tuft of grass. “Lot of good it did.”
My fingers are splayed against the wall, and my hand brushes a group of loose pebbles. They tumble free, clacking against each other until they hit the ground. I hold my breath, but the wind swallows the first half of the sound, and the grass swallows the second. Mr. Ward has already turned and walked away, but Tyler freezes mid-step and looks back over his shoulder.
Impossible. I could barely hear the stones fall. Cole closes his eyes, his breath still careful and even. The beat of the moor wind quickens around us, and I silently pray that Tyler will turn and go. In that moment Cole seems thinner, as if he’s fading away. My hand slides across the ground to his, intertwining our fingers, my skin needing assurance that he’s still there. I give a short squeeze, and he squeezes back, and for a moment we are like the sisters, speaking without words. It’s as if he’s praying with me to keep us unseen.
Tyler hesitates a moment longer, eyes lingering on the wall. No, not the wall, I realize, but the air just above it. I look up and see a stroke of pitch black, a flutter of wings. A crow lands atop the wall, peering down at us with a glint in its eye, even in the darkness. Looking back through the hole in the wall, I watch Tyler lift his rifle, train it on the bird.
“Stop fooling around,” calls Mr. Ward from the base of the hill. At the sharp sound of the man’s voice, the crow takes flight, bleeding back into the darkness. Tyler lowers his weapon, casting one last look at the wall, but Cole and I are hidden behind our stones. Finally Tyler huffs and runs to catch up with his father.
Cole and I exhale together. Slowly the wind around us begins to die down, at last breaking apart into the gentle breeze that it had been before. Cole’s hand in mine feels different, strong and solid. But my head is spinning, and I think that the late hour is playing with my senses.
Cole looks down at my hand in his as if it’s a foreign object, as though he does not know how the fingers came to be intermingled with his own. He lets go. By the time my eyes meet his, he is distant and closed again. We sit there on the cold ground, backs pressed against the jagged stone wall, half hidden from each other by the shadows. There is a soft light spreading through the sky, a glow so faint that, had it not just been the darkest part of night, I wouldn’t have noticed. The morning is a stealthy hunter, my father used to say. It sneaks up quiet and quick on the night and overtakes it.
“I have to get home,” I say, brushing leaves from my cloak. “Tomorrow it’s your turn.”
“For what?” Cole asks, rising beside me, holding his hand palm up, as if it does not belong to him.
“To tell me a story.”
I DON ’ T REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP .
I climbed in the window as the dawn was breaking, my mind a nest of questions, and now somehow it is fully morning. I roll over, and Wren is there beside me, her knees drawn up and her head bent down, Dreska’s charm still tied around her wrist. She shivers, curls in even farther. I sometimes forget how small she is.
A moment later her eyes flick open, bold and blue. She’s not even fully awake when she frowns deeply and sits up. Her gaze goes straight to the window.
“What is it?” I ask, my throat thick from sleep.
My sister begins to pick at a thread on the old quilt, her eyes still staring out the window. Wren is not a quiet thing, so to see her so tight-lipped is strange. She begins to hum that silly rhyme, but only sings little pieces to herself, skipping middles so that the sound is fractured, wandering.
“Are you all right?” I ask, sitting up. I run my hands through my hair, trying to untangle it.
She meets my eyes, but does not stop humming.
“Are you worried about Edgar?” I ask. “They’ll find him.”
Her fingers keep pulling at the stray thread as the melody finally trails off. Then she says, “I just wish they’d stop
My fingers are splayed against the wall, and my hand brushes a group of loose pebbles. They tumble free, clacking against each other until they hit the ground. I hold my breath, but the wind swallows the first half of the sound, and the grass swallows the second. Mr. Ward has already turned and walked away, but Tyler freezes mid-step and looks back over his shoulder.
Impossible. I could barely hear the stones fall. Cole closes his eyes, his breath still careful and even. The beat of the moor wind quickens around us, and I silently pray that Tyler will turn and go. In that moment Cole seems thinner, as if he’s fading away. My hand slides across the ground to his, intertwining our fingers, my skin needing assurance that he’s still there. I give a short squeeze, and he squeezes back, and for a moment we are like the sisters, speaking without words. It’s as if he’s praying with me to keep us unseen.
Tyler hesitates a moment longer, eyes lingering on the wall. No, not the wall, I realize, but the air just above it. I look up and see a stroke of pitch black, a flutter of wings. A crow lands atop the wall, peering down at us with a glint in its eye, even in the darkness. Looking back through the hole in the wall, I watch Tyler lift his rifle, train it on the bird.
“Stop fooling around,” calls Mr. Ward from the base of the hill. At the sharp sound of the man’s voice, the crow takes flight, bleeding back into the darkness. Tyler lowers his weapon, casting one last look at the wall, but Cole and I are hidden behind our stones. Finally Tyler huffs and runs to catch up with his father.
Cole and I exhale together. Slowly the wind around us begins to die down, at last breaking apart into the gentle breeze that it had been before. Cole’s hand in mine feels different, strong and solid. But my head is spinning, and I think that the late hour is playing with my senses.
Cole looks down at my hand in his as if it’s a foreign object, as though he does not know how the fingers came to be intermingled with his own. He lets go. By the time my eyes meet his, he is distant and closed again. We sit there on the cold ground, backs pressed against the jagged stone wall, half hidden from each other by the shadows. There is a soft light spreading through the sky, a glow so faint that, had it not just been the darkest part of night, I wouldn’t have noticed. The morning is a stealthy hunter, my father used to say. It sneaks up quiet and quick on the night and overtakes it.
“I have to get home,” I say, brushing leaves from my cloak. “Tomorrow it’s your turn.”
“For what?” Cole asks, rising beside me, holding his hand palm up, as if it does not belong to him.
“To tell me a story.”
I DON ’ T REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP .
I climbed in the window as the dawn was breaking, my mind a nest of questions, and now somehow it is fully morning. I roll over, and Wren is there beside me, her knees drawn up and her head bent down, Dreska’s charm still tied around her wrist. She shivers, curls in even farther. I sometimes forget how small she is.
A moment later her eyes flick open, bold and blue. She’s not even fully awake when she frowns deeply and sits up. Her gaze goes straight to the window.
“What is it?” I ask, my throat thick from sleep.
My sister begins to pick at a thread on the old quilt, her eyes still staring out the window. Wren is not a quiet thing, so to see her so tight-lipped is strange. She begins to hum that silly rhyme, but only sings little pieces to herself, skipping middles so that the sound is fractured, wandering.
“Are you all right?” I ask, sitting up. I run my hands through my hair, trying to untangle it.
She meets my eyes, but does not stop humming.
“Are you worried about Edgar?” I ask. “They’ll find him.”
Her fingers keep pulling at the stray thread as the melody finally trails off. Then she says, “I just wish they’d stop
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