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But of course, he knows better.
Wig is a simple, sweet creature, but he isn’t a fool. He knows that plantings are bred to obey, and that every nightmare slinks through the night at the pleasure of she who planted it. We can no more refuse Mother’s will than the sun can refuse to rise.
If I defy the one who made me, I will wither and perish.
Unless I can find a way out in the next two days—some way to break the hold Mother has over me before the moon begins a fresh cycle and I’m summoned back to my work.
But how? We fix the boat Poke found and rush back to Declan’s island and the protection of his father’s wards?
But those wards will inevitably kill me, too. It will take longer than defying my calling—a pillow over my face, rather than a knife drawn across my throat—but the end result will be the same.
No, that isn’t a solution. It’s just a delay of the inevitable.
I have to find Poke and convince him to talk this through. Surely, once I assure him that I don’t expect him to go rogue with me, he’ll be more open to discussion.
But even as the thought rolls through my head, I know it isn’t true. Poke isn’t afraid for his own life, he’s afraid for mine. The same with Wig. They are true, dear friends who I will miss desperately, no matter how this ends.
Swinging my feet out from under the covers, I pause, letting my toes trail back and forth across the smooth floorboards while the sun warms my face. In this moment, there is nothing evil or frightening or wrong. There is just my breath and the opportunity of a new day and the smell of something sweet cooking in the kitchen.
Silently, I vow to stay in this mental space as much as I possibly can. If I only have a short time left on earth, I want to make the most of it, and that will be impossible if I’m locked in dread’s embrace for the next two days.
Hanging my borrowed nightgown on a hook on the wall beside Adrina’s—who is apparently already up and about—I change into a dress laid out on the bench at the foot of the bed, grateful not to spend the day in saltwater-stiff cloth. I comb my dye-sticky hair with my fingers, plaiting it into a braid as I wander into the kitchen.
There, I’m greeted with smiles from Adrina and her mother, who are pulling fruit tarts from the oven above the fireplace and setting them to cool on racks on the tall table in the center of the room.
“Good morning,” Adrina calls, brushing the back of her hand across her forehead. “I see you found the dress. I washed yours and hung it to dry on the line outside.”
“Thank you so much, but you didn’t have to do that.” I curl the end of my braid around my finger and tie it in a loose knot. “I could have washed it myself. I’m sorry I slept so late.”
Adrina waves an easy hand. “No worries at all. I was doing family wash anyway, no problem to throw your things in with the rest. And you were shipwrecked yesterday. You deserved a morning to take it easy!”
“Agreed,” Mrs. Barolo says, looping an arm around her daughter’s shoulder and hugging her affectionately to her side. “I think all the children in this house deserve a day off, in fact.”
Timon’s head pops up over the ledge of the windowsill. “What’s this?”
Laughing, Mrs. Barolo turns over her shoulder. “How long have you been hiding out there?”
“A few minutes,” Timon says with a wide grin. “Just waiting for the tarts to be ready.”
“And avoiding more chores.” Adrina wags a finger her brother’s way. “I know your tricks, little man. You better have milked the goats. Don’t run off for your playday and leave Mommy with triple the work.”
“I did, I did!” Timon rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh. “And Declan fed the chickens and is fetching the eggs. We are good boys who deserve extra tarts. Three extra. Apiece.”
Mrs. Barolo laughs. “Two apiece and take the rest to Elsie at the inn. Once you make the delivery, you’re all free to do as you please. It’s going to be cooler today. Might be a nice afternoon for a spear-tip hunt on the north shore. You could show Clara and Declan the ruins there. Maybe have a picnic.”
The north shore…that’s where Poke said he found the damaged boat, and where I might be able to find my friend.
“That sounds like fun,” I say, realizing as I speak the words are more than an excuse to search for Poke.
They’re also…true.
Fun isn’t something I’ve had much of in my life, but I recognize the buzzing in my bones and the breezy rush in my blood from when Wig, Poke, and I would sneak into a theater to watch a silly play or spend an afternoon splashing in our slippery penguin bodies, playing tag in the ocean until we were so exhausted we collapsed onto the sand for a nap.
