Her eyes flutter, and then slowly open. She frowns at Quinn. “Why is my head all fuzzy? What did you give me?”
“Something to help you rest.”
“Don’t do it again. It’s bad enough when I have to see one of you hovering over me. Seeing two of you is more than I should have to deal with.” She flashes a quick grin at her brother, but is instantly sober again when he doesn’t respond in kind.
“What’s going on?” she asks, and struggles to sit up. Swearing, she grabs her lower back and glares at Quinn as if it’s his fault she’s wounded.
“Please don’t try to get up yet,” Frankie says.
Willow looks past Quinn, her gaze sweeping the rest of the wagon before coming to rest on Frankie. “Why are you here?”
“I came to apologize.” His voice is rough with emotion. “I’ve been hard on you. Both of you. Never did understand someone who’d choose to live in the trees instead of the safety of a city-state. Figured you were nothing better than highwaymen.”
Willow’s brow arches toward her hairline. “I’m a whole lot better than a highwayman.”
Frankie crouches down beside her, keeping plenty of distance between himself and Quinn. “Thom was my best friend. Been my friend for over forty years.” His voice thickens, and he clears his throat sharply. “He was dead as soon as that bridge exploded. I knew it. You knew it. Everybody knew it.” He looks at his boots. “You didn’t have to try. You didn’t have to risk yourself like that, but you did it without a second thought.”
Raising his head, he faces her. “I wouldn’t have done the same for you or your brother. You knew that, too. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for your gratitude.”
“No, you didn’t. But you’ve earned it anyway. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you ask me, and I’ll do it.”
Willow stares in silence for a moment, and then looks toward her brother. Quinn shifts his position and faces Frankie.
“Willow and I both thank you. And I owe you an apology as well,” Quinn says.
Frankie holds up a hand, palm out. “Didn’t appreciate being near choked to death, but I understand why you were angry.”
“It’s no excuse for losing control like that,” Quinn says.
Frankie offers his hand, and Quinn shakes it without hesitation.
As Frankie carefully makes his way out of the wagon, I turn back to Sylph and have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Smithson leans over her, his wide palms tangled in her hair. She looks at him, pink tears slowly sliding down her face, while blood pours from her nose.
Chapter Forty
RACHEL
“Oh, Sylph.” I breathe her name out and the pain rushes in. A knot in my chest sends bright shards of hurt into my veins with every heartbeat. My hands shake as I grab another rag and try to capture the blood as it spills out of her nostrils, curves around her lips, and streams toward her jaw.
“Please,” Smithson whispers, and Sylph tries to smile.
The rag can’t contain the blood. It gushes from Sylph and coats my hands.
Blood pouring from the sky. Puddling at my feet. Biting into my skin.
A shudder works its way up my spine, and I barely keep myself from screaming.
I can’t stay here, confined in this wagon while another person I love bleeds to death in front of me. I can’t stay here, confronted with my impotence and helplessness. I can’t, but somehow I have to. Sylph deserves to be surrounded by those who love her.
The shudder seizes my arms, my legs, and my teeth, shaking me with merciless fingers until I drop the rag and wrap my arms around myself to keep from flying into a million little pieces.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Smithson chants the words softly, rocking back and forth while Sylph grows pale and begins to tremble.
I slowly slide onto the wagon bed and curve my body next to hers the way we used to when we’d spend the night gossiping about our dreams. Hers were simple and sweet. She wanted a home of her own with blue curtains and white walls. Children and family dinners. A husband who wanted nothing more than what she could bring to him.
My dreams were bold and bright and impossible to articulate beneath the shadow of Baalboden’s Wall. I wanted freedom. A place to live where I could wear what I wanted, say what I wanted, and challenge everyone as my equal. A crusade to lead if that was what my freedom cost.
My dreams are simple now. I don’t want to change the world. I don’t want to save it either.
I just want to save Sylph.
Wiping my hand clean on the blanket beneath me, I lace my fingers through hers and squeeze gently.
She doesn’t squeeze back.
“Sylph. Please.” Smithson chokes on a sob and leans down to press his cheek against hers. “I love you.”
Her hand is cold in mine, and her body shakes as I stretch until I can rest my mouth next to her ear. “Thank you,” I say, and swallow against the suffocating grief that stuffs my throat with cotton, “for everything. You loved me when no one else my age would. You accepted me. You stood up for me. You’re brave and kind, and I will spend the rest of my life missing you.”
Her lips move, but no sound comes out. I don’t need to hear the words, though. I know Sylph would spend her dying breath telling us she loves us.
“I love you, too,” I say, and stay pressed against her. With every faint beat of her heart, my pulse pounds harder. Faster. It feels like a metal vise is slowly squeezing my chest until I have to fight for every breath.
She moans, and I whisper, “Shh, it’s all right,” but it isn’t. I’m a liar, and every tiny, shaky rise of her chest proves me wrong. Slowly, so slowly I almost believe she’s simply holding her breath, she sighs and goes still. Silent.
An anguished cry rips past Smithson’s lips, and he gathers her to his chest. The empty space beside me grows cool, and the blood soaks into the blanket. I sit up, shoving myself away from it.
“Rachel?” Quinn asks softly, but I can’t look at him. At any of them.
I only have eyes for Sylph.
Crawling across the wagon bed, I brush her hair from her face as Smithson rocks her back and forth. Her green eyes stare at nothing. Her skin looks like candle wax. The Sylph I knew is gone.
No spark in her eyes. No laugh hovering just behind her words. No love spilling out of a heart that refused to turn anyone away.
A bubble of panic swells inside me, pushing against my chest. My breath tears its way out of my lungs, and my head spins.
She’s gone.
Nothing I can do will bring her back.
The space in my heart reserved just for her is an aching void that threatens to slice into the silence and spill the blood of everyone I’ve lost, and I can’t let it hurt me. I can’t let it break me.
Scrambling away from Smithson, I slam into the wagon bench behind me.
“Rachel, wait.” Quinn holds a hand out to me, but I’m already up. Already moving. I grab the edge of the wagon’s entrance, rip the canvas aside, and leap for the ground.
The people walking behind the wagon shout as I roll across the forest floor, but I claw my way to my feet and start running. I shove the helping hands away from me, duck beneath the outstretched arm of the recruit guarding this edge of the line, and race into the trees.
Faster.
Stray branches whip my skin. Underbrush tangles around my ankles, threatening to bring me down. I dig my fingers into tree trunks for balance and push myself on.
Faster.
My breath burns my throat, my vision blurs, and something roars inside my head. The image of Sylph’s waxy skin and lifeless eyes slams into the wall of silence, and I shudder as a dark, terrible grief tries to rise to the surface.