You’ve sensed my appeal,
For the tale I pen here is horrid yet real.
What breaks with a touch but is stronger than steel?
The heart, don’t you know, oh how lovely to feel . . .
What is this? Satire? A joke? The style reminds me of some silly children’s book. Did whoever wrote this expect to be taken seriously? I mean, seriously, for all the profoundness of The Scrib’s Fate, you’d think you could expect a little more literary and a little less nursery rhyme.
Yes, how lovely to feel,
But how tragic to know
The death of one’s heart,
When broken like so.
A thousand and one pieces,
Or a million at most,
Transform Her Excellency
Into a rotting old ghost . . .
A rotting old ghost? I’m trying really hard not to LOL. This is ridiculous.
Yes, Her Grace’s heartsong is tragic but true,
But worse than her fate
Is the one coming for you.
Don’t miss the signs,
They’ve been there all along,
For as mere glass will shatter,
Her heart remains strong.
“Need anything?”
I’m impressed. He waited a whole ten minutes. I’m about to say, “No and puh-lease just go to bed.” But then, “Actually, yeah. Come here.”
He cocks his head.
Eye roll. “Fine. Please, come here.”
Does he have to smile at me like that? Why does he insist on sitting so close? I try to ignore his way-too-nearness. Pretend his very presence annoys me. Which it does, but not in the way I would have him believe. “What do you make of these?” I show him the book.
He gives me a look. “The stories?”
Must I explain everything? “No, genius.” He really is a genius, but I’m not about to boost his ego. It would only make things worse. “I mean the blue writing. I can’t make sense of it.”
“You really need to get some sleep, Eb. You’re starting to hallucinate.”
“You can’t see it?”
“All I see is a beautiful girl in need of some rest. No blue writing. Just a blue girl who needs a mom.”
Ouch. Compliment turned soul seeing. Can I take a rain check? I’d rather not get all feely right now. Or ever. Thanks.
He takes the book, closes it, returns it to Ky’s pack, and shoves it outside the tent. “I’ll watch for Cap’s return.”
How adorable is it he still refers to my sister’s boyfriend as Cap?
Not at all. No.
“You go to bed. Stormy’s going to take over watch in an hour or so. I’ll get a bit of shut-eye, then wake you both when it’s time to head out.”
“I can wake myself.” I narrow my eyes, crawl over to Khloe. I don’t utter another word to the boy who’s constantly on my mind, because hello, who has time for that?
“Good night,” he says in the sweetest way ever.
Good night, I think but can’t bring myself to say. I lie wide awake, staring at the plain canvas above. I think of the blue ink Tide can’t see and of coming face-to-face with my mother for the first time in years.
It’s enough to drive a girl insane.
NINETEEN
I Walk with Him
I’m home.
I blink and blink and blink some more. Still the scene before me remains. I’m standing in the Second again. It appears the waterfall we passed through wasn’t a waterfall at all but a Threshold. I suspected, of course, but couldn’t know for sure until it brought me from there to here.
And here is home.
I know it’s the Second Reflection with my first inhale. If the Second’s winter was captured in a candle, this would be the number one Etsy bestseller. My lungs absorb the scents of basil and pine with a hint of chestnut wood. The unfamiliar stream before us babbles, snow melting the closer we come to spring. The trees are thicker here, the earth softer than that of the castle grounds or the constantly trodden paths of the Haven. I don’t have to visit where I’ve been in the past to know where I am at present. The tromes spaced throughout the forest around us are just one clue to our whereabouts. This place has a feel to it unlike any other. This Reflection takes the Tony over New York any day. The difference between a great performance and one that leaves you breathless, drawing you to your feet with tears in your eyes because, oh my word, I’ve never been so moved.
I. Am. Home.
My heart turns over in my chest. Is this the first time I’ve referred to the Second as home? Maybe it takes being away to realize how much I’ve missed something. When I return to my time, I think I’ll finally be ready to accept what I have perhaps known all along.
I was meant for the Second. I want to deny it, but my heart isn’t in Manhattan any longer. It’s with those I love. There’s nothing left for me in the Third. And I’m okay with that.
We exit the stream, follow Odessa to the center of a grassy field. Mud and sod camouflage our shoes. Water drips from our clothes, quenching the ground’s thirst.
Odessa says nothing.
I watch Jasyn for some signal as to what’s coming. Some warning as to what exactly Odessa meant by one of her “cyclones.” Ahem. “Is cyclone a metaphor or an actual—?”
Whip. Swirl. Jerk. Well, that answers that question. Good-bye, oxygen. It was nice knowing you.
“So this is what dying feels like!” My shout is gone with the wind. As is Jasyn. And Odessa. I could say anything and no one would hear. No one would care. My deepest secrets could be divulged and the cyclone would keep them forever.
“Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened!” I cough, choke, gag. Keep screaming. “A part of me doesn’t want to remember! Doesn’t want to love the Second! Doesn’t want any of it!” Normally the projected confessions would rumble through me. But the wind screams louder, numbing me, putting me to sleep. “Sometimes I wish I could forget everything and go back to the way things were!”
On the final cry the breath is ripped from my body. Sort of like drowning, but way more brutal. A punch to my throat. I’m choking while still fully conscious.
Jasyn had to have known what would happen, the Cretan. Thanks for the warning, Gramps. Don’t mind me. I’m just the girl swept up in a whirlwind of dust without warning, carried into the sky by a cyclone straight out of Kansas. I suppose I expected something a little more original. Silly me.
Oh, it doesn’t take a Scrib to figure out that Odessa is a wind Magnet. Still, nice to learn there’s another option for traveling between Reflections. Except I won’t ever use it again if I can help it. Thresholds I can handle. Mirrors are a cinch. But twisters? Now that’s a horse of a different color.