincing each time I bang my splint. We’re going much farther than I expected. I might not make it back to the house before sunset, and then I’ll have to find an excuse for my lack of progress.
A cold, spikelike fear inches from my chest into my belly. What will Allemas—Alger, Alger —do, if that is the case? Break my other leg? Cut out my tongue? Beat me?
He doesn’t seem like a wanton person, so at the very least I don’t
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