“No, Cerulean. You’re—”
“I’ll be fine. I have a majestic ride home awaiting me.” He presses his shaky palm to the slashes across my arm, a faint glow radiating from beneath. “There. However drained—and temporarily unattractive—I might be at the moment, there’s always a trace of magic to be had. You needn’t worry about infection but go home and have your father mend that arm at once. Deny me, and I shall grow rather petulant.”
“No,” I whimper, clutching his cheeks. “Not yet.”
“Lark.” His pleading tone cuts me to the quick. “Please.”
Please. The word stays my tongue.
“Listen to me,” he seethes, his fingers tracing my jaw. “I’ll leave first, so you might rest assured that I’ll be tended to. It will be my privilege, for I want my last vision of you to be here, at the top of the world, conquering my whole universe. Do me this honor, which I’ve yet to earn.”
Damn him. With a cry, I lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips—the kind we shared when I was ten years old, except this one’s less pure. It’s greedy, anguished, joyous, bitter, grateful, and mournful.
It might not be innocent, but it’s a lot more of everything else.
I break away and choke out, “Go.”
And he does, rising to accept Tímien’s wing and a seat upon his father’s back. And then they’re off, sailing into the horizon. And then Cerulean glances over his shoulder, watching me stand alone on this mountain, the wind catching my hair and turning me into a cloud—an impossible thing to hold.
33
When Papa Thorne answers the door, I buckle at the sight of him. He catches me, and we slump onto the front porch, spilling into a pile of arms and legs gilded in the wary sunlight. Our bodies shake, me collapsing further, him cradling my weight.
“Lark,” he sobs. “Oh, my girl, my girl. Oh, Lark.”
“Papa,” I bawl. “Papa.”
My nails dig into his back, my head sinks into his chest, and my tears soak his shirt. I savor the fragrance of home on his skin, of bread and rosemary and candle wax. He rocks me for an eternity while the wind brushes through our hair.
Inside the cottage, everything’s the same yet different. The kitchen where I’d chased Juniper around the dining table. The chair where Cove had sat, watching us with a timid smile. The living room where Papa would recite to us from the Book of Fables, and Juniper would fill in the gaps for him.
Out back, our resident falcon releases a long wailing call. The vocalization leaches more tears to the surface. I’ve missed it here so much.
Papa dresses the gashes on my arm and swaddles me into the blanket that Juniper and I used to share when we were little. I curl up on the couch by the unlit fireplace, my eyes as raw as his own, while he brews me a cup of tea, then kneels at my side. He looks a thousand years old, his dark skin pallid, crust lining his mouth, and purple blooming beneath his lower eyelids.
When was the last time he slept?
A banquet litters the dining table and counters. Sourdough and rye loaves, potato pies, vegetable stews, game platters, cornbread muffins, and jarred preserves. This being a small town, Papa tells me the villagers heard about my, Juniper, and Cove’s disappearance. Farmers, merchants, and peasants showed up in no time, bearing comfort food and sympathy. Some fished for gossip, seeking to validate or quell their own fears.
Knowing Papa would offer himself to the Solitaries in exchange for us, Juniper, Cove, and I hadn’t confessed our dealings with the Folk to him—not until writing that good-bye letter. Even then, we left out the details of why we had to leave, saying only that we’d been called to Faerie. By that point, we knew it would be out of his hands.
But through a stream of visitors, Papa found out about the poacher chase, which a few people had apparently seen from afar. They’d witnessed me galloping toward the Solitary wild, with my sisters following shortly after. Conclusions were drawn, and our absence confirmed the speculations. Since then, the visits have become routine, though Papa’s barely touched their offerings.
“I’m sorry,” I blubber, snot dribbling from my nose. “I’m s-so s-sor-ry, Pap-pa.”
“Don’t,” he shushes me, wiping my face with his palms. “Don’t, my girl.”
He holds my hands while I tell him everything—well, almost everything. The tale pours out, how I met Cerulean when we were tykes, how I freed him from the glassblower’s forge, how I thought Cerulean died because I tried to help him. Then I jump to the present, when the poachers chased me into the wild.
The Triad. The Faeries’ invitation. The separation from Juniper and Cove. The mountain. The mystical animals. The labyrinth. The game.
The Fauna Tower. The Lost Bridges.
Moth. Cerulean.
Cerulean. That’s where I omit the private stuff. It hurts too much to go there, and besides, how can I admit that part to Papa after what he’s been through? How can I tell him I gave my heart to the very person who caused that pain? How can I fess up to loving a Fae?
But I don’t want Cerulean to rot in Papa’s eyes, so I share how we remembered each other from childhood and became friends again. I tell him about Cerulean’s haven for animals and his mission to restore the fauna. I tell him how Cerulean wanted to free me but then remembered I couldn’t forfeit without my sisters. Though it doesn’t ease Papa’s grimace, it does plant a seed of compassion in his mind, albeit one that’ll take a while to grow.
