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My friends did this. They tried to kill the boy I love, and…they may yet succeed.
I run my hand over Declan’s pale forehead, brushing his hair from his face, smoothing gentle fingers down his cheek, but he doesn’t respond to my touch. His eyes remain solidly closed, his breath shallow, as he lies utterly still beneath the blankets.
I can’t leave like this, not knowing if he’ll live or die. But I can’t bring him to Mother tonight, either. I rolled the idea around in my head all day, but no matter how hard I stared at it, I couldn’t see a way that Declan becoming a nightmare creature would end in anything but tragedy.
Declan is a truly good person. Mother is…not.
No matter how temperate a magic she might seed into the boy I love, it would be a violation—of his soul, his truth, and his kind, decent heart. Declan would cringe away from performing even an Earwig’s relatively benign torment, let alone something like what I’ve done for so many years.
And that’s what Mother would task him with—something dark and shameful—to punish me for shunning her.
And if Declan comes into Mother’s service, I’ll have to remain in it, as well. I can’t very well throw him to the wolves and then poof myself into oblivion.
But I can’t keep hurting innocent people, either.
My jaw clenches and my left eyelid begins to twitch.
There is no good answer, no way out of this maze. At least, not any that I can find on my own. If only Declan would open his eyes, maybe he would see something I’ve missed.
Taking his cold hand between both of mine, I lean in, bringing my lips closer to his ear. “Please, Declan, wake up. Please. I’ll have to go soon, but I…” I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting to swallow the knot balling in my throat. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know what to do. How to save you. How to leave you. How to do…any of this.”
I pull back, searching his face, but his features remain frozen and still in a way that’s deeper than sleep.
I can’t reach him. He’s lost to me and I’ve run out of time to find him. A glance over my shoulder shows the sun easing behind the hills, drawing the blue and gray shadows up like blankets.
I turn back to Declan, my heart writhing. “Please,” I beg, squeezing his hand between mine. “You have to wake up. Open your eyes. Open them, Declan, I know you can.”
But commanding proves no more effective than begging or wishing, and I can already feel the first smoky tendrils of magic awakening in my bones.
I have to leave—now—and be sure I’m in a town somewhere far away before I cast my dream net. I can’t risk staying here. I’m fairly sure Timon is too young to be touched by my power, but I’m not certain, and the thought of cursing him the way I did his father is too dreadful to imagine. I can’t snuff out his bright, beautiful light. I can’t hurt his family any more than I’ve hurt them already.
I’ll have to leave and fly back tomorrow morning to check on Declan.
Or leave and be crushed to dust when I refuse to do my mother’s bidding. Declan wouldn’t want me to curse the men of another town, either, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do the right thing now. Not without even getting to say goodbye.
Giving his hand one last squeeze, I stand, but instead of turning toward the door, I cross to the window, rest my hands on the smooth wooden ledge, and lift my face to soak in the last rays of the dying sun.
I take a deep breath, holding it until my lungs begin to ache and then letting it seep slowly from between my parted lips.
Then I push my palms into the sill, hoist myself up onto the edge, and climb out into the rapidly cooling evening air. I scan the yard to my right and the olive-tree-covered hills to my left, but there’s no sign of the Barolo family. They’re all busy with their post-dinner chores. They shouldn’t notice I’m gone until Mrs. Barolo calls everyone for tea and cookies before bed.
She made the cookies special—tiny sugar and nut treats in the shape of suns that she swore would bring good fortune.
As I dash away from the house, disappearing over the rise and hurrying toward the trees at the base of the hill, I hope Declan will wake and eat a dozen of them for breakfast tomorrow morning. And that I’ll see a way out of this trap and get to sit across the table from him, watching bliss transform his features as the sugar dissolves on his tongue.
A part of me still insists I don’t deserve mercy—or cookies—but I quiet it with what Declan said about forgiveness.
