“Oh, please don’t change your mind about us,” I said quickly.
“Not changing my mind. Just... processing.”
“Did you find anything else up here?”
“Feathers,” Harrison said.
I took a step closer to him. “What?”
“Feathers,” he repeated. “But not Annabella’s.”
“Not Annabella’s.”
“Look.”
He took one step to the side, revealing a small, neat pile of feathers. They were white and long and clean. Not Annabella’s.
“What kind of bird did these come from?” I asked.
I felt sick to my stomach.
“It’s hard to say,” Harrison said. “They don’t look familiar to me.”
“I think I need some air,” I said.
“Mmm,” Harrison said. He picked up a feather and carefully put it into a pocket of his trench coat.
I wondered again what else he might have in those pockets. The reason why it was raining so much? The location of my missing magic powers? That which my sister refused to tell me? The identity of the evil man who’d killed Annabella? What part my sister must have played in her death?
My head was spinning.
I descended the ladder quickly and raced across the barn to the door, which was standing ajar just an inch or so. I pushed out into the cold, wet evening. The moon was fat and almost full in the sky above me. I leaned against the outside wall of the barn and breathed and breathed and breathed.
Until I heard the barn door creak open and closed, and I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes.
Harrison, holding my umbrella.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just needed a little air.”
He offered me his arm. “Let’s go home, shall we?”
I took it, gratefully.
And we set off into the dark.
That night, late, Mary crawled into my bed. I moved over to make room for her.
“I can’t sleep,” she said.
“Where did you go?”
“When?”
“At the party, Mary. Where did you go?”
