She’d studied the image for a long time, her red hair falling into her eyes until she brushed it away.
“Matilda?” Juliet called.
But she stayed next to me. Used her fingertip to trace the outline of the bird in the fog of the window.
“Until the spring comes,” she whispered, and her touch lingered long after the frost melted away.
Chapter Forty-Three
Before Beas leaves, she dusts me with Embers, and I head outside to pull the tarp from my target and unpack my Stars. My heart sings from our discovery, and I’m pleased at how comfortable the pieces have come to feel in my hand over the last six months. How the throwing motion has molded my muscles so much that flipping the Star from its tip doesn’t require as much concentration. I practice my throws over and over, from greater distances, until they regularly sink into the target’s center, until the afternoon wanes and my body aches.
Miles and Mrs. Cliffton don’t return from town until after dinner. I’m already dressing for bed when Miles knocks on my door.
“Aila,” he says, “there’s a letter.”
I throw open the door, and as soon as I see my father’s handwriting, my eyes fill with tears.
I rip into it. I wonder what he looked like when he wrote it. If his stubbly beard has grown out without anyone to protest that it feels scratchy.
This, out of everything today, is the best news of all.
Miles leans against my door as I fold it back into the envelope. “Are you still grumpy?” he asks.
“I’m not grumpy,” I say. “I’ve never been better.”
“Well, you were grumpy. A frightful grump, this whole week.”
“Funny how quickly everything can change,” I murmur, running my fingertips over the letter again.
He sits down on my bed. “Were you mad because everyone is saying that we came and then an extra Disappearance happened?”
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Who is ‘everyone’?”
His eyes glint. “All the kids at school. But Walt started it.”
“Eliza’s brother?” I huff. I narrow my eyes at Miles, suddenly noticing his bouncing knee. “Why are you so giddy right now?”
“Because I have something for you. It was meant to cheer you up.” He jumps from my bed and digs in his pocket. “I took this in town today.”
He hands out a small folded white paper. The corners of his mouth twitch.
“What is this?” I ask. “A telegram?”
He nods. “From Mrs. Patton to Eliza and Walt.”
“Miles!” I drop it as if it has burned my fingers. “You can’t take someone’s mail. It’s against the law!”
“You aren’t going to read it?” he asks, eyes wide and incredulous.
I don’t answer. The telegram has landed in my lap, where it smolders like a coal.
“Fine. I’ll tell you what it says anyway.” He rips it back. “‘No longer able to make tournament due to significant auction. Stop. Postpone party with my apologies. Stop. Sending gifts to make up for regrettable delay. Stop.’”
Something in my stomach curdles. As if I’ve taken a swig of sour milk.
Miles is growing restless at my silence. “It was easy,” he says. “I swiped it when we were in the telegraph office and no one was looking.” He examines my face for a reaction. “And they deserve it,” he adds quietly. “I saw the way she was with you at the Harvest Fair. Let Eliza and Walt see how it feels when they can’t explain everything about their mother.”
Scowling, I reach for the telegram. Feel the ridged edges with my fingertips. Clearly the right thing would be to deliver the message to Eliza, as it was intended. I know this. But I really, really don’t want to. How could I get it to them without confessing what Miles has done?
