Papa Thorne. The sanctuary. Home.
“Wait,” an obnoxious voice calls out.
My heels skid beside the landing. Moth flutters from a passage leading to the third level, her tissue wings fanning. Her groggy, topaz eyes suggest she’s been here a while, her masquerade gown rumpled around her figure, her combs chomping on the tumbleweed of hair.
When did she return from The Night Aviary?
What did she hear?
I gnash my teeth, leaping to conclusions. Moth gauges my expression, floats to the ground, and crosses her papery arms. “Don’t look at me like that. I had to retire early for a good day’s rest.”
My choppers relax. To work the grounds by dusk, she needs to go to bed before dawn. Although in reverse order, my sisters and I have kept to the same schedule, for the same reason. Still, this was supposed to be a private night.
I bristle. “You eavesdropping on us again?”
“You were screaming at each other,” she henpecks, then banks her head left and right, checking the corridors. “The servants aren’t back yet. I arrived not half an hour ago but didn’t know you were both here until the shouting gave me a migraine, though I didn’t catch much except…” Her features ease up. “He tried to free you?”
I let my expression speak for itself, and she sighs, “Impulsive Fae.”
From the beginning, the lack of influence Cerulean’s flute had over me gave Moth pause, but she doesn’t seem to know about the bond, and she can’t lie. If nothing else, she didn’t overhear that part. Otherwise, she’d be nagging me about it.
“Did he tell you about the west path?” she asks.
“I’m on my way there,” I answer.
“Do you love him?”
My mouth fumbles to respond. I could fib, but I’m not sure if my answer would beyesorno. Because of our link, I can’t be sure what’s authentic or what either of us truly feel.
Moth’s face scrunches into a raisin. “The way Cerulean looks at you. I’ve never seen the likes from him.” She sorts through that, a grunt lurching from her mouth. “I’d appraise your kiss, but I turned away.”
She admits this with a grudge, as if she regrets not being nosy. I chuckle without humor, then trail off, lest I choke on the mirth. “What I feel doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not to you, but it does to him. If you gave Cerulean your heart, he’d devote himself to it. My friend would do everything in his power to make you happy, even when he’s feeling selfish.”
My digits suffocate the newel post. The last thing I want to hear about is everything I’m giving up. “It’s a lost cause, Moth.”
The Fae huffs. “Fine, keep your secrets.”
“Thanks for the magic thread.”
“Gratitude is for mortals,” she scoffs but manages a small grin, then squares the rods of her shoulders. “Remember the rules. And Lark?”
“Moth?” I drawl.
“For the eternal wild.”
A direct hit. That old motto was created by the ancients during a bygone era when all beings in The Dark Fables tolerated one another. It’s meant to wish someone well because, in spite of our differences, we all live amongst the wild.
Can’t say most cultures live by that edict anymore. And it’s the last thing I’d expected to fall out of Moth’s mouth.
I release the newel and snatch the whippersnapper into a hug. She squawks and freezes like a snared animal as I say over her shoulder, “For the eternal wild.” Then I swivel and jog down the stairs, doubtlessly missing my opportunity to relish her gape.
***
I race from the tower and dash into the wildlife park. Veering west dumps me onto a path that winds through moonflower trellises. Shrubs twitch around the mountain goat’s cantering form, and the pika nibbles on a nut. If I kneel, they might flock to me, and we’d become kin.
I harden my face and stomp toward the hedge. A quick scan reveals a small rift in the leaves, hard to spot unless you’re searching for it. So there’s a path off this zenith, after all.
