“I’ve heard there’s more than one, but the only one I actually knew existed was my twin.”
“You have a twin?”
John shrugged. “Not so’s I ever knew. But I talked to Isabelle and she said he looks just like me.”
“You talked to Isabelle?”
“Briefly.”
The idea of John and Isabelle finally speaking to each other after all these years was enough to distract Cosette from her fear of the black-and-white girl and the danger that her existence appeared to represent. She gave John a careful look, then sighed.
“Did she send you away again?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“But still.”
“But still,” John agreed. “She didn’t call me back either—not in a way I could come.”
“I’m sorry about what I said to you the other night.”
John shrugged. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”
“No,” Cosette said. “I did mean it. I really don’t understand why people bother to fall in love. But I didn’t say it to make you feel bad. It just sort of popped out. I know how much you care about her. I know it’s not your fault that she makes you feel the way you do.”
“I used to think I loved her so much because she brought me across,” John said. “That it was all tied up with the magic that allowed her to open the gate for me. I didn’t think I had any choice in the matter at all. When I met Paddyjack and realized that he was hopelessly devoted to her as well, that only seemed to confirm it. But then she brought more and more of us across and I saw that it wasn’t so. Some liked her, some didn’t. Some didn’t care one way or the other. After a while I came to realize that while I still didn’t have any choice, it was a matter of my heart, not because of any enchantment of hers. But by then it was too late. She never called me back to her.”
“Couldn’t you have gone to her?” Cosette asked.
John shook his head. “She sent me away.”
“But—”
“It wasn’t a matter of my pride, Cosette. Isabelle just didn’t want me anymore. I’m not real to her.”
When he fell silent this time, Cosette didn’t know what to say. She sat on her crate and tapped the toes of her shoes together, picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her sweater.
“So this man Isabelle told you about,” she asked finally. “Does he really look exactly like you?”
John gave Cosette a thin, humorless smile. “Apparently. He has my looks, but not my sunny personality.”
Cosette digested that slowly. For someone who looked exactly like John to have been brought across meant ...
“So,” she said. “Isabelle must have made another painting of you.”
Only when? Cosette made it a point to visit Isabelle’s studio on a regular basis as much as for a simple curiosity to see what Isabelle was currently working on as to borrow various paints and brushes and pencils and the like. She hadn’t seen a new painting of John. Isabelle hadn’t done a portrait in years.
“Not Isabelle,” John said. “But Rushkin. Couldn’t you feel his hand in the girl you saw?”
Cosette shivered. John was right. Rushkin had been the first to come to her mind when she saw the black-and-white girl.
“Can they feed on us, too?” she asked. “You know, the way that he can?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But they could bring us to him.”
“You said he could only hurt us through the paintings—or in Isabelle’s dreams.”
“I don’t know everything,” John replied sharply.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I ... what I am is scared.”
Cosette started to feel sick to her stomach then. If John was scared, then they were all doomed, weren’t they? They were going to die without ever having the chance to dream.
“Can’t we do anything to stop him?” she asked in a small voice.
She wished she weren’t so scared. She wished she could be brave, but it was so hard. Just thinking of the dark man made her want to curl up into a small ball and hide away, far away. Maybe courage was something the red crow gave you along with dreams. She’d never thought of that before, but if even John was scared ...
“We could kill him,” John said.
Cosette looked at him in surprise. She couldn’t imagine killing anyone, couldn’t imagine silencing the beat of their red crow’s wings, spilling their dreams and blood. Not even a monster such as Rushkin.
“Have ... have you ever killed anyone?” she asked.
John hesitated, then slowly nodded his head.
“I don’t know if I ... if I could do it,” Cosette said.
“They mean to kill us,” John said.
“I know, but—”
“They mean Isabelle harm. They mean us all harm. You and I. Rosalind and Annie Nin. Bajel and Paddyjack. All of us who are left. There’ll be no more gathering in the birch woods to sing and dance then, Cosette. There’ll be no more chance than we can ever learn to dream. We’ll all be gone.”
Cosette gave him a strange look. “You’ve been to the island?” she asked. “You’ve seen us dancing?”
John nodded. “And listened to the stories that Rosalind tells. I’ve watched you paint. I’ve read Bajel’s poems and heard Annie sing.”
“Why did you never make yourself known? Why didn’t you join us?”
“I didn’t feel I belonged.”
“Paddyjack was always talking about meeting you in the woods but I thought it was just another one of those stories he likes to tell. You know, the way he makes something up because that’s the way he wishes it could really be.”
“I remember,” John said, smiling. But then his features grew serious once more. “I’d give my life for him. I’d give my life for any of you, but especially for Isabelle.”
“Even though you don’t feel you belong with any of us? Even though Isabelle sent you away?”
“None of that changes the way I feel,” John said. “Knowing you are safe makes my exile bearable.”
“But you never had to be an exile.”
“You don’t understand, Cosette. You’re more like Isabelle is. All of you are. You sing and dance and paint and tell stories. I have only one talent. I’m a hunter, a warrior. When Isabelle sent me away I realized there was no place for someone like me in your lives. But I could still watch over you. I could still protect you.”
“That’s what you’ve done all these years?”
“Partly. I’ve also tried to teach myself gentler arts.” A sad smile touched his lips. “I haven’t been particularly successful.”
“But neither have I,” Cosette said. “With my painting, I mean. We need the red crow to be any good.”
John shook his head. “A red crow will let you do what Isabelle and Rushkin can do—bring others across. You don’t need it for your art to prosper.”
“You can’t have looked very closely at my pictures then.”
“What you lack is patience, Cosette, not a red crow.”
Cosette ducked her head so that she wouldn’t have to look at him.
“But none of that matters now,” she said without looking up. “Not with the dark man’s return.”
“I won’t let him hurt you,” John assured her. “I said I would give up my life for you. I would also take a life.”
Cosette lifted her gaze until it met his.
“Me, too,” she said, surprising herself because she realized it was true. She didn’t feel any braver than she had before. If anything, she was more scared. But she knew she would do it. Isabelle and the others were the closest she had by way of a family. They were bound by deeper ties than blood and dreams. She would do anything to protect them.
“It really is true, isn’t it?” she added hopefully. “What Rosalind always says. We are real.”