For whatever it’s worth, the voyage from the brook is direct—until I hit a dead end. I wobble to a standstill and blink at the rope ladder swinging in front of the precipice. Sometime during the trek, I’d almost forgotten what route I chose.
The Mistral Ropes.
I sink to my knees and laugh myself silly, mostly to keep from crying. My guffaws stumble across the range, merging with the clapping rowans. As I crane my head, I know this is going to hurt.
A baby tornado thrashes overhead, causing the rope ladder to shudder. I double check that my pack’s fastened and begin to scale the rungs. The fibers bend beneath my soles, croaking as I go.
The ground shrinks beneath me. I’m suspended above the world, unable to tell how high I need to climb. My body’s been smarting for days, and now it’s inflamed, sizzling from the inside out.
The tumult slams into me. It smears my hair into my face and kicks the rope sideways.
My heart dives to my ankles. On a yelp, I slip and hang there. Then I scramble, my fingers clamping around the weave and hoisting me back up. My forehead lands against a patch of ivy gushing through a chink in the cliff. I take a moment, reassuring myself that I’ve made it this far.
Yet I’m fuming. And I’m so, so, so, so, so tired of this shit.
The fantasy of revenge sends a fresh wave of energy through my limbs. I climb, stomping onto the rungs and hauling myself up, thinking nothing, feeling nothing butI will obliterate you.
I wonder what he’s doing right now. Right now in this dark realm, in his vicious corner of this land. Is he whispering? Is he lying on his back? Breathing heavy? Dreaming I won’t last?
How many hours a day does he shut his lids in confusion? When he opens them, how far does his gaze venture? How much of this mountain can he see at once?
I don’t know if I’m moving anymore. All I know is, I’m thinking of him, and then I’m thinking of someone else. I sink into the memory of that ethereal boy and the nights we spent together, when I’d sneak out to keep him company. Grief worms into my chest, resurrecting how it felt to miss that boy when those nights ended, to mourn what happened to him, and to blame myself.
With every successful step, a terrible yearning contracts in my belly until I’m aching from it, on the verge of sobbing. The visions of two males swirl together, one from then, one from now—and I lose balance.
My toe slides from the ladder. One of my arms follow.
I turn into a sail, the wind snatching me with a thwack. My left hand grips the rung, but the air latches around my ankles and yanks. With a guttural growl, I hang on, hang on, hang on, dangling over the forest valley.
Flurries slap me from side to side. If I fall, I might land broken and lifeless at Juniper’s feet. Or I’ll fall into a snaking river and wash away to wherever Cove has ended up.
Through the howling gale, a fluttering sound fills my ears. Everything slows as I gander sideways, to where a bird hovers, painted in a swirl of dazzling gemstone brown and turquoise. It’s the chick from The Watch of Nightingales.
The one I’d played with. The one he’d whispered to.
With a chirp, it catapults into the heights, into a wad of clouds blocking the crest. My fingers sweat, and my grip slips.
I can’t last. I can’t hold on. I can’t fly.
But my whip can.
The wind gives a mighty shove, and the rope ladder disappears from my grasp. For a second, I’m floating, flailing midair. Then I’m fighting. Wrestling against the wind, my hand unhitches the weapon and whisks it overhead, following the nightingale’s path.
The whip lassos onto a protrusion. The length jerks taut. Screaming, I snap in place, both hands wrapped around the handle. I flap there, my body blown horizontally.
With a roar, I try hefting myself across the cord. I go slack again, barely maintaining a grip while the windstorm rages. I picture a little girl sardined inside a chimney, gazing at the sky through the flue’s cap, her freedom so near, so out of reach. I think about that girl wishing she’d grow wings. I think about that girl, who grew up to save wounded birds.
I think about the aviary and my sanctuary friends. I think about soaring.
Then I don’t have to think, because my fingers lose their hold on the whip.
And that’s when I start to fly.
16
On my way down, I spot the cord strapped to a rocky stud above the rope ladder, the weapon’s tail lashing about—a thin arm searching frantically for me.
My whip. I’ve lost my whip.
